What Was I Thinking? (3 page)

Once I’d received
that
lovely news, I was dismissed to go to work. Of course Pete was
waiting in my cube to start planning right away. It was going to be fun! It was
going to be exciting! We were going to be buddies! We were going to be stars!
Probably one of the local morning shows would do a feature on us, and we would
do the skit on the show, and a movie director would just happen to be staying
in a hotel downtown and would just happen to see it, and, and, and. Oh, my
aching head.

Although, looking at the bright side, my gut
had stopped knotting up. A headache was an improvement. And Pete might be
annoying sometimes, but I did like him. He was basically well-meaning and
friendly, as well as smart and hard working. At least he wasn’t some
sleazoid
who would be hitting on me
relentlessly. He hadn’t even been sitting in my chair while he waited. He was a
nice guy.

On the other hand, I wasn’t in the mood to look
at the bright side. My strict discipline of looking for the bright side in
everything was just getting on my nerves with everything else today. Mom would
say that this whole thing happened because I had left off remembering the
bright side at the reception last night, and then looked only at the dark for
the rest of the night. Well, Mom could just get out of my head. I’d had it with
ignoring problems.
Time to look reality in the face.

Reality said that Campbell had good reason to
be pleased that I’d screwed myself out of any room for complaints. This was
not
remotely in my job description. Even
allowing for the fact that I a mid-level functionary in marketing instead of a
working chemist, perfume girl duties were way out of scope.
TAPI
should have had to hire a model.

But that would cost money, and I was already in
the budget. And, heaven help me, I had long, thick, curly hair that lent itself
perfectly to a Gibson Girl hairstyle, that puffy upsweep pinched into a small
bun at the crown, kind of like an old-fashioned ottoman puckering toward the
button in the middle. A model was unlikely to have hair like that. No, along
with the perfect size zero body and the perfect
cheekbones,
she would have perfect, straight hair.

See, I said
you were more beautiful than any silly model. And that your hair is wonderful.
“Shut up, Mom. I kicked you out
of my head, remember?” Oh, tell me I hadn’t said that out loud. A quick look
after Pete reassured me. He was on the way back to his own desk, chatting with
someone four cubes down.

I sat down and got to work. I had a lot of
projects to square away before I would feel right about handing them off. At
least the new project didn’t start until tomorrow. There I went again, looking at
the bright side. I shook my head and wiggled the mouse to wake up my computer.

I got through that day and the next one, but
that was as close to a bright side as I could get. Pete was a nice guy, but he
was really annoying. Wednesday was the start of the Gibson Girl project in
earnest, and we spent it together. Even lunch was shared with the whole project
team, so we could “bond.”
Urgh.
The evenings I spent
alone, pacing, feeling lonely,
trying
to figure out
how to fix my life. I didn’t like
anything
about it.

Well, scratch that. I did like St. Louis. I
definitely didn’t need to find a new town. And I was glad I had gone to Wash
U., out there in the green suburbs between University City and Clayton. It was
nice there.
Quiet, slow-paced.
Populated with smart
people who were committed to doing work they cared about. Too bad I couldn’t
afford to be a full-time student. I would like that. But I couldn’t even think
about going back to school until I’d paid off the current batch of loans.

At least it would be nice to visit Bert at his
lab on campus for lunch. Although why a consulting historian had a lab…well, I
would ask over lunch. While I was at it, I would ask what a daily was and why
one would make lunch for us.

Thursday made Tuesday and Wednesday look like
good days. I got up at the usual time—at least I thought I did—but I got out of
the house fifteen minutes late. Sometimes the time just disappears. I can’t
think of anything I did that took longer than usual, but somehow, it was late
when I left.
Which put me in the worst of the rush hour,
hunched over the wheel and grousing about traffic like everyone else, as if
that could make a difference.

There was a wreck up ahead. I took a detour to
get around it, and wound up just as stuck as I had been, along with everyone
else who tried a shortcut. We all clogged up the neighborhood streets and
ruined everyone’s morning. Things started to open up. I pushed it to a
thrilling thirty miles an hour and relaxed a little.

Then I heard a ping from the dashboard. I looked
down. It was the low fuel warning. I had to find a gas station within a couple
miles or I was screwed. And I was in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I knew
generally where I was, and had no fear that I wouldn’t find my way to work, but
I didn’t know where the closest gas station was, or whether it would be better
to press on this direction or make my way back to the freeway. What to do, what
to do? If I got much closer to downtown, I would have to turn around. There
just weren’t any gas stations close in. Real estate was too expensive, I
expect.

I recognized Lindell after I was almost in the
intersection, and yanked into a turn, pissing off a number of drivers in all
directions. They were right. I was a jerk. But the pinging was constant now,
and I knew there was a BP station on the next corner.

I think I cruised to the pump on the last
teaspoon of gas in my tank. My ten-gallon tank took eleven gallons as I stood
there in the sweaty morning, pumping my own gas. I hear there are no
self-service stations in New Jersey. Maybe I should move. I hear there was a
time when all gas stations had attendants to pump the gas, and women couldn’t
be gas station attendants because it was too dirty and difficult. Maybe
equality wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

I was now seriously late, with my hair frizzing
from the humidity, and perspiration tickling all kinds of uncomfortable places.
To think I used to consider myself a
capable,
polished
businesswoman. Now everything frazzled me.

When I walked through the beautiful marble lobby
of
TAPI
cosmetics, looking like a
“before” picture, I was a full forty-five minutes late. No sense trying to rush
for the elevator. A little speed now wasn’t going to fix anything. Of course
Campbell was waiting for the elevator as I stepped off. Not waiting for me,
thank heavens.
Just waiting to go somewhere.
Just
happened to be right there when I walked in ridiculously late and looking a
mess. I smiled weakly and said good morning. He answered without much
expression. I guess he didn’t expect much of me anyway.

