Testify!: Chronicles of a Working Girl

By MD L

A sometimes irreverent, funny, and dramatic perspective of the journey of one young professional adapting and navigating office politics and the work-force, this literary dramedy is an emotional roller coaster.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682224779

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Bibliography

Prologue: Manic Melancholy

I’m sitting here alone in my room when I should be at work, the bright sunlight straining to peek between the vertical blinds and fill me with at least one shining moment in my day. I’m unprepared for the imposing hope of my eternally optimistic nature as my whole being is drowning in stress and uncertainty. With panic filling my heart, I’m forced to remind myself to take a deep breath. Riddled with confusion, I’m struggling to understand how I got to this point.

I’m thirty-two and unemployed, a status that only became current less than an hour ago. Despite the problematic equation of how I’m going to meet any of my financial obligations, I can’t help dwelling on the emotional trauma of being fired, and the biggest question of all, why?

Struggling to grasp any iota of understanding, I replay the events of the day.

I arrived three minutes prior to my scheduled start, plenty of time to turn my computer on and pull any project files I needed to work on for the day. I moved to turn on both of the table lamps so as not to trigger a migraine with the fluorescent overheads. As I walked to the corner of my office to grab a few notes and a couple project binders, I noticed a carton of coconut water. Not mine. Although I’m aware of the benefits, I’m not a regular partaker unlike my now former supervisor. I picked up the carton and walked across the hall to his office.

There he was in all his male pret-a-porter perfection, chatting on the phone, Jackson Burlingame. I quietly set the carton on his desk while attempting to quickly ascertain the topic of the conversation. I immediately realized he was speaking with the consulting Project Manager, Greg, for one of the contracts I’m managing regarding necessary contract language for proper wage rate determinations and what additions and omissions should be considered for pending amendments to the current contract. Then they briefly discussed the second public notice for bid solicitation.

At this point I took the liberty of sitting across from him to absorb the remainder of the conversation. Throughout my listening session I drew myself confused at some of the information Mr. Burlingame was relaying to Greg. It seemed to contradict anything he’d ever said in private discussions with me, or in any email exchanges. Regardless, his points mentioned in the current phone call were the very arguments I’d been making to him for the past two weeks – whenever he was actually acknowledging my existence – so I was happy to just take my win in quiet stride.

When Jackson hung up the phone I pressed for a recap of the conversation, hoping to fill in any gaps I’d missed previous to my entrance. He didn’t offer any new information and thanked me for returning his coconut water. I updated him on where I was at with a few of my other contracts and returned to my desk to field my pending swarm of emails and handful of voicemails.

The rest of the day was fairly typical, holding question and answer sessions with a couple organizations regarding their contracts with the city, and assisting one individual with a serious fair housing complaint against a multi-family housing developer.

A couple hours before my day was set to wrap up I added a project into the U.S. Community Revitalization Department’s project reporting system for a recently executed contract and processed three reimbursement requests for two contracts. As I walked the check requisition forms next door to the office of Margaret Ames for approval, the community services manager was yammering on the phone to some housing rehab client threatening our rehab coordinator’s job. It was par for the course for Margaret to handle the complaining birds when it came to housing rehab. Although Jackson was the supervisor of Dan, the rehab coordinator, Jackson’s inability to come off as sympathetic to anyone was only trumped by those unwilling to listen to him in his shabby attempt to do so. As a result, all of these issues ultimately rested on the lap of Margaret to deal with. At least she was good at something other than shopping at the mall for hours on end while working. I still wondered how she managed to fool so many into thinking she was the one making things happen in our office when it was really Jackson that should’ve been considered the brain trust if it was going to be anyone. Margaret spotted me sliding the requisition forms into the wall file outside her door; she covered her receiver with her left hand, and whispered that she needed to speak with me when she was done with her call. I nodded and said I’d be in my office whenever she was ready, and as I turned to go back to my office I made eye contact with Jackson as he was making his way toward the conference room for a meeting with our rehab coordinator and a client. His smile was forced and pinched at best, void of even an ounce of warmth or sincerity in his eyes.

