It was only last week that I found myself side-by-side with an Executive Vice President of the company. We were docked at neighboring urinals in the men's room, which means there was an empty urinal separating us. The middle never gets any action. Men require space in the restroom, not to mention the unsaid rules of bathroom etiquette. Eye contact is verboten...even with yourself. I digress.
Our stark contrast was blatant. Him, old and white. I, young and not. Him, wearing a Ralph Lauren suit needing no real occasion to be adorned. And then myself, a head-to-toe hot mess dressed in a wrinkly button down that severely bordered between the clean and "this-feels-too-soft-to-be-Snuggle." His hair was parted perfectly at 3/4. And, of course, my natural bedhead desperately screamed "WASH ME." His future is probably set in stone--a generous retirmenet package to conclude decades of dutiful prostitution in corporate America. In contrast, my life is far from cement, more like slipping slowly into quicksand.
As taboo as it may be, I have no desire to lead his life. Bitch didn't even wash his hands.
