Ex Files

I was happily walking up 6th Avenue after leaving brunch with Scorpio and had just crossed Houston. As I walked by the basketball courts on the corner of Houston and 6th, my ex Eli pops off of a park bench seated next to his blonde friend that Scorpio and I met at his 30th birthday party the night before. At the time we assumed she was a friend/event photographer, because he ignored her when we were around as he tried to charm us with flattery. It is no surprise that I randomly run into him after I just saw the pair hours before as fate loves fucking with me. We had the typical awkward small talk as the blonde glared at me from behind her slightly mirrored Rayban aviators. I walk away smiling because it had already been a strange day, when no more than 5 blocks later I get a call from Eli...
A: "Yes, you do know I just saw you?"
E: "You didn't say Congratulations"
A: "Congratulations? For what?"
E: "I just proposed to (the blonde-whom also shares my name?) in Central Park"
A: "I didn't even know she was your girlfriend since you never introduced her, but congratulations!"
E: "You didn't get to see the ring I gave her."
A: "No, because you didn't tell me she was your fiance when I was standing right in front of you 2 minutes ago!"

This could be normal if it had been a while since I had seen him, but the detail I neglected to mention was that in late March, Eli was sitting with me in the Jane hotel asking to get back together with me and asking why we couldn't get married. His 30th birthday took place in late April...I will let the reader do the math on this one.

*aries*

Texts From Last Night

Aries: [4:55 AM] "It's 5 AM... please get home safe!!!!!"

Scorpio: [5:46 AM] "OMG just got in a cab, I'm so fucked!!"

Aries: [9:10 AM] "What happened? Haha. Waking up today is a bitch. I cannot believe we were so wild!"

Scorpio: "I didn't get home till six AM. I want to die a little bit. So. Much. Pain."

Aries: "Did you even sleep??"

Scorpio: "I wouldn't call it that-- I was trying to beat the sunrise so I wouldn't feel so freaking dirty"

Scorpio: "No such luck."

Aries: "Hahaha... well I guess you liked Wolf's friend, then??"

Scorpio: "I mean, I guess I liked him... I couldn't stop kissing him while we were standing outside 1Oak!! We basically made out on the street (classy) until 5:30! But I totally forgot his name and he got a little annoyed!"

Scorpio: "What happened with you and Wolf? There's something about 1Oak..."

Aries: "He was complaining the whole cab ride about being drunk and having to pee. Then he kissed me goodnight, nothing big. He said he would call me to go to dinner next week to talk about my past and what happened between us. He gave me a rose from one of those guys on the street. I just kept telling him he is trouble!"

Scorpio: "Haha, well at least he is taking you to dinner!! I am just walking in to work now... at 10 AM! So bad!"

Aries: "Umm, tell me again how I am even considering a guy named Wolf??"

Scorpio: "Shit, I just walked in to one of my coworkers crying on the phone with [our owner]. Today was not the day to be functioning on 1 hour sleep!!"

Scorpio: [11:52 AM] "Ok, crisis averted. Now to the important stuff: I kind of barely remember making out with that guy and have NO idea how we even met!! Do you know?"

Aries: "I introduced you! Haha. He was talking with Wolf and me, as they are good friends. Then we turned around and you two were all over each other. We just looked at each other in shock and started laughing, then I asked you if you were OK and you said "Oh yes, I am more than OK" and started making out with him again!"

Scorpio: "OMFG!! In 1Oak!?!? Or did we just make out outside?!"

Aries: "No, in 1Oak at the bar! And that guy that bought us drinks kept walking by looking at the two of you, which I found funny:)"

Scorpio: "I went from zero to slutty in two vodkas! This is why I stick to the bubbly!"

Scorpio: "I honestly still don't remember how we started-- but we stood outside kissing for like, an HOUR! and he was like, lets go home and just sleep and we'll have a proper English breakfast in the morning- cute, but No!"