I’d had a nagging feeling for the past couple days and it had just intensified. The suspicion was blanketing me with the impression things just weren’t right. I began thinking that perhaps in this instance no news really had been good news. Ignorance was bliss despite the sense of impending doom.

I heard Margaret wrapping up her phone call and my heart quickened, my breaths shortened. I could hear her get up from her chair, her quiet footsteps muffled by the carpeted floor as she made her way closer to my door. When she arrived at my door she had a cordial enough smile as she asked me to join her for a meeting at Silverton City Hall. I quickly nodded in agreement, and she mentioned I should grab my stuff as she was allowing me to leave for the day when the meeting was finished. My suspicions had evaded me for the quickest of moments as I obliviously thought to myself that I just needed to grab the necessities. Because although I’d been excused for the day, I was fully intending on returning to the office to wrap up the tasks I’d been working on. I grabbed my bag and I was swiftly out the door to meet Margaret in the parking lot. She explained that we could drive over separately since we were both going home immediately after. I nodded once again and my suspicions returned as I looked back at the door I’d just come out from while thinking I really should’ve grabbed more of my stuff.

I parked near the entrance of city hall, and as I got out of my car my legs felt numb, almost as if my whole body was rejecting the need to feel itself while going through this loathsome experience. Margaret greeted me and we walked inside the building as she attempted to make polite, yet forced conversation with me. I felt like my heart was beating out of my chest and I had to keep reminding myself to stay calm. When we arrived at Margaret’s boss’s office and her assistant announced us, my legs went from numb to jelly as I felt they would buckle underneath me at any moment. I followed behind Margaret into Marsha’s office. I was invited to take a seat and noticed a woman I hadn’t seen before take the seat to my left. Marsha introduced her to me as Sharon from Human Resources. And there it was. As I’d been pleading my doom and gloom theory to Lala for the past week, she was persistent in telling me it was all in my head. It was in my head because it was actually happening, unless it was some sort of sick, self-fulfilling prophecy. I reminded myself to remain present. Clearly I’d have plenty of time ahead of me soon enough to overanalyze everything.

Marsha continued on by explaining to me that the city had lost all confidence in my ability to perform my job successfully, and I was being relieved of my duties. This was to be my last day with the City of Silverton. I made my best attempt to refute her listed reasons for my dismissal, but I soon realized my efforts were futile as she further explained that the decision was final, and I had no option for appeal to the personnel board. I was resigned to any further protest on my behalf to wrestle my job back. I thanked Marsha for her professionalism and I set my eyes on Margaret.

While holding back tears and straining to keep my voice from cracking with emotion, I thanked her for the opportunity to work there, and for all the valuable learning experiences the employment had afforded me. It was the truth. I had learned so much. Maybe not in the way of grant or contract management, but I’d certainly learned plenty about the negative tendencies of insecure human behavior. Margaret thanked me for my service and wished me well.

I walked away feeling slightly shattered and in need of rescuing, but I kept my head held high. Despite having a smorgasbord of foul thoughts, I kept it classy and kept the wretched and poisonous words I had in my mind locked away.

I slipped into my car and drove home. I don’t even remember the drive. It was as if I were on autopilot. Thankfully, I arrived safely home through a veil of teary eyes. Crawling into my bed, I let all of the emotion free to run its course, morphing from sheer sadness, disappointment, and confusion to slight clarity, frustration, indignation, and a yearning for justice.

I was wronged and drowned in a sea of betrayal by someone I thought was my really good friend for the last three years. I was left with no opportunity for closure, or to even plead my case by the city. I was not a vengeful or vindictive person, but I’d been a doormat for too long. I was sick of being the bigger person and it only resulting in being someone’s psychological punching bag just because they had a bad day or sought to further their own agenda by effectually taking away everything I’ve worked for.

