Back to That 1st Day

It was hell. Again, having had no idea what to expect, I'd signed up for a full day. In my tight jeans and 85 degree sunshine.
I was partnered with a young Hispanic guy to clean the north side of Santa Monica Blvd., from Doheny, heading east. He said he had a wife, 3 or 4 kids, and was planning to be an actor. He was a nice guy to be with on my first day. Taught me about the butts. Told me we could take our time, spend an hour on each block. But no, I was intent to prove something and would cover as much ground as my physically fit self could.
He talked about movies, asked me what kind of music I liked, kept the conversation friendly and somewhat constant.
My wrists and forearms became sore just from carrying the broom in one and dustpan in the other. They each have handles which reach approximately from hand to ground length, give or take how tall you are and how much you have to stoop to maneuver the damn things.
That first day I felt humiliated. For a while, you cannot believe that this is you and you HAVE to pick up trash along a busy street and obey the rules or you will go to jail. I'm quite sure no one sees it in their future. So when it happens, you do kind of have to embrace it or you won't be able to get your ass there at 6:30am for as many days as it takes to complete your sentence.
I could not embrace it after that day and I didn't return for about a month. I think I collapsed that afternoon, and then cried to my mom that there was no way I could manage this monumental punishment.