round one…fight!

So this morning I get out of bed at 7:15 with sleep in my eyes and war in my heart.  Today is the day.

It is time to do battle.

I shlump out to the shower and time myself by how high the water gets in the undraining tub.  Once it hits about mid-calf, I turn off the water and reach for my towel.  In the latent dripping of the water from the faucet I can softly detect the Eye Of The Tiger song.

Dun.

Dun dun DUN.

Dun dun DUN.

Dun dun DUUUUUUUUN.

I wipe the steam off the bathroom mirror and smear a swatch of moisturizer over each cheek, commando style.  Stalking into the bedroom, I discard my towel and do a couple of jumping jacks, silently talking myself up to a victory.  “Oh, yeah, today’s the day,” I tell myself.  “You are going to look hot as the fourth of July.  You’re a stone cold fox.  You’re a diva of workplace wardrobe.  You’re Angelina Jolie.  You’re Marion Cotillard.  You’re Christopher Lambert from Highlander.  You GOT this.”

And I open my drawers.

And they’re empty.

It seems that I had forgotten to do laundry.

Understand, dear Internet, that I hate to do laundry.  I don’t know why.  Laundry is an easy, simple chore that can be done by an eight year old or any standard issue robot maid, but for some reason it just annoys the skittles out of me.  It’s right up at the top of my List Of Things I Hate To Do, just above ‘badminton’ and ‘dying’.   Taylor, sweetheart that he is, has been doing my laundry for me, but there is a time when a gal must take a deep breath and do what needs to be done.

Apparently yesterday was not that day.

So I go through my Slightly Dirty Clothes, things that maybe were only worn half the day, and come up with  a cheap grey dress from Forever 21, a lacy camisole from Maurice’s, black tights, and my sexy boots.  Decent enough, but possibly not enough to outfox Cute Girl at work.  It would have to do.

Aaaand I look like Peter Pan.

I clacked into the office, feeling eerily conspicuous against a backdrop of pleated pants and shoulder pads, but fairly confident, nonetheless.  I didn’t see Cute Girl all morning.  Every time I had to leave my corner of the building on some errand, I scanned empty rooms, perused the cubicles, and generally owled my way through the day, craning my head backwards every time I heard a footstep that could possibly be the sound of a kitten heel.  It was a disappointment, I thought, clomping back to my office with a sent fax in my arms.  All dressed up and nowhere to WAIT WHO IS THAT.

Briefly, like a fading dream, I saw a door to a corner office closing in slow motion.  And beyond that door, standing in a pose of callous nonchalance, was Cute Girl.

NO.

NOOOOO.

The door shut and she was gone.  It was a tease.  A single shot fired as my adversary escaped.

KHAAAAAAAAAAAAN.

The worst part, my friends?  The sting in that dismissal?

She was wearing jeans.  I’m not allowed to wear jeans.

AND SHE WAS TOTALLY HOT IN THEM.

This isn’t over, Cute Girl.  Round Two is coming.  You better be ready.

 

of course you know, this means war

I was pretty lucky to get a job where I got a job.  The office is clean and well cared for, my co-workers are responsible and cheerful, and on Wednesdays there is sometimes free cobbler in the lobby.  It’s a pleasant kind of place to spend eight hours a day.

There is a single drawback, however, to working in a successful real estate office.  My work has what we will call  a lack of generational diversity.  The startling majority of my coworkers are the sort of people who feel that large floral prints are the last word in fashion.  Walking back to my office every morning is like stalking through a jungle of tapered khakis and clogs.  These outfits are all well-designed, yes, and my co-workers are all classy looking people, but the fact is that I am the youngest individual in the realty by far and it shows in my daily dress and habits.

At least I was the youngest individual in the realty.

UNTIL YESTERDAY.

So there I was in a pair of (straight leg) khakis and a cerulean shirt, sauntering up to the coffee pot.  I filled my cup with joe and, clutching the portable phone that is forever attached to my being, I began tiptoeing back.  I am famous for spilling scalding coffee onto my fingers, and so the Coffee Walk has become sort of a challenge, watched shrewdly by the real estate agents as they peek at me out of their cubicles and offices.

So I’m walking down the hallway, slow as a one legged dog, and I hear brisk footsteps behind me.  Fine.  Okay.  Go ahead, person, pass me.  There is a swift breeze as my as of yet unrecognized coworker sweeps past, and as I catch a glimpse of her, I feel first a rush of surprise, and then jealousy.

She was adorable.

Probably about my age, she had long curly hair and tan arms.  She wore a swingy pleated skirt, a black cardigan, and purple ballet flats that immaculately, IMMACULATELY matched the purple of her lacey camisole.  Who was this fashion icon?  Where was she from?  Why hadn’t I SEEN her before?  She was carrying a binder back into an agent’s office.  As she turned to shut the door, she caught my eye.  I grinned broadly, out of habit.  Her mouth twitched in an instinctual return of goodwill, though I wouldn’t call it a smile, and she shut the door.

I seethed inwardly as I shuffled my hot coffee back to my office.

How dare she, I thought.  How dare she?!  Who does she think she is, being young and cute and trendier than me, with her awesome hair and her stupid flawless tan?  Her existence, her very presence there in the office was an act of war.  Conservative realties have little room for young, hip, post-ironic secretaries.

There can be only one.

Monday, I am going back there.  No ill-fitting, glue-stained khakis for me. I am going to be stylin’.  I am going to be hot.  I am going to be classy as all get out, and I am going to show this…this person, this girl who has the gall to out-modern me that I am the Real Estate Secretary Champion Of Cool.

Oh, it’s on, sister.

It’s on.