Thinking back on the week as a whole it all seems to make a bit more sense, but I still have the nagging question of why taunting me because I don’t have the full picture. Not yet anyway.

It’s settled. They’re going to be sorry they even suspected me an easy target. I will be my own advocate. I am going to remain humble but still let these jerks know.

Jail Bait

My first job was as a child model. I was twelve and answered an open call for a children’s all natural hair care line. It resulted in a nationwide print ad and snowballed into occasional modeling gigs for me for the next four years, including my first magazine cover at thirteen. The jobs were mostly editorial and commercial print, often ranging from covers of parent, child, and teen magazines to fashion print ads for swim and footwear. Toward the end of my modeling career I was frequently cast in a pseudo-sexy role. It was odd being cast in a sexy role because I looked in the mirror and still saw the young girl I truly was. I certainly behaved like a proper teenager and hardly a sexpot. I couldn’t even recognize myself most of the time on modeling jobs, let alone be recognizable to my family and friends.

When I was fourteen I did a swimwear photo shoot on a beach in Mexico. When the ad was published, my mom had a copy of it lying on the kitchen table. As my brother walked by he stared at the ad and exclaimed, Who’s that girl?! She’s really pretty! I studied his face to confirm he wasn’t making some lame attempt to tease me and my mom did the same. When she realized he was none the wiser to the identity of the girl staring back at him, she casually said, That’s your sister. I don’t think he would’ve believed it unless she had said it. He shook his head while walking away, but first glanced at me and said, That can’t be you. I guess his conscientious putdown was his way of emphasizing the hilarity of his refusal to recognize the maturing of his kid sister and negate any lingering awkwardness.

Of all the shoots I did, the most memorable was one I did with my little sister for the cover of a national parenting magazine. I showed up at the fitting the day before with several other children selected. I had my mom and little sister in tow, and the photographer took one look at my sister’s doll-like features and just had to have her for the shoot too. We were fitted for our costumes for the western-themed cover, did a quick test shoot, and went home. I was actually really excited to share a cover with my sister and show my special little four-year-old sibling the modeling ropes. That night my parents sent my sister and I to bed extra early so we’d be well rested for our early call time and our eminent close-up.

When we woke up the next morning my mom had a raging headache she was desperately trying to nurse before playing mom-ager for the day. I walked into the kitchen to grab some breakfast and stopped dead in my tracks. My dad was trying to do the decent thing by trimming my sister’s bangs because he knew my mom had wanted to, but she clearly wasn’t up for the task, and he didn’t want it to go undone. Unfortunately for my sister, my dad was less successful channeling his inner Vidal Sassoon and hacked away at my sister’s bangs with the enthusiasm of a novice beauty school student. His wrists twisting as he strained to get the angle just right. His eyes narrowed, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he concentrated fiercely on doing his part to make my sister picture perfect. I gave him an A for effort, but her new style was an apparent fail. Her bangs slanted harshly to one side, and at their shortest were only an inch from her hairline. I continued on my way and grabbed my cereal. Before entering the hallway from the living room I made a quick suggestion. If mom’s headache is gone, you may want her to take a look at the haircut you just did. If mom still has her headache it’s about to get worse. My dad responded proudly, If she still has a headache it’s going to go away when she sees that I crossed this off her to-do list. Did I mention my dad can be quite the optimist?

My mom eventually emerged from her room minus any temporary ailments and saw my sister. A forlorn look clouded her face as she turned to the clock and realized we had to leave in five minutes. Without another pause she asked my dad to hand over the scissors and told my sister to take a seat. After a couple short minutes, my sister no longer looked like she had a black isosceles triangle stuck to her forehead, but her hairline did appear to be so far back that she might be eighty years older with one too many facelifts and a preternaturally preserved complexion. My mom sighed as she added the final touches, like putting lipstick on a pig at that point, except my sister was still an insanely adorable piglet. We made our way to the car and we were off to the shoot.