Aries: "You wanted to go in the cab with me initially so Wolf and I waited for like, an hour! We both tried 3 times to separate you two. Last approach, you were smiling on his shoulder and told me he was telling you a story?? Hahahah"

Scorpio: "I can't believe you waited so long... So sweet. The sun was coming up when I got home!! So are you OK with Wolf now?"

Aries: "No idea... My ex was the same way, always charmed his way out of things, made me feel like I had the issue when he really was a manipulator, etc. I can't put him in the same box I guess, but I can't ignore the flags either"

Scorpio: "Yeah, I would say that's a good idea, to not ignore the flags... it's good you're aware. Maybe he's different, but he's gotta prove it:)"

*scorpio* & *aries*

Little do they know...

Saturday night found Aries & me on the deck of a new friend’s house, trying to beat the insufferable heat with champagne and skyline views. We’d met our new friends at SoHo House a few weeks prior and were enamored with their British accents and cheeky attitudes.

We arrived to find a few Eastern Bloc women and several utterly charming men, one of whom was having girlfriend problems. Being the patient (and slightly nosy) listener that I am, I settled in for a rehashing of the issue. Turns out, he’s been bankrolling his lovely live-in girlfriend for quite some time, and is practically choking at the bills his sweetheart manages to rack up. While he’s supremely successful, he naively gave her his credit card (no limit!) and was surprised when she tested it. She’s an out-of-work actress with a penchant for Pilates, semi-weekly horseback riding lessons, and a beauty regimen befitting a working actress. I give him the best advice I could: cut out one of her expenses and see how she how she reacts. I assure him he’ll find out everything he needs to know in the five minutes following.
(The Eastern Bloc woman wholeheartedly disagreed – her take was that women should have every expense handled for them…Once she realized her’s was not the popular opinion, she shuttled her friends & her fishnets out of the apartment.)

Aries had left to meet up with an old friend, and I soon found myself the single female sandwiched in between five men as we drove downtown to their nightclub, Juliet. One of the men I am seeing kept texting me, asking me to come to the movie premiere of his friend, but I was having too much fun. The guys were seriously entertaining and I was enjoying my little adventure.

The adventure quickly took a turn for the worse once inside. I had a couple sips of champagne before realizing that I felt truly horrible. I mentally calculated what I had eaten that day and realized, woefully, that my last meal was brunch in DC 12 hours prior. My new (and soon to be single) friend stood with me outside and tried to help me breathe. I realized that I couldn’t be saved, made excuses and apologies and walked away as elegantly as one can upon realizing that they are moments from vomiting. Not 10 steps later (though safely out of eyesight- whew) my suspicions were proven correct. Luckily, I managed to miss my Dolce & Gabbana pencil skirt.

I texted Aries, “OMG I just threw up!! Wish you were here☹” By the time she had written back 40 minutes later, I had pulled myself together (thank God for 24-hour Duane Reade) and was watching one of my dates DJ at Marquee. Obviously, I like him enough to put up with Marquee on a Saturday… or any day for that matter! He was thrilled to see me and kept saying how great I looked. It’s a testament to Laura Mercier that I still managed to look good after what I’d just been through.

She texted, “Are you ok??? It’s too late to go out now, but I can meet you if you are sick”

“Well, I totally threw up, as you know. Luckily it didn’t get on anything! Then I got a toothbrush & mouthwash & water, pulled myself together and told [#1 beau] I was coming. But he had left, so I met [#2 beau] and we hung out for an hour before I limped home… btw Wolf was asking about you”

“Haha! What a night! Wolf just called me and I really had nothing to say”

“Yeah there is nothing to say to him, he’s SUCH an ass!! Did he even try to apologize for his shockingly rude comments?”

