Imposter

Last night I had a dinner with a few employees from my work. It was just five of us, who were recently hired within the last year, invited to eat with the owner of the Hedge Fund. Of course it was at a fancy restaurant where I would normally never even feel comfortable loitering outside of for too long, let alone actually eat a meal.

I have never seen anything like it. The waiters and waitresses all stood in a line like Buckingham Palace soldiers, minus the red jackets and big puffy hats, surveying the room with very little eye motion. With every course a new set of silverware was placed before me as if I knew what I was supposed to do with all the strange shaped spoons and different sized forks. When someone left the table, within seconds a waiter would appear out of nowhere to refold their napkin to the appropriate triangular sculpture.

During the course of the meal, feeling like I was a little girl at a grown up party, I surveyed the room to see if anyone noticed the fraud that I was. Did they noticed me inspecting my coworkers with my peripheral vision seeing which fork I am supposed to use? Did they see me squirm to find a comfortable position which does not included my elbows being on the table? Did my $20 haircut and TJMaxx shirt scream "faker!" amongst the sea of tailor-made suits and designer dresses?

When the dinner party came to end I exited the restaurant finding a black Lincoln Town Car waiting for me with the sign "Koelling" hanging in the window. I made special mental note of this scene as I knew I may never see it again. We drove back to my apartment in silence with only the lights from the stores of Madison Avenue keeping me company as they danced along the black leather on the back seat.

As we pulled up to my walk up building with a laundromat as its foundation, I felt as though my drivers suspicious were confirmed: "Imposter." But it is just as well, for when I entered my tiny outdated apartment I was home and very happy.