The whole thing went off without a hitch except when the photographer asked for my sister to smile. He was so bowled over by her porcelain face and flawless bone structure the day before that he didn’t bother to ask to view any pictures of her. My sister always had this smile that was anything but natural. It looked like she was in pain – or constipated – with the corners of her mouth slightly turned down while only her bottom teeth were bared. Not a good look for a magazine cover. I could tell the photographer was losing faith in her participation and debating whether or not to keep her in the shot that he was now convincing himself she was ruining, so he called for a break.

It was then that I seized the moment to give the little squirt a pep talk. I immediately asked my sister to tell me a funny story. She began recounting the storyline from the last cartoon she’d watched that very morning and began laughing. It was as if the stars aligned. The photographer looked over just then and realized she was capable of laughing with a perfectly shaped bow smile beaming brightly for all to see, and he called for the rest of the kids to get back in their places right away while lightening was striking.

My sister noticed the change in atmosphere and began to clam up again. I could see the photographer’s frustration surfacing once again but at an accelerated pace. I leaned down next to my sister and asked her to think about the funny story she told me. She broke a smile, but it wasn’t enough as the photographer audibly sighed. Then I decided to go for broke. I told my sister to tell the photographer what had happened in the cartoon earlier that morning. A huge smile crept across her face and set up camp for the rest of the shoot. The photographer was ecstatic and the remainder of the shoot went perfect.

The cover was published a couple months later and my parents snagged several copies. The picture was flawless, and everyone that saw it swore my sister’s bangs weren’t that obvious, but they were obvious to our family because we knew the effort that went into making them something slightly presentable. To this day it’s still something that we like to tease my sister about every now and then. Every kid has at least one terrible haircut, but I don’t know of any that have had it immortalized on a national magazine cover. Glad it wasn’t me!

When I was fifteen I was booked for a swimwear shoot in Mexico. I was really excited and thought it would be a great opportunity to show more range in my portfolio. When I arrived at the beach mansion it was swarming with models everywhere. I was the youngest and only minor on set. My mom and I quickly staked out a suitable private room to share. I stayed tucked away in our room with my nose nestled in a book while my mom napped on the bed until dinner. We arrived downstairs and noshed on grilled chicken and steamed vegetables. After dinner, some of the models were discussing if there were any bars or clubs around, and eventually settled on a couple select establishments. I went to my room and read a bit more until I woke up still sprawled across the carpet with my face stuck to the last page I remembered reading. I looked over to the bed to see my mom playing Solitaire on her laptop. She noticed I was awake and prompted me to turn the light off so we could go to bed.

A couple hours later we were awoken with shrieks and loud laughter as all the party animals filed in from their night out. In their drunken wisdom they had the grand idea that the wee hours of the morning were the perfect time to hold an impromptu indoor pool party. While their inebriated proclamations bellowed at the highest volume, the acoustics from the indoor pool amplified their noise that much more, causing an echo throughout the entire property. Eventually, someone got annoyed enough that we overhead the inevitable scolding and the grumblings of the trashed assailants as they marched closer to their slumber. All was quiet enough to sleep again, and I was out like a lamp.

The sun had barely shown, but I was up with the dawn as the sunrise glared at me through squinting curtains open to the smallest gap in the center. I made my way downstairs to the kitchen and found the chef in the midst of full breakfast prep. No one was awake except for the crew already busily working to set up the various shoots to happen in just a couple hours. I grabbed some fruit, toast, and a boiled egg. Then I headed off to my room to drop off my food and take first crack at the bathroom to avoid throwing ’bows with any hungover models trying to get between me and my shower. Luckily for them my shower trip went off without a hitch, and when I emerged from the bathroom everyone was awake except for those still dealing with their alcohol-induced semi-comas. I was stoked to be first to hair and makeup and finished while most were only wrapping up their breakfast. I completed my first couple shoots and took a break for a late lunch while some were already completing their scheduled shots for the day.