“No, he thinks he is charming and fun”

“Little does he know…”

*scorpio*

A Day In Our Life

New York is said to be the city that never sleeps, and we take that quite literally. We average 5 hours on a good night, waking for an early morning run along the West Side Highway (and our daily dose of man candy). While running, we mentally sifting through our wardrobes to create the perfectly creative outfit that we know will be seen -and commented on- all day long.

Those outside of the fashion world take for granted that they can don a sensible knee length skirt and semi-coordinating top with a mid-heel and be on their way. We’re expected to be a walking mannequin of current trends: a perfect mirror of the brand. Our outfit planning takes serious brainpower & creativity (we rarely repeat an outfit per season), but that’s not even the half of it. We’re always dashing to the dermatologist (that skin isn’t going to peel itself!), manicurist (forestalling the horror of a chipped nail), or salon for our five-hour appointments (achieving the perfect blonde is a delicate art). We are held to such a high standard because we’re highly visible – we’re the first face that celebs and VIP’s see, as we represent very high-powered people. Everyone judges our appearance (Design swings by to check out our ensembles almost daily) and we hate to let them down.

We leave the 300-foot space we affectionately call home and strut down the streets while being verbally assaulted by construction workers, cabbies, trannies (only in the best neighborhoods) and God knows whom else as we head to the sweltering depths of the city’s Hades – also known as the subway. Deep underground, the homeless men and average perv’s eyeball the hem of our skirts. They stare with animalistic salivation to try and catch a glimpse of our breast in a gaping blouse or deep V as we attempt to sit without creating an unsightly wrinkle. There are moments when the male creature simply touches himself with a wink. Revolting. This is why we always enact the Triumvirate when dealing with the dredges of New York society: Sunglasses. iPod. Bitchface.

This mild form of torture comes to an end only to erupt into a sea of thousands, like a migration of cattle to the slaughter. Our two-avenue walk turns into an obstacle course of humans, cabs, potholes of steam, subway grates, coffee carts, and bike messengers. We stay focused on our iPod as our sunglasses act as a mental windshield... until the inevitable tourist stops to take a photo, or a jackass wearing kakis and a Blackberry holster cuts in front and stymies our strut.

Already tense enough to have a dirty martini and Xanex before 9:30am, we enter the sleek doors to our offices, nodding a hello to our fellow employees as we squeeze into the mirrored elevator. As we glide up to the top floors, we scroll through our Blackberry’s, steeling ourselves for what’s to come. We exit the elevator into an alternate universe of cream & gold. The morning starts with a roar, and by 2 pm we’ve likely solved several near-emergencies, learned (and kept) a juicy company secret, and maintained a perfect poker face through it all.

Our entire day belongs to the desires of others, and as long as they are happy, we are happy (or at least that smile is easier to fake). We prance around in four 1/2 inch heels trying to prove that we are perfect under the microscope for 10 hours with minimal food and zero downtime. Then we either have to squeeze in an hour at the gym or make a brief appearance at an event. Afterwards, we race home to restyle ourselves into an even more glamorous look and arrive 15 minutes late to our 9pm dinner, mostly consisting of cocktails (eating with models is never easy). We slip by the velvet rope and past the massive line to the hottest underground club. Hopping up on the couches, we dance with our table, who never allow our champagne glasses to empty. We mingle with those in our industry before limping out at 3 AM in our still-fabulous heels.

Our eyes glaze over through the windows of the cab, the city flashing by in a smear of lights and the cacophony of fellow revelers. We barely have a chance to remove our eye makeup before we stumble to bed… wincing as we set our alarms for another punishing night of four hours sleep.

But through the brain fog that only chronic sleep-deprivation can create, we know we're lucky to be living our life. We love our packed schedules and know that we wouldn't trade a minute of it. After all, we shudder to think what we may miss...

*aries* & *scorpio*

Pink Cadillac

People often ask my why I dress like an intimidating bitch. (I'm secretly a total sweetheart, but you couldn't tell from looking at me). You'll never find me in anything less than four inch heels, usually paired with a mini, a cape, or a massive necklace. My nailbeds ache a little without Lincoln Park After Dark. I'm ice-white blonde with pale-as-possible skin, and I rarely wear more than YSL liquid eyeliner and mascara.

