I had my first heart pounding, sweat beating, palm shaking moment at Chipotle today.

No one ever lets me roll burritos. I’m terrible.

But I’m terrible because I’ve only been allowed to try once before. My managers know that I’m terrible from one experience rolling. Nobody can be good at anything after one go at it (I know you’re all sitting at home like “Pfft… girl don’t even know me. I’m da bes.”)

Today, I told the staff I wanted to be in the line. Cashiering is only as fun as slicing off your own nose.

I position myself at the end of the line, right before Pearl, the expo-er, and right after Daniella, the salsa-(er?), and ready myself for the first burrito to roll.

Brown rice. Steak. Cheese. Pico de gallo. Corn. Sour cream.

Be. Ready. Shea. Cause. People. Die. Gripping. Curly. Salty. Cleavage.

Motivational speech out of the way, let’s do this.

I grab the sides and push the contents to the center. Ok. They stick. Now I take the bottom of the tortilla and fold it to the top. Nice.

I squeeze the food beneath my right hand like I’m pretending to comfort a friend on the shoulder after her boyfriend broke up with her and her dog suddenly contracted a strange new disease called… Dog Disease, and sh**. I’ve pierced it.

I was thinking about caring for my prefriend (pretend friend- you make a name for it if you have a lot of them..sigh) that I squeezed the burrito too hard, I sliced it. It’s bleeding rice everywhere. There’s no EMT around!

The sweat is dripping off my brows. There’s a line of 15+ people and they’re beginning to open the doors to accommodate the stragglers at the end of it. All of my co-employees are staring at me. They can’t begin another burrito, bowl, quesadilla or salad, until I’ve rolled my fair share on the end, until I complete what THEY started. I’m the finisher!

THE FINISHERRRR. Sounds great. I’ll keep that.

I look up at the customer whose burrito I just massacred with my own bare hands looking guilty as ever. I plead the fifth! Don’t say anything to me. I can’t, I can’t do this right now. I can’t look you in the eyes. I’ve. Killed your baby. I held it in my hands as it formed for your belly, and, I’ve.

The line has literally come to a halt. I think I might pass out.

“Shea. Go to the cash register.”

“But I.”

I’m receiving an incomprehensible amount of raised brows from my managers and “smh”-ing from hungry guests. But it’s the co-employee undisguised embarrassment that makes me remove the gloves from my hands. I’m coming clean. I did it. My general manager guides me over to the cash register like I’m a handcuffed criminal leaving a courtroom.

“That’ll be $14.50,” I say, flushed, unable to look the next customer in the face.

The line quickly returns to its normal pace and the room fills with conversation and lines like “that’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen!” “can you really eat all that?” “I just love guac, don’t you?” All is conventional and efficient as usual.

But, I have not forgotten.

I will roll you, burrito.

You can’t spell Chipotle, without Hi Clotep.

If you’re wondering how serious burrito wrapping can be, read a letter to a burrito maker.