I felt as if everyone were staring as I
threaded through the cubicle maze to my own, but of course that was just
paranoia. On my best day, I didn’t have the looks for the marketing department
of a cosmetics company, and this was not my best day. Don’t get me wrong—I’m
not ugly, and I don’t imagine that I am. I’m also not particularly hung up on
looks. But peer pressure never ends, and marketers are the pretty people in any
company. In a cosmetics company, the standards of “pretty” are high—and conventional.

In the larger world, there may be many types of
beauty and women can be admired for striking looks, animation, an athletic
build, personal style, or, oh, maybe thick, curly hair, for example. In a
cosmetics company, beauty equals this year’s cover models. Tiny nose, plush
lips, high cheekbones, straight, blonde hair, and slimness just this side of
anorexic. And anyone who thinks “curvy” is anything but code for “fat” is just
out of it.
Which is a pity, because I
am
curvy, and not fat.
I have what used to be considered an
almost perfect figure—not quite that legendary “perfect 36” of 36-26-36, but
not very far off. And my curves are not ripples in my belly or thighs, thank
you very much.

I work really hard at holding onto my sense of
self, but the junior-high mentality is hard to fight. I guess that’s obvious
from the fact that I’m describing and defending my figure. On a day like this,
when my resistance was low anyway, I just wanted to slink to the library and
hide among the science fiction books in the back with my nerdy friends. Too bad
I didn’t have any nerdy friends or any books here in beauty hell.

Okay, I needed to get a grip before I burst
into tears. I could tough it out one more day. Some people were nice. Most
people were just indifferent. And my work—including the silly project—was just
work
, not who I was. I would put on a good face, work hard,
and leave it behind at the end of the day. Okay.
Onward.

I was finally in my little cube, with earphones
on to block the chatter and my email booted up, and I felt a little better. As
usual, I had no voicemails, so as soon as I confirmed that there were no
emergencies lurking in email I could go to the ladies’ room and tidy up a
little, drop by the break room and get an ice-cold Diet Coke, and then I’d
settle in at the desk and get a grip. When I left yesterday, my calendar had
looked pretty solid with meetings, but I thought I still had 90 minutes or so
clear.

Email made me smile. The first message was an
extremely formal note from Bert, confirming our lunch and giving directions to
his “laboratory.” It didn’t seem to be exactly on campus, though it would be
near it. If memory served, that particular block of Forsyth would be very close
to the row of university-owned mainly mansions built around the time the
university was. They were used for the alumni association, various student
organizations, faculty club, and so forth.
Very gracious.
It would be odd to have a lab there. Oh well, I would see when I got there. It
should be easy to find. Just in case, I copied the phone number he had provided
into my phone.

The rest of the inbox was innocuous. Hardly
anything was even annoying. I implemented my plan—we marketers do that—and by
my first meeting, I was calm, caffeinated, and once again well-groomed. Nothing
short of a professional blow-out would truly calm my hair after the morning it
had had, but I had managed to brush and pin it into submission, and it looked
more like a curly hairstyle and less like an overused Brillo pad.

The meeting was the regularly scheduled
“all-hands” meeting, with the extra treat of the formal launch of the Gibson
Girl project. Management was communicating with the staff to make us all feel
included and empowered. It was boring, as always. There were lots of PowerPoint
presentations about goals and swim lanes and KRAs. None of it had anything to
do with me, and probably some of it was untrue. I focused on not fidgeting and
looking rapt.

Oops!
Should have been paying
attention for real.
Beth elbowed me as Campbell’s direct boss took the
podium to explain the winning marketing campaign, whispering “doesn’t
anybody
remember how disastrous this
approach was for Virginia Slims?”

I looked at her blankly, and she shook her
head. “Tell you later,” she mouthed, just as Campbell began sharing the glory
by asking his team up to the stage. Pete was beaming. Frank, Janice, and Molly,
who were working on the scripts and props, all looked proud and humble. I tried
for pleasant. Campbell explained the idea of the little skits in the department
stores, with Pete and me in costume.

“Addie will be our Gibson Girl. You can tell
she’s got the hair for it…” I gave a thin smile. After all, it wasn’t the worst
crack my hair had brought over the years “…and, of course, the figure.” He
sketched an hourglass in the air in front of me and winked. I stared at him,
flummoxed and humiliated as the audience variously laughed, snickered, giggled
with nerves, or gasped. I had heard of behavior like that, but I never really
believed it. I always thought the stories of harassment were exaggerations, or
at least ancient history.

To be fair, he hadn’t touched me, but what he
said…what he did…in front of the whole staff at headquarters, was so completely
inappropriate and offensive that I just stood, frozen in place and feeling heat
and shame prickle over my face and neck and arms with an intensity that was
painful. That was another thing I’d thought was overstatement, too. Heaven knew
I’d always reddened easily, whether from embarrassment or anger, but that stuff
about feeling it…so that was true, too.

Pete knew how to react, though. He stepped
forward and took my arm like an old-fashioned gentleman.
“Sir!
I’ll ask you not to accost my wife!” he said, squeezing my arm a little. “No
gentleman would speak so boldly. Must I call you out?”

The audience tittered, and Campbell let it go.
“Pete, as you can see, is playing the husband…” and the presentation dragged
on. I stood there feeling humiliated, and foolish for feeling humiliated, and
weak and stupid for feeling foolish, but very grateful to Pete. He had stepped
right up and stopped Campbell without making it worse. All my thoughts and
feelings must have been nearly instantaneous, because there was barely a hitch
in the flow of the presentation.

I was very glad for the comfort of his arm
through mine. It felt like a million years since my last human contact. I clung
to his arm and just let Pete nudge me through the performance with whispered
cues.