I've created this look for a reason... It's my version of armor in this town. But, my friends kept pestering me to try some color and tone it down a bit... to 'look as nice as I am'. Blech. Yet, on Saturday night, I mollified the masses; stepping out in a pink silk button down dress with modest (shudder!) nude heels. I had scraped my hair into a ponytail & applied zero makeup.

Within the hour, I would vow to never listen to my well-meaning friends' advice again.


Not ten minutes into our walk from my apartment to a friends birthday, I hear a man yell out, "Hey, Pink Cadillac". My heart fills with dread and my friend moves closer to me. I can hear the man behind me, yelling comments about my body and following close behind. Mind you, I'm in a crowd of people on a Saturday night. I really would prefer for my physical characteristics to not be loudly announced as I navigate the crowd. It's kind of mortifying.

I start walking faster, and my friend lags behind to put some distance between me and the relentless airhorn. Then I realize, the man has picked up his pace as well. I start jogging, and I hear him yell out "Oh girl, shake that booty. I love it!" I turn about the same shade as my dress and break into a run, hoping to not excite him further. The man manages to keep up with me for a full two blocks-- pretty impressive for a presumably homeless guy-- but my years of training win out in the end.

My friend and I turn the corner, compose ourselves, and continue our walk to the bar, reflecting on the insanity we just endured. We decide to see the humor in it, and are laughing when we arrive at another friend's birthday. Birthday boy works for YSL, is seriously gorgeous, and obviously gay (as most men in our industry are). I've known him for a year, and I've brought along my oldest friend thinking they may hit it off. YSL, as I'll call him, scoops me up in a major hug when I arrive. He pulls his chair next to me and starts telling me about his ex, who's at the other side of the bar. He has a new boyfriend and YSL is upset. We chat a bit about our lives when I realize he has started caressing my legs. I laughingly tell him to stop. He then starts announcing to the whole bar how great he thinks my legs are (all the while still madly caressing them, alllll the way up and down). I'm getting seriously uncomfortable, but he's gay- right?

Things go downhill from there. My friend is obviously appalled as am I. I keep telling YSL to stop, but he remarks that he's drunk and this is how he is when he's drunk. He then starts grabbing my breasts and continues the barrage of body comments. The entire party is looking at me and I am- for the second time in twenty minutes- mortified. What is the protocol for telling your gay friend to stop molesting you in public? If he were straight, my answer would be clear-cut: slap him. But, he seems to think his sexual orientation gives him a free pass and I'm deeply confused...until he asks me to make out with him. Several times. I politely decline. He asks again, telling me that he knows it would be so hot. I see that the night is unsalvageable by this point and see myself out.


LESSON: When I 'dress like a sweetheart' I have the power to motivate the homeless to exercise, and turn gay men straight.

I much prefer BITCH.

*scorpio*

Inch By Inch

Men and magazines still seem to ask the age old question: "Does size really matter?" Women, however have been answering that question, just not to a small guy's face. Some say it is the "motion of the ocean" or "how they use it" that matters. I say if you can't tell that something is inside of you and the foreplay lacks excitement because you know the finale will fall short any and all expectations- then you might as well stay home, alone.



I was spoiled early on and didn't know small until I crossed paths with these three gentlemen:

I'm So Excited, Can't You Tell?

