Both during college and for the two years after I graduated, I put in some time working at a midtown construction company. I wound up quitting for a variety of reasons, including ridiculous invasions of my personal life and a band of women with a vendetta against me. But through pain comes payoff, since I walked away with a handful of amazing stories. Which is always a plus, but even more so when they are about the very same things that led you to quit. I managed to find a new job, working as an office manager for a marketing firm, also in midtown. My job title may have been office manager, but the only thing I had to manage was my mental health thanks to my boss. Or better know to mankind as Satan Incarnated, founder and CEO. I didn't so much as “work” there, as I was more of a “slave” to my boss, who practically got off on making people cry. I know, I know, we all have horror stories from our places of employ, but that’s not what this story is about. This is about the actual single funny moment that I had happened to experience in the short two months I lasted there before I was fired. So, this marketing firm / my new hell, was the polar opposite from the construction company in terms of size; I went from working at a 500+ employee, six-billion-dollar a year corporation to a 12-person, 3-year old private business. So naturally, along with the supplies budget, the office size was correspondingly smaller. Most relevant to know for this story was that my new job locale was snuggled into a single, 5-room suite in a floor with other firms, and all the suites shared a community bathroom. The bathrooms were located all the way on the opposite end of the hallway, past the elevators and other suites. I actually didn’t mind it as much as I thought I would. It at least gave me the chance to escape the never-blinking Sauron-type eye of boss that seemed to stretch even into the elevators when I was heading home.
I was walking back through the empty hallway one day, back from the bathroom. It happened to me one of my better-looking days (rare as they are in the humid summer months.) I was looking all cute in my short flowing summer dress and hot heels. So, obviously, I switched into Fierce Mode, complete with club music thumping in my head and me sashaying like all the world was my catwalk. Then, as if from an echo-y distance, I head the men’s bathroom door open and shut from behind me, causing the DJ’s record to come to a scratching halt. I quickly came crashing back down into my fluorescent-lit reality, and without turning around I reverted to walking like a normal person back to my office. It wasn’t until I sat down and felt the cool leather of my desk chair hit my bare ass that I realized my dress had been tucked very neatly into my thong underwear.
Honestly, this didn’t immediately strike me as that big of a deal. In fact my initial reaction was laughter. Like my friends always say, this sort of thing always happens to me, so I’m used to it and wasn’t even terribly surprised by this latest event. But then it dawned on me: this wasn’t some private moment of hilarity. The replay of my walk back to the office started up in my mind and I remembered the men’s bathroom door. Oh crap. Some guy had just gotten a free show and I had no idea who it was, or which office he blonged to, or if he even worked in an office in the building at all. He could’ve been a janitor, a delivery guy, a caterer, who the hell knows. For the next two days, I became a walking tomato with legs. No matter where I was- the lobby, elevator, my floor- I would turn bright red and avert my eyes at the sight of every guy I saw.
Later that same week, however, I was walking down the hall, once again, to use the bathroom. When I opened my office door I saw a bunch of the law guys standing around outside their office, which was next door to ours. The only reason I could’ve been happy to see them, and not feel my stomach lurch upon discovering their presence, was the “Hot Guy” who worked there. I would occasionally catch glimpses of him, like a unicorn or other beautiful mythical beast, entering/leaving the office. I found myself praying we would serendipitously find ourselves sharing an elevator ride one day. But alas, this was not that day, as he was nowhere to be found. All to be seen blocking my pathway to the ladies room was this sad bunch of nerdy-looking miscreants standing around talking, and who knows, playing hackey-sack. I was still feeling incredibly awkward and self-concious, even minus-Hot Guy, because in the back of my mind all I was thinking about was the thong/ass-showing incident (I had never figured out who was walking behind me.) Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I tried to walk past them as quickly as possible without being noticed, even going so far as to practically suck my stomach in as I inched my way around their sewing circle. My attempts proved futile as this clearly didn’t make me invisible, especially when one of the guys stopped me. He said, “Hi! Listen, I know I look like shit; I haven’t slept in 36 hours. But you! You are gorgeous, I mean… wow!” I felt ill. I don’t dislike getting compliments but why do they always have to come from guys like this? He was like Fred Flinstone in a suit, with blonde hair and blue eyes. His huge lantern-jaw was only more obvious thanks to his odd way of talking like he had marbles and too much spit in his mouth.
Since that time of my life, I’ve become a hostess at a nightclub and have learned to deal with these sorts of situations. Namely, the incredibly unattractive men who seem to think I will not only interested but a proud recipient of their lines and other assorted hit-on attempts. I’ve grown up a bit too, so when I find myself in these painfully awkward and potentially horrendous moments I don’t freak out about turning them down, or being truthful and upfront. For instance, two years ago I may have even given him my number just to get out of there but then never answer his calls. Had I met him today it would have ended very differently. I would’ve agreed with him that yes, you look like a hot mess and I would never give you my number in a million years. Because let’s be honest here; I would never want to ride what you’ve got and I have zero curiosity in finding out what magic that giant jaw could work on my lady parts.
Sadly, back then I was not able to voice these thoughts which unfortunately stayed within the confines of my brain. So instead of being rude (honest?) to him to get him to leave me alone, I said, “Well, thanks, excuse me though…” I tried to continue down the hallway as if I was in a rush, but he stopped me again and wouldn’t stop talking to me so I patiently made small talk and pretended to be fascinated by what he had to say. My interest, already at zero, was rapidly hitting the negative quadruple digits but then I came rushing to the surface when I heard him utter, “I saw you a couple of days ago,” (oh noooo) “Right here in this hallway actually; but you were walking ahead of me and I didn’t get a chance to say anything. You were wearing a great blue dress though.” Oh mother of god. Why? Just… why, of all the men on this earth, was he the one to see me? To see my ass? Why him, and not The Hot Guy? Is it my fate to have these types of men, with comb-overs in their 30's, see me at my best while hot guys always seem to see me at my worst? It’s times like these that make me convinced I am destined to wind up with a man I don’t really want to be with, a man like this, named Dwayne and from goddamn New Jersey. Dwayne? Really? Are we in 1993 Oklahoma? If we went out on a date, you’d probably show up in acid wash Jordache jeans and sneakers that strap shut with velcro.
My only consolation here was that the mystery as to who had seen my bare booty was finally solved, however unhappy the result that closed the case was. He even got to shake my hand. Although I never did let him take me out, at least I felt good about knowing that my bare ass, even under fluorescent lighting, is considered gorgeous.
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