Single Employed Female: The Invisible Years

I used to work at one of the largest corporate behemoths in the world. As small and insignificant as it can make a person feel to work at a company this size, there were certainly perks. The first year on the job I had three weeks of vacation--one week more than the typical two I'd had elsewhere. Half of my gym membership was paid. The cafeteria food was actually good, and subsidized. Our department had an automatic coffee machine with good coffee; the pantry was full of an unlimited supply of fig newton bars (the Fat-Free ones, as per my request). I was outfitted by an ergonomic specialist and had black puffy things surrounding my work area. I was paid more than I had asked to be when I interviewed. I suppose they couldn't go that low in good conscience, even if I'd asked for it.

The first year I wasn't yet aware that I hated the job. I was a magazine addict and fed off one of the other major bennies of the company, free subscriptions to the company's 20+ titles and heavily discounted CDs. I went to shows at MOMA for half off. And, by virtue of working at this media behemoth, I could attend parties, and people would talk to me, thinking I might get them published. It took nearly two years before I realized how tired I was from nights of insomnia, particularly on Sunday nights, and that I was a jaw-dropping size four because my nerves burned off more calories than I consumed.

"It's hard to believe you were so unhappy," my girlfriend tells me, when we remember those days. "You looked phenomenal!"

Looking phenomenal was, in fact, my job, not being an editor, per se. I'd made enough money at that point to step up the wardrobe and look, for the first time in my life, like a woman, not just a girl. I had a bevy of professionals to help me, including a hair stylist, a colorist, a career coach, a massage therapist. There was one professional that I was lacking, however: a mentor.

Not that I thought I needed one at the time. I greatly admired my boss, a brainy magazine verteran that was one part nerd one part Elvis Costello. He always made these quick witticisms in meetings that subtly put down the sales people, the stupid ones who paid the bills but had no clue how to appreciate truly great editorial. He'd hired a woman who was senior to me and slightly older. All I admired about her were her clothes. A few weeks on the job I noticed we'd become quite competitive. I had no chance of trumping her job-wise, but she called me to the carpet, on occasion, for wearing shoes suspiciously similar to ones she'd purchased recently and for wearing electic blue mascara (I thought I'd bought black until I stepped into more light; it was a total accident, I swear). To me sartorial plagiarism was just as bad as literary plagiarism. I told her our similarities were purely coincidences, but I don't think she believed me.

The only encouragement I ever received from her was when she took me to the side and asked me where I got my brows done. Most other times she yelled at me publicly and accused me of things. I was too scared to ever stand up to her. Once I had the balls to go to Elvis Costello's office to complain about how she treated me, but he seemed even more uncomfortable with the discussion than I was, so I dropped the subject.

The only area where I felt comfortable in my job was through networking. I had a menial task of clearing rights to articles that we used in our custom published titles. Because our department was new and a line of command hadn't been created yet, I often had to call very senior people at some of the most distinguished magazines in the country and ask for reprint permission. I loved how respectful these people were to me. I loved that they asked me about my name ("Des Jardins ... that French for 'of the gardens?'") and about my work.

I was devastated during my first performance review. I thought I had done a good job, and Elvis didn't disagree. "You've done everything I've asked," he said. "But you don't know how to go beyond that. You don't step up to the next level." Thinking about this today with a clearer head, and not trying to hold back tears like I was in his office, I think he was right. I also think that, as his report, he offered me no path to understanding what the hell he was talking about. I was 24 years old at the time; all I knew how to do is what I was asked. He also said something that would resonate with me in jobs to come.

"And I hear you on the phone with these senior people. You are entirely too comfortable with them. It's arrogant."

After that review I didn't know what to do, who to be, at this job. I've always been social; I'd thought that one of my strengths was being cordial and comfortable with people. But now my conversations were instilled with fear. Who did I think I was? My boss didn't like me; he didn't even think I wrote good headlines, the ultimate indignity for a magazine editor. Tensions were building with the others in the office that exacerbated things. One of the sales people, a woman in her 40s who I can only remember by her fried hair and stiletto heels, used to get entirely unhinged when stress mounted in the office. I was working on a magazine prototype for one of her clients, and our printer was on the blitz. A technician was trying to fix it, but not quickly enough; she needed the printouts asap to present to the client.

She stormed into our department and asked me what the hell was going on. For the first time I didn't sit with my mouth agape, praying for the storm to be over. I was scared as hell, but I wanted to clear the air.

"Please don't think I'm trying to sabotage your presentation. We're having some problems, and we are working really hard to--"

Her eyes bulged; I could see a vein in her head. I thought she was going to take off one of her Manolos and stab me. She used her finger to poke me instead.

"You can't talk like this to me! I am a SENIOR marketing manager. Do you hear me! I can get you outta here like that! I am a SENIOR marketing manager."

When I told my roommate about the exchange later, still tramautized, she said, "What did you say to her that was so horrible?" I didn't know, but all that kept running through my head was, "Shit Jory, what were you thinking? She was a SENIOR marketing manager!"

The fact is I was disrespected. Sort of. There was a strange dichotomy going on. Some VERRY senior men paid attention to me. They chatted me up and asked me out to lunch. I felt compelled to go, if for any other reason to help right the imbalance of perception about me. At least SOMEBODY thought I was a capable person! And somebody senior at that!