I somehow ended up dating the total opposite of my type. He was a “fashion photographer" who really somehow also worked in the porn website industry (to my credit, I did not find this out until much later). We dated for a few months, but were never intimate in any way, especially after I learned the horrible truth. With most men in my past, when they would become aroused I could see a shape begin to grow down their leg. It was like a mole tunnel popping up and running along the sand. So one day when Sam embraced me from behind, kissed my neck, and said "I'm so excited, can't you tell?" I swallowed and was suddenly caught off guard in silence. I just stood there wondering what was wrong because the answer screaming through my brain was "NO!!!” I reached my hand behind me and fumbled across his rough distressed denim like a blind man trying to find the right direction. Where was it?? I was concerned. Does he tuck it somewhere? He was telling me he is excited, but I couldn't see or feel anything! We moved to the bedroom and I unbuttoned his pants like an archeologist digging up fossils. I was cautious and inquisitive, then almost burst out laughing (nervous laughter as it clearly was not funny). I am not exaggerating in anyway that when fully hard, he could not have been more than 3 inches. At that point I had lost my 'hard on'. I was "suddenly just exhausted" and rolled over to sleep... though I did not fall asleep for hours.

The next day I was still trying to digest what I had just experienced when I get the phone call no woman wants to get and no man should ever make. It was Sam. He said that he was concerned because I didn't respond to "I'm so excited, can't you tell?" and wanted to know "Am I big enough for you?" I almost choked on the air at this whiny question. Words became scattered like those phrase magnets that some people keep on the refrigerator door. My silence only provoked him to go into the entire process of a penis enlargement operation, also called a penile enhancement, as he clearly has the brochure! He said that he had been looking into it for the past couple of years. I wanted to put the phone down, run outside, and fall to the ground laughing. Instead I stood there as stiff as wood, unable to even move my jaw. What man would ever say this to a woman he wants to be romantic with, especially to a size queen like me??!!

I couldn't say what I really thought as it would crush this man for life, so I tried the safest answer I knew: "It's your body, so that really has to be your decision to make". This time the silence came from his end. Apparently, the only acceptable answer to the question was "No baby, your size is perfect!”



The Flicker of a Switch

Again, I somehow ended up in a relationship with a man who is not my type (don't worry I have realized that this pattern usually springs from boredom) He was thin, pale, and a CPA. We had actually been dating for a while, but I can't seem to remember why... One night, I stayed over and was horrified when things became serious and it was revealed for the first time. I think I now know what a young boy's penis must look like. The thought still makes me nauseous to this day. Being a good sport, I tried to touch it, but I could only use the tips of my fingers (the best comparison would be gripping a Crayola marker). Yes, it was that thin and small!! I was curious to see what he could do with it. Well, I didn't know it really was possible, but I couldn't feel anything. I blocked most of the experience because it was so horrifying. It was like a child poking me. I really felt like something was terribly wrong and dirty about the whole experience. The next night, out of habit, I found myself at his apartment again. I can distinctively remember this image: I was lying on his old plaid comforter while he was in the bathroom. He had set the mood with candles around the room. I stared at the ceiling in the darkness when suddenly I focused on this shadow that was projected on the wall from the flicker of the bedside candle's flame. It was from a pencil that he kept in a cup on the bedside table. In the candle's shadow, it was magnified to look like this pointing thin penis shape that was making a poking motion as the flame danced around. Initially, I text a friend laughing about it, but then anxiety washed over me as I kept watching this thin shadow poke the wall. Realizing I could never face it again, I jumped up, told him I wasn't feeling well, and ended things the next day.



No Excuse

Bill was extremely tall, 6'7+, dark hair, and a little too "Charlie Brown" as one acquaintance pointed out. We had finally reached a level of intimacy where we would cuddle and watch movies on his bed. One night I decided to stay over, but still be prudish and stay fully clothed and just cuddle. Before I knew it he was taking off his pants, and then tightly whities as I playfully chose not to watch or be interested. I was able to sneak a peek with a sly smile on my face, as I imagined what it must look like considering his height and proportions. My smile quickly fell flat as I had to do a double take to make sure my eyes were not playing tricks on me. Hard he didn't even measure up to an average guy. It seemed to get lost on his large frame. My mind turned into one of those old TV shows when something was wrong and the red cop lights start flashing. I needed that emergency red phone or a bat signal to have someone rescue me from the moment. I couldn't think of anything to say. I suddenly felt trapped in his bed as I searched for any excuse to send me home. I couldn't think of anything but "I have to go home". He was in the heat of his own moment and I just ended it like a match to water. He was confused, I was bitchy, and the relationship dragged out for another week until he said I wasn't the one for him because I wasn't trying to make the relationship work. I looked at him with a smile and said "I'm sorry. Well I think I should go now, but I wish you the best!"



