I'm dismounting my literary high horse.

I love to read.

LOVE.

If reading would slip a diamond on the third finger of my left hand, I couldn't scream YES loud or fast enough.

But over the years, I became snobby with what I read.

If it wasn't a classic, if it wasn't obscure or weird, if it didn't make girly girls cringe, I wanted no part of it.

I became a total book snob.

But recently, I've discovered the joy in chick lit. Yes. Girly books about high-powered career women and their romantic quests.

I can't get enough of the sexcapades, the cat fights, the back stabbing, the body envy, the cheating.

It's like that first sip of red wine--comforting, but it'll be even better after two glasses.

So I'd like to take a moment and apologize to chick lit.

Chick lit, I'm sorry. I was wrong and a jerk and I really want to be friends. Do you forgive me?

As for the Palahniuks, the Ellises, the Vonnegut Jrs. and the rest, I still love you. And I'll always love you.

But I can't read you in an entire day. And you just seem wrong on a treadmill or in the bath tub.

This is where you, dear reader, give me recommendations*. Bring on the pink paperbacks!

*I'm not even near ready for Twilight. So don't even try to get me to crack that one open.

You don't even like cake, do you?

It’s not safe here.

Danger lurks around every corner. Sweet, sugary danger. With sprinkes and cream filling.

You have no choice. You must face it head on. You take a deep breath and dash out of your office.

You avert your gaze and manage to avoid the sugar dusted holiday cookies in the next cubicle. You feint left and barely slide past the buckets of candy canes. As a coworker approaches with a plate of fudge squares, you duck into a room.

But then you run smack dab into tiny, frosted cakes.

You pause. You know that you should turn and keep walking. You should not reach out and pick up the tiny confection. You definitely know you should not take a bite from it.

But you’re weak.

For so long, you remained diligent. “I will not stuff my face with sugar and chocolate and candy and …” your thoughts grow fuzzy as your vision follows suit. You are relying on involuntary body behaviors now.

“Just one,” your tongue and stomach tell your brain. “It won’t hurt anything.”

You feel the tiny cube of cake between your fingers. It’s firm and squishy.

And that’s the last thing you remember.

When your eyes open, seven people are looking down at you.

You turn your head from side to side to assess the situation. You’re on the floor in your boss's office. When did that happen?

Like someone in a crime drama, you lift up your hands to examine your palms. They’re covered in chocolate, cake crumbs, sprinkes, icing bits, and pencil shavings.

“Can you hear me?” one of your coworkers firmly asks. “How many fingers am I holding up?” you notice that his pointer, ring and middle fingers are clean. Unlike yours.

Then you look down and see the plates. The pie pans. The empty plastic baggies smeared with oil. They’ve all been licked clean.

Feeling an itch, you reach for your ankle and discover that you aren’t wearing pants.

“What happ—“ you trail off.

Your boss emerges with a glass of water and a sympathizing smile. “I think you should take a personal day,” she gently tells you.

Someone helps you to your feet. Someone else hands you your pants. And you make your way to the car. Through the dessert-spattered hallways. Past the brownie-vandalized conference rooms. By the now-cloudy fish tank that contains no fish, but a single cupcake.

You leave sugary footprints almost the entire way to the elevator.

I think I've officially been in advertising too long.

So I'm working on this campaign for [company].

As I'm typing headlines for [company], one of their animated ads pops up in my instant message window.

No joke.

The very ad that I've been staring at for an hour in PDF format is now animating in front of my very eyes.

What are the odds? Seriously.

Congratulations to me. I’m a noun.

“You take care of it. You’re creative.”

Most creative individuals shrink at this phrase. We hear it many many times throughout our lives.

It’s usually preceded by rounds and rounds of pointless conversations and then proceeded by the designated creative people scrambling for ideas and crayons. Then that’s followed by rounds and rounds of pointless criticism before a creative decision is made by those who are admittedly not creative.

Since college, we the creative have been dubbed “creatives.” Because we’re the people who create. Usually the word carries a connotation of being imaginative or clever (or weird), but when you get to the down and dirty definition, it simply means maker—or one who can make, rather.

So today, while trying to feel creative in the ways of making and cleverness, I looked up the word in the dictionary.

And I found that it’s officially a noun in one book!

The Collins Essential English Dictionary definition of “creative”: NOUN a creative person, esp. one who devises advertising campaigns.

That’s right. No longer an ordinary person with a haphazard adjective slapped in front of it. A noun. A true one-worded tangible.

I am no longer a creative person working in advertising. I am simply a creative.

It feels good to be a proper (as in official—not capitalized) noun.

But it still comes salted because some people use “creative” as some sort of swear word. Like when creatives* say something off-kilter, others roll their eyes and grunt, “Ugh, creatives!” Or when a writer or artist is trying to defend a piece of work, the non-creative goes to his associate, “He/she’s just being an uppity creative. Pay no mind.”

It raises a question, though. Since they ask for creative help because of a creatives nature and abilities, shouldn’t they be expecting the creative to care for the work? To defend it? To get upset if it’s not butter smooth and picture perfect?

In the context of what they’re asking the creative to do, shouldn’t they want someone who’s passionate?

