“Social Security number? Time clock? Oh my gosh, am I even ready to get a job yet!” My head was bursting with nervous and panicked thoughts. Another girl my age, a woman of at least forty, and I sat in the back room of Marketplace Foods; the local grocery store. Piles of paperwork lay on the table in front of us, and an instructional video showing the ins and outs of the perfect bag was playing on the tiny television screen. I could’ve cared less if my bags were not immaculate. I only wanted money. And to be a brand new person. For them to like me, no matter what.
“Hey, Benny!”, the manager called out to someone walking down the hallway to where we were clustered, breaking the focus on the video as we turned our heads to see who it was. A boy about my age that despite the thousands of times I had come into Marketplace, had never seen before, strode into the breakroom and began flipping through a binder, which I guessed were the schedules. He waved a “Hey!” back to the manager, who then tried to steer our attention back to the screen. I shuffled my papers and pretended to watch the video again, but began watching him instead. He was one of my coworkers, therefore much more interesting than some lady’s voice telling me to put the eggs on top, which everyone should know anyways.
My first day, I didn’t talk and smoothed down my hair, trying to make my grocery bags perfect and look just that while doing it. Everyone bustled around routinely and I opened my mouth, glancing around quickly for a subject and heard the radio playing a country song. I hated country. I had to be duct-taped to a bed, branded with headphones to listen to that sappy, always-a-sob-story-about-their-dog music. But what the heck, I had to start somewhere.“I hate this song!” I exclaimed, nodding up at the speaker. “What? I love this song! Finally some country!” he replied, flashing a smile. “Oh, yeah country’s awesome!” I lied quickly, looking away. I spent the rest of the shift trying to say something cool or witty, only managing to mumble about what if someone stole the tomatoes displayed in the entryway, and went home feeling extremely stupid, and now determined to brainwash myself to like country music. I came back humming Brooks and Dunn, The Wreckers, Brad Paisley and the like, receiving another smile. I thought silently to myself, shaking my head as I looked back on what it took to get there.
It’s been a few years since that day I lay on my bed and blasted country in my bedroom, forcing myself to admit it was catchy, even trying to learn the words to sing along. It seems I always have a silly motive for doing something, mostly to make friends; whether it’s Benny, now a really good friend, or a boy with a captivating smile that loves Airsoft. Wanting to be accepted is one of the biggest motivations for doing even the craziest of things to make an impression. Now every time I turn on K102, I can’t help laughing a little inside and wonder if I really liked it or if I still just want to impress someone.
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