Signature.

I was in the break-room at work the other day and several of my co-workers were conversing about their old school days. The subject of forging signatures came up. Everyone in the room had said that they'd forged their parents signature at least once. I was the only one who hadn't. I've never been one to do that. First off I'd feel WAY too guilty and second, there's no way I could match my scribble to my parents perfect font. Especially my mother. She always had this way of making her J that I could never match. Even to this day I can never pull it off -not that I have any need for it.

Well, the stories going around the room reminded me of one of my own. The only time I'd ever forged a signature. It was a year ago at midnight and I was standing in line with my sister, along with all the other hundreds of people at Wal-Mart. We both had a copy of the seventh and final Harry Potter book. My stepmother, Laura, had given me her debit card. I made it to the front of the line and swiped the card. The signature box popped up and I froze. I remember all too clearly how guilty I suddenly felt. My face was red and my heart was beating fast.

"If you'll sign, please," the cashier said impatiently glancing back at the tremendous line of people waiting behind me. I stared, wide eyed, at the lady. What was I suppose to do?? The guy behind me, probably the only person who wasn't holding the bright yellow book, told me that it was okay and that nothing would happen. He must have realized, thankfully, though it was so obvious, that this card wasn't mine.

So, I signed. The first try was so horrible that I cleared it out and tried again. If I had known that those machines didn't really do anything -I could have written Clark Gable and it wouldn't have done anything- it would have saved me a lot of grief. Anyway...