Summer Job, Mom Edition

You guys. Precocious Daughter has a summer job.

She (more or less) successfully finished her freshman year of college last month. Moving her out of her dorm room made me feel simultaneously sorry for and mad respectful of the men and women whose job is to clean college dorms at the end of the academic year. At least PDaughter cleaned her personal sink. Her roommates? My God.

I honestly don't want to know how pubic hairs
end up in a bathroom sink.

Anyway, having done work-study (i.e., paying scholarship students to pretend to work for doing mostly nothing) throughout the year, she's grown accustomed to having money in her pocket. As her university draws the line at giving students money for doing mostly nothing when school isn't even in session, that meant finding employment in the real world.

The real world, college student edition.

At first she thought she could simply go back to making bubble tea, which is how she spent last summer. Alas, the entire staff and management at that establishment turned over since last August (go figure), so that minimum-wage option was out.

So she weighed her options. And she decided that a) she wanted to earn more than minimum wage, b) she wanted a flexible schedule, and c) she likes driving around.

And so my daughter is now a pizza delivery person.

She works here:

Got it?

And I. Am. Freaking. Out.

Because maybe she'll get attacked/murdered/worse on the job. This is very unlikely, but I'm her mom, so...

Now. Her delivery area is smack-dab in the neighborhood we lived in before I got divorced, so I know it's a decent area. Mostly.

And she's currently working on her second-degree black belt in karate. That means something, right?

And, as much as I hate to admit it, she's a grown-ass woman, and if she wants to deliver pizza, that's on her, isn't it?

Me, if I were allowed.

Anyway, PDaughter is a pizza delivery person now.

She loves it.

I'm constantly worried.

She's delivering pizza.

Comments/feedback/coping advice greatly appreciated.