I still haven't found the polite way to say "Your penis is too small."



*aries*

Fragments

Three months since you’d last kissed me goodbye, pressing my mouth firmly, warmly, to yours. Your hand on the back of my head as if to ensure I wouldn’t disappear: before I watched you turn to walk away and felt, for the first time, my life without you in it.

One month since I’d knocked on your door, cold and bruised from an ice skating fall, and said only, “I couldn’t imagine spending my birthday without you.” After that, there were no words. Only fumbling and your warmth and the spicy-sweet scent of your skin.

Last night, in my cool blue room, the streetlight streaming across the white sheets, the lone candle flickering bedside; I undressed you. You came over, cold to the touch, but your eyes shined with warmth, love and pride. You had a surprise for me: The suit we’d picked out together, only a month before. I took as long as I could to unwrap you… the stiffness of your coat as it slid off your shoulders, the warmth of your chest radiating through the crisp white shirt. The cufflink surprise, “You shouldn’t have” at your wrists. I wanted to stay in those moments forever. I told myself to burn these images in my memory.

And then after, lying with you, the cool breeze from the frigid New York wind served as our only reminder of a world beyond our warm, safe haven. Casablanca plays on the TV as we remind each other of famous lines. Soon, I feel your breath slow on my chest, your nose burrows in my neck to soak up my scent. Grace Kelly comes back for her love, unable to bear the separation.

I know her pain.

***
Six months later, you’ll take a joy ride on a friends motorcycle one warm summer afternoon. You’ll speed down the street, impulsively revving the engine until you feel that familiar rush of adrenaline. The others are inside--there’s no one to watch you swerve to miss an animal, only to go barreling straight into a street sign.

Your body breaks with the impact: the right hip shatters, the right leg snaps furiously, the bones protrude through both your arms. You’re found in a ditch, your helmet 30 feet from the crash site. (You were never one for details).

I'm awoken by a phone call at 2 AM. You almost died, our friend said. You very nearly lost your leg. It will be months before you can get out of a wheelchair. You may never be the same. As I steel myself against the news, I realize, a part of me has always been waiting for this call.

I think of how we ended- with finality- just two months prior. And how much has changed since then. You feel so far away. I want to rush to your side: hold your head, reassure you, ‘save’ you from yet another disaster of your own design…but I won’t.
You don’t belong to me anymore.


I once called you broken. I now fear you forever will be.


*scorpio*

10 AM Terror

Every morning at 10 AM, I take two extra-strength Advils to ward off the splitting headache that I have learned soon follows Her arrival. She walks speedily around the corner and into my eyeline. Five-five and maybe 100 lbs with long raven hair, she dresses in the hobo-chic attire that is popular amongst the downtown set. Having only worked for her a few weeks, I already know that her diminutive stature belies a sharp and punishing intelligence.

“SMITH!”* she calls once she’s reached her office, just behind my desk. (She only calls me by my last name- like a football player or a frat boy). I rise and go to her doorway, awaiting my instructions. “Get me Pippa, Steven, Susan, Emily, Gia, Melissa, Amy,” she says, without looking up. I rush to my phone and call up to Footwear Design, hoping Pippa and Gia have arrived. Design typically starts their day later than the rest of the team, and 10 AM is cutting it close. If they’re not at their desks, I know it will be my fault.

