Just Call Me Val

Once under tremendous pressure, fatigue, facing starvation and physically intimidated by a guy in my office I let it slip that I'd graduated top of my class of 99. No not a typo for Class of '99, there were only 98 Savages flipping that tassel with me. Impressive. Or at least for said guy and he jokingly called me Val—every time I said or did something completely brainless.

Hi, my name is Val.

In the fourth grade we dedicated an entire year to the United States. Especially the geography, capitals and time zones. Simple. Easy. I mastered it.

Fast forward to my fourth year out of college, see even that was wrong it's my third. Here I am struggling with math, numbers and time zones. In an attempt to nail me down for a phone conversation, an acquaintance exchanged emails with me to set the exact time. This is the brilliance that occurred in my head.

The email simply says: Can you connect Thursday at 2:30 PST?

Yes, I thought. No, I thought. I work until 1 and need time to get home so I can take notes (seriously thought that). So 1 my time (MST) will be 12 her time. OK, I'll say yes. Wait, I have to stay an hour later that day so I won't be done until 2 my time which is 1:30 her time. Hmm I'll have to ask her to push it back a half hour so we can talk as I'm getting off work and I can be done for my shift at 4. (Are you confused yet? You should be. My train of thought made absolutely no sense.)

And she did. The phone meeting was scheduled for 3 p.m. PST. I rushed through my goodbyes at work anxiously clutching my phone. Minutes passed. An hour passed. I thought maybe I'd got the time wrong, checked my email and read 3 p.m. PST which convinced me that I'd missed the call.

I sat on my couch slightly depressed and finally got it. It was like Mrs. E had slapped me with time zone comprehension all over again. 3 PST means 4 MST… Idiot. Val. I'd moved the phone call back to the time I'm expected for an intense ABA session.

I swear time zones were easier when I was ten.