Who knows? At least we’re now officially nouns—a small victory, but still a victory. Next goal: Capitalization!

*Spell Check doesn’t recognize us as a noun yet. Go figure, Microsoft. Go figure.

I am the tick-tocking office jerkface.

Just look at them. Those keyboard monkeys. Cube dwellers. Typing up their spreadsheets. Writing their memos.

Every few minutes, one of them looks at me and sighs.

Every few minutes, one of them groans under his breath.

“Two hours to go?” they’ll ask their notepads.

And I laugh and tick a little slower.

“Only ten minutes have gone by?” they’ll let slip as they tug on their uncomfortable sleeve cuffs.

And a second becomes two.

“Time is c-r-a-w-l-i-n-g today,” they’ll say to one another in passing.

As three seconds elapse with only one tick of my second hand.

That’s right. It’s intentional. I slow down to make the office workers miserable.

Because nothing makes them happier than the little hand touching the five. And nothing makes me happier than watching them stare at blank screens.

You ever notice that you leave at 5:30 but it seems darker than usual? That’s because it is.

We’re all in it together – all of the clocks. When you’re sleeping, we go back to normal. That’s why some days, you find yourself dragging after a full eight hours of slumber. Well, sorry to tell you but it was really five.

Sometimes the sun joins our little game. He’ll pause for a bit to throw you off of the scent. So you’re never really aware of what’s going on.

Cell phones and satellite-directed time pieces are in on the game, as well. So don’t even try looking at another clock midday. It simply won’t work.

They’re all against you.

Your watch. Your alarm clock. Your computer desktop. All of them.

What’s the reason? There isn’t one, really. We just get bored watching the time pass, too.

Get your ass back on that treadmill.

Pants fitting looser. Heads turning. Not getting winded while carrying in groceries.

All sound reasons to work out.

But fitting into college jeans isn’t the motivator it used to be. (Especially now since I’m an adult with money and I can usually just buy new jeans.)

So I’ve been on the prowl for new motivation. The whole rehab-the-knee thing only goes so far since it hurts. The feel-better-sleep-better stuff sounds like a crock. I had nothing that worked long-term.

Then my friend turned me onto the greatest workout motivator of them all –

Zombies.

The living dead.

Survival.

That’s right. Surviving the (highly-unlikely) Zombie Apocalypse is my reason for getting into shape. But not just any shape – insane shape.

So while I’m on the exercise bike, the treadmill, the elliptical, my imagination is running just as hard and as fast as I am. Perhaps more. (Holy crap, they’re right behind you! And they’re HUNGRY!)

If I get a stomach cramp, I can’t stop. Because zombies won’t stop just because my side aches.

If my ankle bends funny, I must keep going. Because the zombies don’t care if I need to pause for two minutes.

If I start breathing heavy and wheezing, I must power through and speed up. Because when zombies hear the whistles of a wounded human, they’ll come in droves.

Zombies don’t sleep. Zombies don’t rest. Zombies will stop at nothing so I must also stop at nothing.

I’m getting into the best shape of my life.

Every time I start slacking during my workout, here comes my friend. “Zombies won’t sit down and get a drink of water,” he says.

“But they’re not here!” I whine between gulps.

“You don’t know that. Do you really think the government will tell us if a zombie escapes his confines?”

I ponder this and then immediately lunge walk to the chin up bar.

I’m aware that the concept of walking, flesh-craving, dead dudes is about as logical as Jell-O (how does it wiggle like that?). But one can never be too careful.

One can never have too flat of abs, either.

I'm healthy! I swear!

When you’re a freelancer and not yet able to mooch off of your partner’s health insurance, you’re forced to search under rocks for coverage.

Once you find an acceptable provider, though, you’re not much closer to being one of the insured.

When you’re not part of a group policy through work or a spouse’s job, you must divulge your entire medical history. Or at least a good chunk of it. Privacy is not an option, no matter how many HIPAA things you read and sign.

Every act of sneezing you’ve committed, every band-aid you’ve applied, every eye drop you’ve dropped is scrutinized.

Because if you have anything that’ll cost them 10 dollars in the long haul, they’d rather you die.

Normally a healthy 25 year old woman has no problem finding coverage. In fact, I’m probably in the healthiest stage of my life.

But (and there’s the but) I’ve had surgery recently.

Strike.

Which involved X-rays and MRIs.

Strike.

And crazy prescriptions for pain killers.

Strike.

Which I’m allergic to.

Strike.

And an unplanned follow-up procedure.

Double strike.

“We see you’ve been taking xxx recently. Why is that?”

“Well,” I hesitantly reply, “I have asthma – but it’s only bad in the winter!”

I can hear the consultant making notes.

"How many inhalers?"

The answer isn't good.

“Have you been hospitalized for the asthma recently?”

I had to tell her about going on a trip and not being able to breath due to dust. And then getting a steroid shot. After all, you can’t lie to these people. They’re looking at your life on some little blue screen while you talk.

The negatives keep piling up.

She asks if I’m still as tall as I was a week ago. And if I weigh as much. I readily admit that no change has occurred.

“Did I mention that I work out everyday and I’m a vegetarian?” I nervously add.

Then I mute the phone so I can cough because this phone call has made me wheezy.

I’m so screwed.