After I’d grabbed a quick salad, I met the photographer on the beach for the final shot of the day. He explained he wanted to do something different and get me in a couples shot. He immediately called over the one male model I’d had a massive crush on. His blond locks waved at me with the ocean breeze. His soft blue eyes rivaled the clear sky. I was beside myself with nervousness and glee all at once. Then I heard the photographer ask the male model to get naked. I froze. This was not how I pictured my first encounter with some naked dude to be. This isn’t how I wanted it to be. By this point everyone had finished their shoots and because mine was the last of the day, everyone crowded around to watch. I cringed, wondering what the protocol should really be when I was underage and asked to pose with some naked guy.

My mom looked alarmed as well, and I saw her make a beeline for the photographer. With a roll of his eyes he retracted his original nude shoot idea and instead asked that the male model wear his boxer briefs instead. It was still a situation I wasn’t sure I was prepared for, but it was better than having bare male junk pressed against me while twenty people looked on.

The male model made his way over to me in all his boxer brief glory, and the photographer instructed him to get behind me while we were down on all fours in the surf. I didn’t know what soft porn was at the time, but if I had I would’ve been more embarrassed about the implications of some of the poses. While we were crouched down with the chilling water ebbing and flowing around us, I was unaware of what exactly was poking the back of me. I had no idea my counterpart was having an issue with his counterpart. The dude was coming down, or should I say up, with a baby boner – the first stages of a boner that hasn’t reached its full potential. He was at half mast, if you will. I was relieved when the photographer called for some solo shots of me, and I finished the rest of the shoot without any incidents.

That evening everyone was served barbecued chicken, grilled squash and roasted corn on the cob for dinner. The food was so delectable and a fine end to a busy day. As I made my way back upstairs to my room for the night, I approached a room with four of the models conversing in hushed tones about taking whatever one of them was holding because it would perk them up and they’d have plenty of energy to fuel another night out on the town. Walking past the room, I casually looked in to say hi and wish them a good night. As leading as the conversation was I couldn’t help but remain shocked at the scene before me as I witnessed them snorting coke at that very moment. I kept moving on to my room. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was in these situations. Do I say something? It wasn’t like they were offering it to me, but it still made me uneasy that this was going on in a room just a few feet from my own. An hour later, as people were recruiting each other for their evening excursion, the photographer demanded that no one leave and everyone was to stay onsite. He even imposed a curfew. He reminded everyone that glassy eyes and fidgeting never made a great shot, so his expectation was for everyone to report to their shoots the following day clear and sober. It would appear I wasn’t the only one that was on to the extracurricular activities of some of those present.

I was also grateful in instances like this that my mom always went with me to every booking. While negating the maturity I felt flourishing within me, I did feel safer and loved because I think her presence did a lot to keep me safe and away from situations I had no business being a part of.

Throughout my modeling career my agent never wavered in his professionalism. Even if I saw him at an event and he had gotten a little too pissy on the crissy, he always remained cognizant enough to conduct business at the drop of a hat. His assistant was a different story altogether, and I’m sure if the two weren’t romantically involved my agent wouldn’t have felt any allegiance to his assistant and would’ve fired him before things ever got to their breaking point.

Anytime I ever saw the assistant at his desk he was passed out. When he was conscious he reeked of alcohol, had bloodshot eyes, and the complexion of a blueberry. It wasn’t long before I came to the realization that the assistant played for both teams as he would hit on anything that had a heartbeat, even those as young as sixteen. I suppose he thought he’d hit the dating pool jackpot when he had his own harem of attractiveness to choose from, and many of the models felt threatened to not give in to him because they were afraid if they rejected him their castings and jobs would dry up. As I grew further into my teen years I became more wary of the guy and didn’t want to have my own predatory encounter.