While Pippa’s line is ringing, She continues to call out instructions to me. “I need a smoothie, and I want to see last week’s Top Ten,” she says just as Pippa picks up. “Yes, on it!” I shout, as Pippa waits on the line. “Pippa, She wants to see you, and bring Gia,” I say and quickly hang up. I have several more people to wrangle, a smoothie to order, and a Top Ten report I need to figure out in the next five minutes. I can already tell by the way She’s behaving that this meeting is going to be bad, and I want to avoid the probing questions that inevitably arise whenever someone is summoned abruptly to her office.

I spend the next few minutes rushing around our floor, summoning the others. I hate this part. Everyone looks at me like I am the merchant of death, cowering in their chairs and breathing a sigh of relief only when I pass. I am the second-most feared person in our division.

Once everyone’s informed and filing into her office, I rush downstairs to the local bodega. I’ve built a relationship with the employees there; they all know for whom I work. I eye Luis and make the signal for the large. She only likes one type of smoothie, and only Luis knows the recipe. It’s not listed on the board, and is called simply, “Her smoothie”. This is the most torturous part. The drink takes a full five minutes to create, five minutes that I never have, especially not today. I know that right now, she’s yelling at everyone in her office, and I know that she’s counting the minutes until I return. The longer I’m gone, the less I’m prepared for whatever curveball she’ll throw me as a result of the meeting. I need to be upstairs, hearing her through the closed door, anticipating what’s to come. And, I still need to figure out to which Top Ten report she was referring. I am new enough that most of what she says is over my head, and the previous assistant didn’t prepare me nearly as well as I’d like to be.

Finally, I return to her office, open the door and place the smoothie and her change on the desk. She doesn’t even glance at me, so consumed by her line of questioning. Pippa is the only one standing in her office; the others are sitting around her in a semi-circle, watching. I move to leave, but as I reach the door handle, She says, “Smith, I want you here for this.” I perch along her sideboard, notebook in hand, another audience member for her show.

Pippa is standing because She has asked her to. She is peppering her with questions, interrupting her before she finishes her response. It’s painful to watch, this public humiliation. Pippa has just been hired to design a line of footwear for the ‘contemporary, fashion-forward girl’ and from what I’ve heard, she’s quite talented. Unfortunately, she knows it, and She doesn’t take kindly to expertise, unless it’s her own.

The war of wills between them continues for a full half hour, and Pippa is mightily defensive. She is trying to get Pippa to admit that she doesn’t know what she’s doing when it comes to leather sourcing, but Pippa refuses to agree. The sideboard is too hard and too awkward a height for me to sit comfortably, and I find myself squirming, trying to find some padding for my already aching butt bones. I’m aware that I haven’t eaten yet and it’s nearing 11 AM. I will my stomach not to rumble.

Finally, Pippa grudgingly concedes a tiny point, and storms out of the office telling Her that she doesn’t have the time to continue this conversation any longer. I’ve never seen anyone stand up to Her like that, and I have to admit, I’m a little afraid for her. Regardless, I am relieved, thinking the meeting must be finished. I am wrong. For the next hour, She explains to her captive audience exactly what is wrong with Pippa. It’s almost a character attack, it’s so vitriolic. I find myself wondering why she asked me to be present for this, and what she says about all of us when we’re out of the room.

At noon, we are finally dismissed. I wobble to my desk, weak with hunger. She has barely touched her smoothie all meeting, and I wonder where in the hell she gets her energy. Just as I am about to grab my wallet and head to Pret, She comes up behind me.

“Where is that Top Ten report, Smith?”

I jump a little, and instantly hate myself for it. “I’m sorry, which do you mean?”

“You mean you don’t know what the Top Ten report is? How can you not know this? It’s vital that you understand the business, don’t you agree? Smith, you’ve really got to start focusing and applying yourself here if you want to be successful. This is not that hard. Elizabeth, come over here a minute.”

“Yes?” says Elizabeth, one of our Vice Presidents.

