The Life of Ingrid Jones

one

My hair cut last year was that of an average bob. My brown hair doesn't have a natural shine that most people hair acquires. It doesn't catch the like prettily. It's dull. But maybe that's because of my daily breakfast of Poptarts.

Everyone told me not to cut it off. But I donated 13 inches so I feel like it's justified. Ever since I've been trying to grow it out. But it seems like it's stuck.

It's hot for November. Why is the sun out? Why is there not depressing indie music being played on the street corners?

Why are there people wearing shorts? I dressed warmly even though I'll be hot mid-day. I feel as if the calendar says November first, everyone should be wearing turtlenecks and riding boots.

But since my riding boots are um, a bit under the weather. I opted for rain boots. I have to change into sneakers at work anyways.

I'm looking forward to Christmas. I can finally go home, I haven't been since last Christmas.

Halloween decorations look horribly out of place. Like someone decided to decorate in the middle of August.

Last night I didn't want to be alone all night. I was afraid some people got too into the Halloween spirit and would go on a mass murdering spree of youngish unarmed single girls.

All in all, I didn't sleep the best. And also I made cookies. 

The shop is empty when I get there. Like it should be at six o'clock in the morning. The early customers are always elderly people and businessmen in a rush to go to their big city jobs a couple towns over.

The elderly are normally the nicest. With the exception for an occasional crotchety man telling me my feet are too big to wear sneakers. Or that a short hair cut is unflattering to my face shape. With the problem of being fired. I am unable to say anything to them about minding my own business. So I smile and walk away.

But the temptation to poor scalding hot coffee on their laps arises every single time.

My manager thought it would be a good idea to have the most socially awkward employee try out opening on her own. I think that the first time I opened and closed I nearly died. I was alone and I was anxious and then I messed up an order. (Coming out of my paycheck.) And it had to be one of the regulars, and the most rude one too.

I turned the key in the lock. The jingle of the bells of the door making a smile appear instantly to my face - who hears bells and doesn't smile?- the aroma of coffee and old papers was what met me in a wave as I walked through the door.

I disposed of my belongings in the back room and put on my sneakers. I learned that slip-ons were the most convenient. The hassle of having to tie the shoes constantly was most inconvenient.

I started up all the machines. The espresso maker and coffee pot, filling both with water. Once the sign was flipped it normally took a while for people to come in. But from then on it was a steady stream of unmemorable faces.

I normally tried to pick out a few new people for the sake of my sanity. And I always remember the regulars. 

After the first fifteen customers came and went it was quiet for a while. During this time I would clean off the tables and then Leneta would come in and then I'd break at twelve-thirty, leaving for home or the bookstore at around six. I'd go home and make myself something completely unacceptable to eat on a regular basis. Either read, or watch a television by myself. Or draw something that looked awful for the sake of creativity and maybe around eight have a dance party, shower and go to bed.

This is my life. The uneventful boring same old grind. Of Ingrid Jones.