“When life throws a wave of troubles at you, ride it!” the advertising slogan urged.
From the billboard, a woman stared down at me—either a supermodel or a world champion in ballroom dancing. Flat stomach, full chest, hair cascading down to a waist as thin as a thread. The beauty smiled happily and carefree, one arm tenderly wrapped around a surfboard, presumably the tool to conquer that metaphorical wave.
Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!
I’d been stuck on this road for two hours now, studying license plates, ad slogans, and the miserable winter weather, with no end to the traffic jam in sight. Outside my car window, gray rain mixed with wet snow, the wipers scraped annoyingly across the glass, and the fuel gauge crept slowly but surely toward empty. My phone, after flashing a cheerful red map packed with endless traffic—ten out of ten on the congestion scale!—had died about twenty minutes ago.
I slumped forward, resting my forehead on the steering wheel, barely resisting the urge to howl out loud. No, compared to the poor souls getting soaked in this half-snow, half-rain mess outside, I was still pretty comfortable. My car, though as ancient as an Egyptian mummy and not even mine—it belonged to a kind-hearted coworker—chugged along faithfully through the city, helping me with work as best it could despite its rusty frame. The downside? I’d have to return it soon, once my coworker got out of the hospital. Then it’d be back to waiting in line for the bus, standing at damp stops, and squeezing into a subway car packed tighter than a can of sardines.
So, having a car was a plus. But that was about the only positive thing in my life these past few days. Reality kicked in hard: my three-month probation period at my new job was almost up, and I still wasn’t sure if they’d offer me a permanent contract. Rent was eating into my budget, the landlord was threatening to raise it, and I had no close friends or family in this massive city. How could I? I’d only just moved here. My parents and friends were back in my small hometown, while I clung to this job, working from dawn till dusk. No personal life, no downtime—just traffic jams, quick bites on the go, and gallons of coffee that were starting to make my stomach churn.
I snapped back to reality at the sound of an angry horn blaring behind me. Peeling my head off the steering wheel, I was surprised to see the traffic jam finally starting to move. At the pace of a wounded snail or a comatose worm, sure, but for the first time in the last fifteen minutes, we were actually going somewhere. Hallelujah! Goodbye, annoying billboard with your picture-perfect life—go ruin someone else’s mood!
I did my best to nudge my rusty heap forward, crawling along with the other drivers. About thirty minutes later, I managed to exit the clogged highway onto a side road, then slip into the dark maze of residential courtyards. Thank goodness—home, sweet home!
After a quick stop at the little store on the ground floor to grab some essentials, I trudged up to my cozy one-bedroom apartment. Nothing fancy, but it was clean and tidy, with a decent kitchen (a whole five square feet—plenty of space for a soul craving adventure), on the third floor, with windows overlooking the courtyard. In the summer, it was even kind of nice: flowers, trees, kids playing on the playground, moms pushing strollers. Right now, though, everything looked gray and dreary. What can you do? December is always brutal to anyone who loves picnics and fresh-air strolls. Anyway, after reheating some soup from the day before yesterday, I crashed onto the only couch in the apartment and got to work on my report.
More specifically—a presentation.
Like every intern, at the end of my probation period, I had to deliver a polished little speech about how indispensable I was to the company and how much better off everyone would be if I kept working there as a junior analyst in the consumer department. Total nonsense, right?
As if my presentation would make any difference. There were eight of us competing for one position. I wasn’t good at sucking up to the bosses or batting my eyelashes at the supervisor. There were four other competent candidates besides me, and three of them were men—guys who wouldn’t get married, go on maternity leave, or quit for family reasons. So, objectively speaking, my chances of landing this job were pretty slim.
But oh, how I wanted it, God! A solid job, a prestigious company, a decent salary, and the potential for career growth! If I could just get a little lucky, I’d settle in, maybe even bring my parents out of their backwoods town, and who knows, maybe even get married. What am I, not human or something?
With thoughts like these swirling in my head, I sat up late into the night, carefully planning my speech, working out the details, and even rehearsing a bit in front of the mirror. The process turned out to be pretty engaging. Before long, wrapped in a blanket like a Roman toga, I was strutting around my single room, dramatically reciting my simple script and waving my arms for emphasis. Man, if anyone saw me from the outside, they’d probably call for a psych ward.
In the end, I didn’t get to bed until four in the morning and, unsurprisingly, slept right through my alarm.
If you’ve ever seen a scalded squirrel, you can probably picture my morning routine: hopping on one foot to pull on pantyhose, ironing a blouse, slapping together some kind of sandwich, brushing my hair, and packing my bag—all in five minutes flat. That’s how it went.
Waiting for me by the door were the shoes I’d set out the night before—sky-high stilettos, a crazy creation from some fancy designer, snagged at a huge discount during a sale. Even with the discount, the price had stung a bit, but I figured I’d survive. No one ever died from a week of plain pasta without butter. These beautiful, elegant, stylish shoes felt like a sign, a symbol of the fabulous life waiting for me just around the corner. Not exactly weather-appropriate, sure, but for the presentation, I’d look absolutely stunning.
I managed to leave the house on my third attempt. First, I forgot my phone in the kitchen and had to climb back up from the first floor. The second time, I realized I’d left my purse in the hallway. The third time, I couldn’t find my car keys in said purse! I had to bolt back inside and rummage through every shelf and pocket. The search took at least ten minutes. By the time I got to my car, I was hopelessly late, not to mention angry, hungry, and furious at the world in general and myself in particular. Which is probably why what happened next, happened.
Honestly, I didn’t even fully register what went wrong. Maybe the nasty evening drizzle had frozen into a thin layer of ice on the pavement, or maybe I’d just forgotten how to walk in heels, but my right foot suddenly slid out from under me. I yelped, losing my balance. The ground rushed up, slamming into the back of my head. A hundred sparks exploded behind my eyes—and then, I was gone.
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