“Show Smith the Top Ten report”

Elizabeth goes to her office to print out the report while I stand there, dumbfounded. I know what the Top Ten report is, I only meant to ask from which department, handbags or footwear. I sense that it’s best to not correct Her when she’s in this mood, however, for fear of an even longer conversation. In the interest of eating as fast as possible, I wait for Elizabeth to return.

“Here it is.”

“Smith, does this look familiar to you?”

“Yes. So you wanted the handbag Top Ten report, not the footwear one?” I say, subtly conveying my point.

“Right,” she says, and turns to walk off.

Relieved, I rush downstairs to Pret and grab a salad, praying that no one will interrupt me until I’ve at least had a few bites at my desk...

***
I will manage to survive here; and under Her sometimes terrifying tutelage, I will even learn to thrive: I can now manage extreme stress, prove my points, garner respect, and survive solely on iced coffee, lettuce, and the odd nut.

A year and a half later, I left [MAJOR FASHION HOUSE] better, faster, stronger... and hungrier.

*scorpio*


*not my real last name- all names have been changed to protect the fashionable

A Dangerous Woman

Money has always been my problem.

If people actually had an Achilles heel, this would be mine. I live in one of the most expensive cities in the world. And I work in one of the most notoriously underpaid professions. I’ve wanted both of these things, desperately, since I was a little girl, but I never really got around to figuring out how it would exactly work out…

I just know that ever since my father took me to New York City at the age of 15, I found exactly what I wanted. And I’m the type of girl who goes after what she wants.

Dad booked a room at a chain hotel in the center of Times Square, with floor to ceiling windows. I would stand at those windows in the middle of the night, wedged in between the curtains and the glass and feel the coolness of the city on my face. Looking down, I would imagine the lives of the people so far below me, living every day in this pulsing, magic town. But most of all, I would look across the windows, to the office buildings. I’d find the lights that were still on, and I’d search for the tiny workers, hunched over their laptops; anonymous cubes of light in this grid of a town, with the whole world swirling around them… and I’d tell myself that someday I would be that lucky.

The next day, awaking to the sounds of taxicabs blaring, I put on two pair of pants and the warmest hat I owned, and set out on what I imagined would be a great adventure. New York was achingly cold and I was unprepared, having lived in Arizona most of my life. I remember my head feeling as if it would split open from one more gust of punishing air whipping around the buildings. I couldn’t find the sun anywhere, and every building looked the same. It felt as if the city was folding in on me. Dad and I stopped in the nearest shop to warm up, and while he made a phone call, I wandered around.

We were in one of the quietest stores I had ever seen. Wood hangers were spaced apart at two-inch intervals. A heavy round table held squares of cashmere sweaters. A lithe mannequin showed me what was possible. I felt as if I was somewhere I should not be, like in my mother’s closet at home. I snuck around while Dad spoke to his colleague, following the oak staircase to the second level, eveningwear.

I will never forget this dress. Black silk, cut along the bias, with the thinnest silk straps I had ever seen. It was practically backless and floor-length and I longed to wear it. I longed to be the woman who could wear it. Dad waited as I took it into the dressing room. My hands trembled a bit as I examined the dress up close. The material was so fine, the stitching so perfect, I knew I would never look at my clothes the same way again. This is what ‘clothing’ meant. This was Plato’s perfect dress.

I inhaled and lifted the slinky straps from the hanger. Carefully, carefully, I lifted it over my head and wove my arms through the straps. I held it up for a second, and then… whoosh. I heard the silk settle to my feet. I opened my eyes. Exhaled. In those moments, tracing the silk over my coltish figure, watching it drape down the curve of my back, I no longer was the too-tall girl that boys somehow still missed whenever a slow song came on. I realized my full potential. I was a woman. And not just any woman- I was a dangerous woman. I saw my future life: with this dress, I could do anything.

This kind of thinking, of course, was to be my downfall.

*scorpio*