I'd suspected that I was getting attention because of my looks, and not my talent. But I also suspected that I really had talent that wasn't being acknowledged, and that if I held myself together it would just be a matter of time before things changed in my favor. I had absolutely no inclination to ever sleep with anyone to get further up the food chain, but I certainly didn't eschew flirting may way up; or, as the case was here, putting up with what I knew were shameless attempts by these men to flirt with me.

The guys in accounting liked me a lot, the techies LOVED me. I really cannot be humble about this. Their senior VP would practically camp out at my cube and chat me up mornings that I arrived to my godforsaken job, armed with only a bagel and coffee. He'd ask how I was doing, about my friends. Such a stark difference from the yelling and blamestorming that would ensue in just a few minutes when the senior editor who thought I copied her clothes would approach me with a new crisis.

It was around Christmastime. My department had already had its holiday party, and while I appreciated the $100 gift certificate to one of the best spas in Manhattan, the evening was fraught for me with being around people I wasn't sure I liked, or, more accurately, being around people who I wasn't sure liked me.

One morning there was a break in the monotony. Mr IT VP sauntered over to my cube.

"The guys wondered if you wanted to join us for our holiday party." They were meeting for lunch at a schmancy steakhouse a few blocks from the office.

"Sure," I said. "Sounds like fun. Don't know how long I can stay, though. I have a deadline." Even though I was hardly on speaking terms with Elvis Costello, I didn't want to give him any more ammunition for doubting my capabilities.

"Don't you worry about your boss," he said. "If need be I'll talk to him." I felt so ... defended by this statement.

"Great!" I said. "I'll meet you there!"

I had some issues to deal with at work and arrived at the restaurant about 15 minutes late. The IT department, comprised of all men, had already been noshing on appetizers and downing a few drinks in rocks glasses. One other woman sat at the table. It was hard to miss her. She may have been my age, or a few years older, and wore a red power suit. She was stunning, what I'm sure the guys would have called "seriously hot" when not in our presence.

"Sorry I'm late," I said, but the guys wouldn't take apologies.

"Why apologize?" one of them said. "We're just glad you could make it." I took the remaining chair, next to the boss, the one who had invited me.

"What are you drinking?" he said.

"Oh just water for me," I said. "Anything else would make me too loopy to go back to work." At this all of the guys cheered. Their boss signaled the waiter and said, holding up his glass, "Get this beautiful lady one of these."

I looked over to the other woman, who sat across from me, but at the end of the table. One of the techies provided an introduction. She was in HR and was assigned specifically to their department. I noticed she had a wedding band on her finger. After shaking my hand, she stood up and apologized profusely for not being able to stay. The guys protested vehemently; it took her 10 minutes to fully extricate herself from the table.

Our food arrived--ten steaks and one salmon, for me. Another Madeira on the rocks was put next to my empty glass. Fortunately I had slid my drink over, where it had been mistaken by the IT head for his own bottomless beverage. He was, in fact, sipping double the amount he thought he was. I stuck to water.

I really enjoyed a number of the "boys." One was born and raised in the Bronx and had a brand new baby daughter he beamed about. Another listened attentively to my issues with my home PC and offered to upgrade my mother board if I could manage to bring my computer to the office. But their leader, my biggest fan, seemed intent on converting a nice lunch into a session of truth or dare.

"So Jory, we're all wondering here, have you got a boyfriend?"

I blushed a bit, but was flattered that these guys were curious to know. "I do," I said. Exaggerated moans of disapproval followed.

"What's he like?" the boss said. "Is he as good lookin' as we are?"

"No, he's not," I said, going with the joke. "But I love him anyway!" Some of the guys laughed. Their boss wasn't done with the interrogation.

"So then it's not true?" he said.

"What's not true?"

"You're not sleeping with Murphy?" The table got eerily silent.

"'Murphy' was another VP, another one of my biggest fans. He asked me out to lunch my first week on the job, and often asked me into his office "to talk." Which is exactly what we did. We talked about my boyfriend, about issues I had on the job. About his friends. I started to suspect the intentions behind our relationship when he asked if I would join him for brunch, off hours, and that I not discuss his invitation with anyone in the office. Even at this point I--the woman who needed to be hit on the head with a sledgehammer before understanding I was being hit on at work--said I was uncomfortable. As uncomfortable as I was becoming during this conversation.

I'd been "at lunch" for well over an hour.

"I really need to go," I said. "My boss will kill me if I'm late."

"You're not getting away that easy!" said the drunkening man to my right. "In fact, I'm gonna call your boss right now and tell him you are safe with us and you're gonna be late." He pulled out a cell phone and started dialing.

"Don't do that," I said, but it was too late, Elvis Costello had picked up. Mr. Madeira managed the most sober performance he could muster. Our food had come out late, he said to my boss, and he just wanted to let him know I'd be back in another hour or so, or maybe not be back for the rest of the afternoon. For the first time in months, I wanted to be back in my cubicle.

When he hung up he started laughing hysterically.

"You know," he said to me, "he wasn't even aware you were gone."