I have clean socks and undies. I've printed out the directions. I packed my lunch: a protein (hummus), lots of veggies, hearty soup and grapes for dessert.
If you could, you would have written me a note that would say:
HERE IS A LITTLE
JUST IN CASE.
You would have stuck twenty dollars and a few napkins in my lunch box, and you'd set out the soy milk, oatmeal, raisins, and cinnamon for breakfast. "You'll need something that sticks to your ribs," you'd insist. "You get cranky when you're hungry; you want to make a good first impression."
But you know all these things.
Tomorrow is a big day for me as I start my new job, and I know you're proud of me. I'm going to make a good impression, don't worry. Katie has offered her services to replace you when I'm looking for someone to call on my lunch break.
My intestines are in knots, although I've done everything I can think of to prepare and relax myself. This emotion is more than first day butterflies. I am lingering and tiptoeing towards the end of this letter because I don't want time to continue. In fact, I want it to go backwards.