Jump into the shower, get out, eye cream, powder, mascara, blow dry hair, perfume, put on first outfit, hate it, change, two, three, five times, finally feel a little better, race out the door, back out of the driveway, slam on brakes at the stop sign look into rearview mirror, shake head. "I really hate this job", I thought, as I did every day for the last three years. I was in sales, and not only did I have to trot out the dog and pony every hour, I had to do it for a constant audience of car dealers. The toughest animals on the planet, my target audience, gave a new meaning to the term "Alpha Male".

Lipstick, lies and high heels was the entire description of my existence. "If only I could slow down, and just deal with one thing, one set of people on a constant basis" was my mantra. But I was so busy just trying to complete each hourly task, riding the roller coaster that started each and every Monday morning that I was missing life. I worked for a local used car magazine, and the deadlines were weekly, and there were three of them. Every week. And, being a super type "A", I was the sales leader. The top producer. The "Queen".

On this fateful Wednesday, as I drove bravely on, I thought about the fact that the week was halfway over, and Friday glinted in the future, like an elusive tiny diamond in the richly undiscovered soil just around the next bend. I turned into the parking lot of my first dealer, one of the toughest, and braced myself for the usual onslaught of discomfort that you feel when you walk into a silent but packed auditorium where every head turns to stare at the "one with toilet paper hanging from her shoe". The salesmen ignored me, the manager turned back to his game of Spider solitaire with a nod of "I'll be with you in a minute". So I sat, and I waited, and waited, got up and paced a little, and waited some more. Finally, I was granted an audience. After the ad was placed, the invoice signed, and the editorial changes were made, I was flying toward the escape and the next round of humiliation across the street, when a booming clap of (was it thunder) no, just a tap on the glass, resounded behind me. An ominous motion of the hand "Get in Here" and I was summoned to the inner sanctum of the General Manager. This couldn't be good, no, this was usually the firing squad all rolled into one big egotistical display.

He loomed in front of me, larger than life, and was undisputedly one of the most imposing people I had ever met. He stared

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