Teeter (Don't) Totter

Elevator buttons feel the same no matter where I go. I have yet to encounter one I didn't want to push.
Should I use my thumb this time? No, my index finger will suffice.
The little arrow beams at me.
Stepping across the metal threshold, a sliver of the cavern below reminds me that this could be a bad idea.
My nerves get the best of me as I look to the ceiling and see a reflection of myself.
I thought I was alone.
Exit right. Bee-line to suite 200.
My entrance is not grand. In fact, it's quite the opposite.
Blank application in hand, I seat myself two chairs away from a young woman two sizes to big for the chair she's squeezed herself into.
Something is wrong with the guy in the corner.
The room is eerily quiet.
I'm anxious. Four of us sit in this small lobby. Coffee table offers an ample amount of distraction via some celebrity mishap. If I were to venture a guess, no one will pick up a magazine, for fear of being seen as unprofessional.
Dress code set firmly at business.
Yet, I see:
Slacks, unironed.
Shoes, unpolished.
Jewelry, possibly stolen from a local community theatre.
I am judging all. They are judging me.
We pretend we're doing nothing of the sort.