to say is that Harry has learned to tolerate my praying and not look so embarrassed when I do it. To me, that’s progress. Matt, however, gave no indication what he felt about my attitude of gratitude. That’s the trouble with people who have impeccable manners—they never let you see them sweat.
Matt and I really connected. He laughed at my jokes and I at his. He winked at me in that conspiratorial way men have with the women they love. Or maybe he had a tic in his eye. How do I know? I’m only describing my fantasy here, not his. There were no unwelcome advances, (if I don’t count that hand-kissing thing, which was not at all unwelcome) no stupid pick-up lines, no improprieties, only flawless manners and irresistible charm.
When I think of the stupid pick-up lines I’ve experienced with other men, including, “Excuse me, may I look at the tag on your dress? I’m sure it says ‘Made in Heaven,’ just like you,” there was no way the evening could have been a failure. In fact, the night would have been absolutely perfect if I hadn’t had to use the ladies’ room.
After eating, I got up to walk a bit, as my jumpsuit had somehow shrunk while hanging in my closet—probably due to the excessive humidity caused by recent rain showers. Anyway, I needed to jiggle the food beyond my waistband, so I excused myself and went for a stroll.
If my mother’s famous teaching—“Always use the bathroom when you have the opportunity. You never know when you’ll find another”—weren’t indelibly engraved in my head, I wouldn’t have gotten into trouble.
Still, I learned something, albeit the hard way. Never, ever wear a jumpsuit anywhere that you might have to use a rest room. One, you must practically undress to use the facilities. Two (here’s where I goofed), you must keep the top half of the suit out of the toilet while you’re using it. Actually, only one arm of my suit fell into the water, and that was after I flushed, so it could have been worse—but not much.
I spent five minutes squirming back into the soggy thing and another fifteen with my arm under the hand dryer. I had no idea how slow those things are—no wonder you always come out of the rest room hoping no one notices that you’re drying your hands on your clothes.
Anyway, the ridiculousness of the whole situation got the best of me, and I did what I often do under stress. I giggled. And guffawed. And hee-hawed and ho-hoed until my stomach hurt. Every time some innocent lady walked through the bathroom door, it got funnier and funnier until tears were streaming down my face. At one point, there were four of us in there holding our sides and gasping for air. Pretty soon they were telling me all their bathroom stories, too—like getting the hems of their skirts caught in their waistbands, walking through the restaurant and wondering why everyone was staring or dragging a long piece of toilet paper through the room on the heels of their shoes. I made some new friends, but it was the weirdest bonding experience I’ve ever had.
As I was coming out of the ladies’ room with bits of the toilet paper that I’d used to soak up water still sticking to my suit (thousands of polyesters died for this outfit), Harry and Matt were loudly asking a waitress to go in after me.
“…she’s been gone a long time….”
“…maybe she isn’t feeling well….”
“…you could ask her if she needs help….”
It was not my best moment. I’ve always dreamed of being a damsel in distress saved by a knight in shining armor. Being rescued by a human Chia Pet and a man I had now upgraded to Mr. Cashew because I’d wasted a half hour fishing my clothing out of a toilet was just not the same. I am also positive that this is not what Jesus meant by “All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.” This wasn’t humbling. It was humiliating—never mind that in a few years it will be a great story to tell my friends.
For the rest of the evening Harry kept looking at me with beetled brows, as if he expected me to do something ridiculous at any moment. Matt, however, acted as though he knew lots of women who spent time washing clothes in the toilet. Still, at the end of the evening I was thankful to escape, and relieved that Matt didn’t offer to drive me home.
September 25
Harry and I couldn’t meet each other’s eyes today. I was unable to look at his head and he couldn’t meet my eyes after the rest-room fiasco. About four o’clock he sauntered past my desk and told me I could “wrap it up” for the day.
I asked him twice if he’d meant what he’d said. He never encourages anyone to leave early. Sometimes I feel like the Bob Cratchitt of the software world.
“Sure. You’re going to Las Vegas soon, aren’t you? Isn’t there something you need to pick up?”
“I could use a few new binders and highlighters,” I stammered.
“There you are. See you tomorrow.” Then he paused and turned back as if there was something he’d forgotten to mention. I waited for the other shoe to drop.
“By the way, Matt Lambert told me last night that he’d be attending the Las Vegas trade show as a customer.” Harry scowled. “I hope he doesn’t have any ideas of shopping around and replacing us.” He stared at me. “But you’ll be there to make sure that doesn’t happen, right?”
My heart sank into my gut. Was there no justice? Why, after publicly humiliating myself in front of this man, do I ever have to see him again? If Harry thinks I’d be good at preventing Lambert from jumping ship to another company, he wasn’t looking very closely last night when Matt gawked at my wet, paper-encrusted arm.
I couldn’t go to the bathroom without a disaster. Who knew what might happen when I was sent to Las Vegas, of all places, to save a corporate account?
“Harry, I can’t—”
But he would have none of it. “You’d better leave now and get those binders.”
Mitzi did not like my leaving before she did. She gave me a scorching glare as I headed for the door. Sailing in late and dashing out early are traditionally her domain, and she was sorely miffed. I smiled widely at her as I left. Kim gave me a thumbs-up as I passed.
I had my paycheck in my pocket and an extra hour in my life. What else was there to do but shop? Unfortunately my sensible gene kicked in before I got to Ann Taylor, so I went to a department store to look for much-needed, long-overdue bedding. I inherited my sheets from my mother, and they’re paper-thin in the sunlight. Last night, after tossing and turning over the jumpsuit debacle, I put my toe between the threads and ripped the sheet in half trying to untangle myself. That, combined with a “Got To See It To Believe It” white sale, seemed like a sign. I didn’t count, however, on the determination and stamina of women in need of cheap sheets.
They were standing in front of the shelves like gate-keepers, determined not to let anyone past until they had found the perfect white sheet with a faint ribbon of blue running through it. I bent down to pull an interesting-looking bed-in-a-bag ensemble from the bottom shelf and nearly got my fingers crushed.
I’d been too optimistic about this run-in, grab-some-sheets and run-out thing. After twenty-five minutes I’d determined there were no sheets that fit my bed. The bottoms were all fitted kings except for a huge stack of twins. The flat sheets were all regulars but for two queens, one in some orange and yellow design and one in dirt blue and tonsil pink that could have scared the paint off walls. I backed out of my spot disconsolately, and a woman with a designer handbag leaped into my place with the grace of a jaguar. Amazing.
I
