For the Love of 'Old Money'

Chapter 1- INTERVIEW

My palms are beginning to sweat as I share an elevator with three suit-clad men. Do you ever get the feeling that people are staring at you, when really it just stems from your own discomfort, and they honestly couldn't care less about your existence? Yeah, I think I'm having one of those moments.

Two of the gentleman step off the elevator, leaving me alone with the third. The only button lit up is the number 23. So either he's forgotten to hit his floor, or we're headed to the same place.

When I hear the 'ding' and the elevator doors glide open, gentleman number 3 motions for me to precede him. (Don't mind if I do, possible future coworker!)

I glance at my phone as I step into the spacious area. Woohoo! 9:55am, a whole five minutes early for my interview.

I approach the reception desk where a pretty blonde girl, rocking a bubblegum pink cardigan, is sitting. She's obviously not from around here, but then again, neither am I. I'm guessing 'the south'. And good for her, not falling victim to the all-black New Yorker dress code. You do you, boo!

Third elevator guy walks right on past me, giving a slight wave to the sweet looking Mattel creation before me. She waves back to him, and mouths 'I'm sorry' to me, while holding up a one-second finger.

I don't care to wait. For one, I'm a patient person, and two, Grandma Faye's caretaker is scheduled until 6pm tonight. (4 o'clock late lunch/geriatric dinner with my best friend, here I come)

The cute blonde says a professional goodbye to the person on the line, and smiles sweetly at me, greeting, "Good mornin' darlin', you must be Emeline Adkins." She said it with all the sugary sweetness, that only a true southerner possesses. Boom! Right again! I should do a 'guess their home region of the US' game at carnivals or something.

"Yes, ma'am. That's me," I respond. I don't normally have a strong southern accent, but when I speak to someone else who does I suddenly become Dolly Parton's long-lost twin.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you Emeline. I'm Lizzy," she said.

Lizzy stood to shake my hand, and holy pregnant Barbie! She looked ready to pop. Looks like Ken's going to be a proud papa.

"Wow," is all I managed to say, eyeing her baby bump. (Eloquent, I know)

She grabbed her stomach, the last four buttons of her cardigan clearly undone. "I know, I know. I'm huge," she acknowledged. "This little boy is fixin' to come out any day."

"Well, congratulations!" I beamed. I hope to look even a fourth as cute as she does when I'm prego. Unlikely, but here's to dreaming.

"So now you can see why it's so important that I find my replacement."

Clearly. This lady would not be able to work much longer. And, I have to applaud her for still working as it is. If it were up to me, maternity leave would begin the moment you find out your pregnant, because that jazz looks tough. Growing a human is work enough for me.

I had found out about this job opening through my best friend, Becca. She knew I was looking to be more gainfully employed, and had heard about this position through a work friend.

Becca works at a large finance company, because she is a whiz with numbers. I'm still a tad confused what 'Branault-White Group, Inc.' does exactly. But, considering I'm applying for the receptionist position, and I super need a new job, I figured it didn't matter all that much. Although I was clueless, my forced security badge screamed 'big important company'.

"Yes, I imagine finding yourself a replacement is pretty high on the to-do list, right after you buy diapers, and double-check effectiveness of epidurals," I joked.