Cruel Joke

The buzz of an incoming text blared through my restless sleep. Blearily, I flipped my phone over and cracked one eye at the screen to see the time. A shot of electricity bolted through me: it was almost 9, and I had exactly 25 minutes to be at work. And I wasn't even awake yet. Crap!

So I threw on my clothes (luckily everything is packed except like, two shirts, so it wasn't exactly rocket science to find something that matched), not-quite-smeared mascara on my lashes, and half-tumbled down the stairs, begging my grandmother to give me a ride to work so that I wouldn't be late.

While she went to put on shoes, my eyes watched the kitchen clock, counting down the minutes until I was late to work. Normally, I wouldn't panic about these things. A quick call to let my boss know I'm running behind is usually sufficient. She doesn't mind. But I was training my replacement and I had to be on time!

Ten minutes.

How long does it take to put on shoes?!?!?

Eight minutes.

I heard my grandma's keys clink as she picked them up.

I practically pushed her into the car, and it took Herculean effort not to mention anything about driving faster (because she was driving so.... very... slow...). She commented that the marching band was late for their practice: "Normally, they're playing well before 8:00."

Right. Poor them. Maybe they were running a whole hour behind. It seemed much less important than my own near-lateness.

It was hot for early morning, and I was panting as I clattered into my office with five minutes to spare, sinking gratefully into my chair as I booted up my computer. I vaguely registered that it was strangely quiet for 9am. My boss wasn't here yet. Weird. Maybe she took the day off.

My to-do list absorbed my attention until my boss came in, keys jingling. "Hey, you're here early," she said, peeking into my office. I started to say that I was only a couple of minutes early when I glanced at the clock in the bottom corner of my screen. And then REALLY looked at it.

8:07 am.

Seriously? Eight. Oh. Seven. Not nine.

What. The. Heck.

I must have looked at like, ten different clocks that morning. My phone has a digital display. The clock in my bathroom that I'd been anxiously checking in between swipes of mascara was an analog clock. The kitchen clock. The clock in my grandmother's car. The Hinckley center tower clock. Two different clocks in the hall of the building I work in. The clock on the Kronos machine where I punched in. I'd obsessively checked every single one, watching the minute hand (or numbers) inch slowly closer to the hour mark.

But I never looked at the actual hour.

Stupid brain. That was a mean trick to pull.