I’d just turned sixteen and I was booked for a national makeup print ad. My mom escorted me to the shoot as usual. All went fine until my agent’s assistant decided to make an appearance to check on me and see how things were going. It was strange to see him march in unannounced with his eyes half open and head straight for me as my wardrobe was being adjusted for the shoot. His greeting was even more unsettling than his appearance as he suggested the stylist go sexier with my look and put me in something that made me appear topless. At that moment my mom stepped out from behind the clothing rack and made it clear that while his input was welcome, the suggestive nature of it was unsettling and he needed to be mindful of that, especially when referring to a minor. The stylist’s expression at hearing the exchange was awash in pride as my mom put the assistant in his place.

The assistant then excused himself and went to a corner of the studio to make a phone call. The shoot wrapped without any further glitches, and before we left my mom went to the restroom. I should’ve gone with her, since she was always telling me to make sure I go before I leave a place that has a bathroom. The practicality of a bathroom break wasn’t the only reason as I saw the bigger issue making its way toward me, slightly swaying as he sauntered ever closer like a cat drunkenly sizing up its prey for a pounce.

The conversation was quick and started out innocent enough as he asked how I was doing. I mentioned feeling a little tired and he informed me there was a way to cure it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small baggy of white powder. Completely unsolicited, he began to give me the run down on taking the drug. Then, out of nowhere, my mom was running toward us. She shoved him away with all the force her five-foot, one-hundred pound frame could deliver. Because he was tipsy, it was enough to bring him to the ground and send his coke stash flying across the room. My mother then yelled for the entire studio to hear, You stay away from my daughter! You’re poison! Don’t come near my family again or you’ll have to deal with me! And if I ever hear about you bothering anyone else again I’m going to the police! The assistant was immediately escorted out of the building and we gathered our things. Upon leaving we thanked the crew for making the shoot such a great experience, and let them know we looked forward to working with them again without any bad company in pursuit.

When we returned home, my mom wasted no time contacting my agent, relaying the entire account of makeup shoot-gate. I didn’t expect what came out of her mouth next as she threatened that if the assistant wasn’t fired we would be leaving the agency. My agent attempted to push back by threatening breach of contract, to which she answered she would gladly take up the issue in court and explain the necessity of the breach to avoid the drug pushing sexual predator that was his assistant. My agent relented and the assistant was fired right away. Their relationship was done.

Oddly enough I only got booked for a handful of jobs after that, which gave me time to come to the conclusion that I wanted to have some typical teenage work experiences after hearing about all of my friends and their new jobs. About six months after makeup shoot-gate, and just before my agency contract was set to expire, the agency disappeared. Rumor had it that my agent had started a new agency and was after bigger fish. He was going to be repping a former model that was going through a career resurgence as her weight loss made headlines after pushing her endorsement and demonstrated success with a new diet pill, and then appearing in a popular rap video.

I hadn’t heard anything about my former agent for a while and wondered how things were going when his former model client died from a drug overdose. Several years later I was watching a home design show and saw his mug as he was the client whose home was being renovated. His dirty laundry became a part of the storyline for the episode, and I realized maybe he wasn’t as happy as I’d hoped he’d been all this time. Then recently, I saw him on yet another reality TV series boasting over everything he had to show he was rich. Hopefully things are better for him now. Hopefully he’s happy.

Still Jail Bait

The winter after I turned sixteen, I got a job as a sales associate at Fashion Republic.

Overall, Fashion Republic was a really great company to work for. The leadership was solid. In general everyone that worked there was very team oriented and the discount was awesome.

