Tell me you love me

I love my job. I have talked about it a lot, but I really do. When I walked in for my interview two years ago, I had no idea that this job, with these crazy people, would be such a great fit.

After my first Friday cocktails I came home and bragged about how we had cocktails in the office! P3 said 'You feel like you're home don't you?' And I kinda did.

My job pushes me, stresses me out and kicks my ass most weeks, but it's fucking awesome.

But, one thing about my job is that it's a tough environment. Compliments and niceties aren't doled out willy nilly.

In fact, it has been compared, somewhat appropriately, to a boyfriend that doesn't say 'I love you'. Sure, you know he loves you and that's why you stick with him, but sometimes, you just want to hear those words.

Well, yesterday, after two years, my job told me that it loves me too. My job, said, 'Iris, we think you are pretty AND smart.'

And I couldn't be happier than if it were a real-life boy was saying it.

Although it feels oddly similar - the relief that you didn't make all those things up in your head or that he was just an ass or, well, you get my drift. And the warm fuzzy feeling you get, well it's pretty nice. Plus, it's always nice to know the feelings are mutual.

My first real-life, big-girl promotion, new title and all. YAY ME!

But, is it normal that my palms have started to sweat just thinking about what this ACTUALLY means?

Oye vay.