Heaven Smells like A Waffle Cone

My legs are numb.

My legs are numb and my back hurts.

My legs are numb, my back hurts, and my forearm is getting creepily buff.

Now on to the plus side:

I got the job at the chocolate shoppe I've been coveting since my move to university. Kilwin's, you delicious slab of brick and mortar, you. Where've you been all my life?
 In the last two days I've undergone the rigourous training it takes to be a Kilwin's gal. Our slogan: We're not cows here. We LOVE to get tipped! And I'm digging it. Hardcore.

I scoop, I bake, I take cash and make change.
Lookout world, I'm here! Feeling like a celebrity as I roll waffle cones by hand in the window in my sunflower shirt and matching gardening gloves (waffle irons are hot, people.) today, three people took my picture. Someone, somewhere, has a picture of me Vanna White-ing a freshly made waffle cone on their Facebook page probably with some awesome title underneath it like, "Kilwin's rocks!... And this girl is my hero!"

Sure, I added that last part, but I'm feeling confident tonight, so I wouldn't put it past them. I'm someone's hero.

I'm dog-tired, but I'm a lot happier than I've been in a while. I walked home tonight smelling of waffle cones, chocolate and ice cream with over ten dollars in tips in my pocket--more hard cash than I've had my hands on since leaving Tuebingen--feeling like a boss. Sure, I can't quite figure out how to work the register yet, and yes, I've spilled a lot of ice cream, but my scoop size is dead on and I can roll waffle cones with the best of them. With those things sitting straight I can't help but think the rest will just fall in line.