I had been at Fashion Republic for a few months now, and it was the summer before my senior year of high school. I was admitted into a pre-college summer program at one of the top art schools in the country. As if that wasn’t amazing enough, I’d also nabbed a coveted internship with a national teen magazine in New York City. I was glad that I’d had my fair share of trips to The Big Apple for modeling gigs and was already familiar with the city and its layout. Otherwise, I think it may have been a bit of a culture shock and adjustment. It was an incredible experience, and I was so grateful to Fashion Republic for letting me keep my job while I was away for three months by casually leaving me off the schedule until I returned. It seems those of my friends who went on their own adventures for the summer weren’t so lucky and had to vie for their jobs upon their return. When I got home and back to my usual grind, I baked cookies for everyone, and gave thank you cards and small New York City souvenir keychains to the store manager and the assistant manager responsible for scheduling. On the whole, Fashion Republic was an experience I look back on fondly, but it wasn’t without its incidents worth talking about.

Brady was the resident teen lothario. I remember his first day. He had left for his lunch break when I had just clocked in, and we’d just missed meeting each other. Talia, a fellow teen sales associate, ran up to me obviously excited about something she couldn’t keep in any longer. When we were finally face-to-face she exhaled a heap of details completely lost on me, so I had to ask her to calm down and repeat herself. She took a couple deep breaths and slowed her speech as she described the new, brutally hot guy that just started. His name was Brady. He was a football player, and apparently he was brutally hot. Clearly his hotness was so great this was a detail she thought worth repeating. She then replayed their entire interaction and how he was flirting with her by explaining that he was asking so many questions about her because he was writing a book about her. It didn’t really make sense to me, but I was admittedly oblivious when it came to anything guy-related. I decided to take the supportive friend approach and be excited for her. I spent the rest of the time helping Talia restock the denim wall and fold piles of cardigan sets as she waited in thick anticipation of his sweet return.

Eventually Brady returned with a dramatic entrance so poignant he seemed to be approaching in slow motion. The only thing missing was a wind machine, and maybe a giant explosion behind him. Now I would finally be given the privilege of meeting him. He was definitely attractive, but maybe not to the point that I’d lost my breath. We continued in the typical conversational pleasantries as Talia looked on with a scrutinizing gaze. I soon grew eager to go back to restocking the new black leather blazers that were so hot we couldn’t keep them in stock. Anything to avoid Talia boring a deeper hole into the side of my head with her laser beam eyes.

When I returned to restocking, Talia wasn’t far behind to dig for any dirt that would expose me as competition to any future publication Brady was to put out about the girl that captured his heart. I explained he wasn’t my type and she was calm enough to man the fitting rooms again.

A few days later Talia texted me as I was at home eating dinner with my family. She had been talking to Brady to inquire if he was interested in any of the girls he’d worked with, and he expressed some interest in me. I was beside myself. He was hot for sure, but I wasn’t convinced it would be worth any potential complications for me to get involved with someone I worked with. Talia graciously gave me her blessing to pursue Brady with one condition: I had to give her any and all juicy details. Oy vey! I wished her a good evening, finished my dinner, and started my homework.

The next day I arrived at work and my friend Sasha was in. We’d chatted at school earlier that day about the text messages Talia had sent me about Brady the night before, and Sasha was supportive of my desire to keep things strictly platonic with everyone at work. Sasha had also mentioned that she was interested in finally meeting the famous Brady. When I saw her behind the cash wrap – that’s industry speak for the checkout counter – I asked if Brady was in. She answered with an emphatic yes and her eyes lit up. Clearly she had met him and was impressed by the bone structure rivaled only by the hottest male models. I saw Brady and he asked if he could chat with me in the back. When we arrived in the stockroom, as I was clocking in, he made a point to tell me he respected my desire to keep things platonic at work. I nodded in appreciation while silently wondering why someone, probably Talia, thought it was their place to inform him of my own opinions on something between the two of us. I was annoyed, but at least I didn’t have to be the one to deliver the bad news and just decided to be grateful and move on.

A few weeks later Sasha pulled me aside after lunch at school to let me know that Brady had asked her out. She wanted to make sure I was okay with it and I gave her my full approval. I also informed her that she didn’t need to ask permission of me, but I appreciated that she was thoughtful and considerate enough to make sure she wasn’t doing anything that could hurt my feelings. I gave her a hug and