I picked out an outfit days in advance to wear for my big presentation. Black. Knee-length. Ruffles. Professional, but festive. It makes me feel pretty and confident. In it, I can conquer the world.
All weekend, I stress about this presentation. It’s a last minute assignment, but I can’t think of anything better.
Monday morning, I put on the dress. I’m marching around the house and I’m almost out the door when the zipper breaks apart.
I snatch it off and try to fix it. I don’t have a back up outfit planned and it will take me an hour to pick out something that I find equally fabulous and appropriate. I remember that this happens to my favorite piece of luggage all the time and I’m always able to fix it with no problem. I’m nice with this.
I tug gently at the dress’s zipper and slowly but surely, it works. I put he dress back on and leave for work.
Six hours later
All morning, I’ve been listening to presentations from all of the top brass. I’m wide-awake and engaged. I love where I work and what I do. I pay attention because I genuinely care about its success and my success here. I’m also the only junior staffer scheduled to present. I’ve noticed everyone who gets a chance to shine here has great public speaking skills. This is my chance to show that I can shine too.
It’s 10 minutes to go before my boss is set to present. She’ll talk, then throw off the mic, the metaphoric baton, to me. My nerves finally catch up to me and I shift in my seat. I feel the zipper ripping apart. It’s like in slow motion, but it happens quite fast.
The impending doom Michael Imperioli once descried descends upon me. I snatch my dress together and carefully exit the room, clutching the fabric to my hip. In the bathroom stall, I yank off my dress, and tug at the zipper the same way I did this morning. Nothing. I have to fix my dress. I have to fix my dress!!
I tug and yank.
The zipper pops.
Oh, fuck me.
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