Perfection Looming in the Office

She terrifies me.

Her stylishly-eccentric style, a mix of bright colours and animal prints, her combination of feminity and professionalism in her dressing style...

They terrify me.

They remind me what kind of dressing is expected in this office, that my second-skin combination of jean-and-tee-and-jacket just doesn’t cut it. They remind me that I’m just a student, and even have the audacity to dress like one, even when I’m in a playing field where you’re supposed to look cool and composed and professional like her.

Walking up to her isn't a chore; it's like a trial.

I walk and pray that my footsteps aren't too loud, because my cheap flats happen to have a slight wedge heel and walking makes it sound like I'm in heels of some sort.

I gather whatever courage I own and manage to squeak out a question to ask her if there’s anything she would like me to do – I’m there to be loaded with whatever task my colleagues see fit to throw at me, after all, and I love having something to do.

She glances at me and then gives me instructions, and then I scurry back to my seat, heart pounding, acutely aware of the fact that I don’t look as good as her, remembering that I’m pretty much like a child when compared to her. All my flaws and insecurities seem to become glaringly obvious when she so much as glances at me.

I’m scared shitless of her. I look up to her, admire her, but I’m scared shitless. And when I hear her joking and laughing around with the others, I get this twinge of sadness because I know I have a long way to go before I can even think about being so casual with them, most of all her.