5

Only a handful of times in my life have seconds felt like minutes.

Age: 9: I flushed Mom’s antique diamond ring down the toilet (accidentally, of course). I still remember the horror as I watched the water swirl around and around and around in the bowl, taking the ring somewhere it never deserved to go.

Age 15: I backed Dad’s brand new truck into a neighbor’s mailbox---with him in the passenger seat. I could’ve died during those seconds of silence waiting for him to say something.

Age 22: The dentist’s drill hit a nerve during my first and last root canal. They had to peel me off the ceiling.

Age 26: Sitting in Mr. Zepp’s office, both of us staring at my gag gift bra.

To his credit, Mr. Zepp quickly glanced away and tried to meet my eyes again. Only I couldn’t meet his. Mortified is not a word I use to describe myself very often. I’m the kind of girl who’ll shrug off embarrassment, usually with a self-deprecating crack.

But this morning I wasn’t feeling like myself. I felt like crying. In front of Mr. Zepp. During my interview. So I did what anyone would’ve done in my position.

I ran back to the bathroom.

Shutting myself in the nearest stall, I slammed down the toilet seat and sat on it. Normally I wouldn’t do something like that, either. I’d watched enough Learning Channel documentaries to know what kind of germs lurked around here. But like I said, I wasn’t myself.

“It’s time for a change,” I whispered.

4

“T-Type?” I stuttered. I’d spent hours preparing for this interview, reading websites, books, anything I could get my hands on that would guarantee me success in every endeavor. I’d cleaned up my resume, practiced interview questions like ‘So tell me a little about yourself’ and ‘Where do you see yourself in 10 years?’. The one thing that I hadn’t practiced were my actual skills.

“Yes. How many words?” After a few horrified nanoseconds he added, “per minute?”

I couldn’t even stammer out an answer. How do I know how fast I typed? I don’t type- I don’t even text message if I can help it! My mind began to spin, taking me all the way back to the required typing classes in high school. I never did particularly well, but I was sure that I’d improved since then. Surely. With age comes wisdom and all that, right?

“Twenty.”

“Deni, you’ve applied to be the Vice President’s private secretary and you only type twenty words per minute? Do you even know how to take dictation?” I shook my head ‘no’ and he continued, “I really expected better from you. Perhaps you should go back to your station.”

Shaking, I rose. “Mr. Zepp, I’m really, really…” And there I stopped. Mr. Zepp’s eyes had stayed on my face through the whole, though brief, interview. But now they’d slid down to my chest. Righteous indignation took over.

“Mr. Zepp, I am not the kind of girl that will do just anything to get ahead! I have morals, I have standards. You should be ashamed, you should…”

That was when I felt something dry and crinkly brushing against my stomach.

“Deni-”

But I’d already seen it.

The paper towel that I’d stuffed into my shirt had slipped down at some point and my bra was showing through. That wasn’t the worst of it. A while back, one of my friends had found this bra in a specialty store and given it to me as a gag gift. I guess in my rush I didn’t pay too much attention to what I put on under my clothes. That was a big mistake, because I was now standing before the bank’s hiring manager wearing two faces. My usual, horrified one, and a great big yellow smiley faced one.

3

It had been a bad idea to try and wash the stain out. I now stared, horrified, into the restroom mirror at the delicate pink flowers on my bra. A huge wet spot the size of my hand made every mole on my chest clearly visible. I had to get to that interview with Mr. Zepp, but I had no jacket to cover it up. I turned on the power hand drier and thrust my chest underneath it.

Susan, Mr. Zepp’s secretary, popped her head in. Still contorting under the drier, I looked up.

“Uh, pardon, me. Am I intruding?” Susan stared at my blouse.

“No, of course not. I’ll be right out.”

“Mr. Zepp doesn’t have much time,” Susan said flatly.

No more time to dry. I stuffed a paper towel in my shirt, checked my hair, and scooted out the door. I briskly made my way to Zepp’s door, which was open a crack. Still, I should knock.

Tap, tap, tap.

I heard Mr. Zepp on the phone, so I waited outside the door.

“I have to go; I have an interview to do,” Mr. Zepp said. I heard the phone land in the cradle. “Come in,” he called.

Mr. Zepp had a cozy office with bookshelves all around. His desk faced the window overlooking the Hudson. I longed for an office like this, instead of my cubicle in Customer Service. My “black hole” sucked me in away from the world. I could work all day without even knowing what kind of weather we were having. This meeting could be the beginning of my new career, my ascent up the corporate ladder, where I could sit in front of windows and work with the sun warming my toes . . .

“Have a seat, Deni. How fast do you type again?”

2

You know how they say, “If life gives you lemons make lemonade?”

I’ve tried that.

I’ve also figuratively tried lemon squares, lemon bars, lemon sherbert, lemon cake ... even lemon muffins. Know what I’ve decided? I hate lemons.

Why the lemon analogy? Because every day I’m forced to bite into another one. I mean, you already know about my horrible morning. Take that and multiply it by oh . . . half my life, and you have a whopping 5,000 days where something has gone wrong.

“Good morning, Ms. Hoyd.”

Tom Delacroix walks behind me through the back door of New York Savings and Loan. He’s the bank’s head teller and my equal in age, but certainly not in appearance. I get the feeling if he could’ve been born in 1905 he would have. Every day I see him in a three-piece Armani suit, cuff links, silk tie, and shoes polished so fine he can probably use them as mirrors.

“Hi, Tom.”

And no matter how many times I tell him, “just call me Deni,” I’m greeted “Ms. Hoyd.”

I’ve given up trying to correct the man.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” I say.

Not only would Tom hop on the first time machine back to 1905, but if he had his way he’d probably become a meteorologist, too. Weather is always a safe subject with him.

Tom eyes me over the top of his gold wire-rim glasses. “Did you know about that stain on your shirt?”

1

I should have figured that today wasn’t going to go well when my brand new $200 designer alarm clock failed to wake me up. Ok, so it wasn’t really the alarm clock’s fault as I forgot to set it last night. And it’s not really an alarm clock it’s a top of the line gourmet coffee maker that uses those great pre-measured packets that are just strong enough for a good sized travel mug. I use three.

The way my life is going I need the caffeine, and one good dose of coffee before I open my eyes works better than any annoying alarm clock will. From the outside I’ll bet my life looks pretty good. I moved to New York City a little over a year ago. I have a decent job as a bank teller, and I’m up for a promotion soon. I have a gorgeous boyfriend, and I live with my best friend who also is a professional massage therapist. Bingo! I get the friends and family discount- free.

Yeah, it looks good alright. Unless you’re living it. The failed wake up call was only the start. I did manage to wake up only 20 minutes late at which point I had to decide between taking a shower, and making my coffee. I compromised by wetting down my hair while the coffee brewed, and running out the door with my hair still wet and coffee slopping onto my brand new, white shirt.

In New York it doesn’t matter how expensive or nice your clothes are, most women will wear a good pair of sneakers for walking around in, and carry their pricey pumps with them to change into. I’m no different. The problem today was that I had mistakenly grabbed one of my gorgeous $600 Manolo Blahnik pumps and a pump from a knock-off pair I’d purchased at PayLess. They’re both black and being a teller the look of my shoes isn’t normally an issue. Unfortunately, today was the interview for my promotion and I arrived looking like a poodle caught out in the rain, with a coffee stained blouse and mis-matched shoes in hand.

I wish I could say this was unusual for me, but it’s not.