I’ve just shared an article, here with the DivineCaroline community, about valuing yourself and not identifying by occupation. There are times, however, when it’s totally appropriate to ask where a person works. Those are moments when you find yourself singing the melody of that cautionary Jackson Five song (but with the lyrics slightly altered): Stop, the life you save may be your own.
Some years ago, I reluctantly attended a company party at an upscale jazz club-restaurant on the East Coast. Of course, the event took place at night and in the middle of a week that didn’t contain a payday. That meant—for the non-promiscuous among us—going home alone by subway, not by taxi. I say that I reluctantly attended the shindig because I knew most of the co-workers would be talking out of their rear ends the way they did back at the office, except they’d be even more full of crap after taking advantage of the open bar. (I was right.) But I also knew that we’d be treated to a sumptuous buffet of New Orleans Creole-style food.
Ah, but there was yet another reason I’d decided to go to the bash: Just as I know that all of us humans have twenty-three pairs of chromosomes, I knew that my upcoming performance review hinged on how I navigated the testy waters of the company party. I had my eye on a promotion, and since I wasn’t willing to “sleep” with my manager, or his, the company party would be my last opportunity for advancement.
The grapevine gala was going on its second hour, with voices growing louder as bottles of differing shapes and sizes emptied faster than a well-serviced drainpipe during a torrential downpour. By then I’d already stretched the rayon of my little black dress by going for thirds of fried spicy wings, jambalaya and cornbread. Meanwhile, a live band took a break from 1970s disco tunes, and lots of silver-haired folks ambled toward the dance floor upon hearing the opening strains of the American standard “I Remember You.” The change in pace prompted them to channel the confidence of “Dancing with the Stars” competitors and deliver their best imitation of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers—and when the rhythms switched to swing, their best impersonation of Frankie Manning and Freda Washington.
I knew a little tango and a lot less Foxtrot, so I had no inclination to join the brave on the dance floor and glide amid the royal blue and lavender spotlights. My exuberant co-workers, however, began goading me to “get out there!” because they knew I’d begun taking lessons at a dance school. (Actually, I had been dancing for many years, but not ballroom dancing.)
I ignored their girlie chanting, holding my purse to my chest, and bearing my weight into my shoes and into the chair. They laughed loudly, perfuming the air with mingled spirits—and I don’t mean joie de vivre, either—as they attempted to pry my purse from my tight embrace. I must’ve flattened my “D” cups to a set of “B’s” that night in a fierce attempt to fight off those drunkards. In contrast, I was chain-drinking sodas. This was like one of those pseudo-lesbian scenes from a bad 1980s women’s prison flick, except we remained fully dressed. (Come to think of it, were there any good movies of that subgenre in the ‘80s?)
Out of nowhere stepped a rather charming, handsome man. He wasn’t dressed to the nines like most of the employees at the party. But he smiled so widely and his teeth were so bright, that he had us blinded from his purpose. Then again, our company was quite large, and we couldn’t possibly know everyone there. The guy stood about six feet, had a lanky physique, and reddish-brown complexion, and he kept smoothing back black, wavy hair brushed close to his head. His smile appeared a bit fake, as if he was contemplating: Which of you sisters will I be bedding tonight? I thought: Not this one! And just as that thought passed through my mind, his gaze zoomed in on my face.
