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My mood deflated like a rapidly punctured balloon as the gang of tanned young men rounded the corner, all pastel polos and hundred dollar haircuts and acrid cologne that filled the air almost as stiflingly as their entitlement.
“Sorry, got to go,” I told Sandra.
Her voice went tense. “Let me guess, the Testosterone Squad has arrived?”
“Giving them that nickname is an insult to testosterone everywhere,” I muttered quietly enough that they couldn’t hear me, ducking my head in the hope that they would take a second to see me through the fog of their own arrogance.
“And ‘Douchebros’ is better? Honey, I don’t want to even think about them anywhere near my vagina.”
I snickered. “And that’s why it’s perfect,” I told her. “Because they act like they’re God’s gift to women, but they’re actually harmful and gross.”
“Yo, Ally!”
Oh no. I had been sighted. I sighed, reluctantly turning to face Harry, Supreme Douchebro In Charge. “Hello.”
“Making an appointment for a spa day?” Harry said with a smirk that made it clear he thought that was the wittiest one-liner since Bob Hope. “You know, to console yourself after we sweep this meeting? Tell you what, I’ll buy you some chocolates and throw in a back massage, just for you.” He leered, his eyes traveling downward to a part of my anatomy that was definitely not my back.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes; they’d just take that as evidence of how emotional and unprofessional I was, as if leering and broadcasting exaggerated stories of sexual prowess were somehow Business Conduct 101. “I’ve got to go, Sandra, talk to you later.”
“Let me know how it goes—James! No! Not the hair dryer!”
Harry was still leering, his collar popped up high like he thought he was still a frat boy. “Nice outfit, but you really should’ve gone with something that emphasizes your body more. Only way to distract the client from your incompetence.”
“Charming,” I said dryly, refusing to engage despite the rage boiling in my gut.
“We’ve got this locked up,” Douchebro #2, also known as Greg, chimed in, shoving his hands in his pockets as he took his place next to #3, Chad. “Why’d you even bother showing up? It’s a joke, getting a chick to pitch a dude brand like this. What’re you even going to do, stick a pink label on it?”
“What a brilliant idea,” I said flatly. “I don’t know how I didn’t think of it.” I gave them a smile that probably looked like I was preparing for the dentist to extract all my molars, and got into the elevator, trying to ignore how blatantly they checked out my as**s as they followed me in.
They didn’t matter. Nothing they did mattered. The only thing that mattered was that I had gotten my boss to agree to let me pitch after them today, and I wasn’t going to mess it up. I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass me by. It was my first chance to really show everybody what I was capable of.
It was time to step up. Time to show them what I was made of. Time to fight back.
I clenched my fists at my side as the elevator began its slow ascent.
And may the best woman win.
This would have been a very inspirational moment, but then my phone rang. And the ringtone was ‘All the Single Ladies.’
I made the mistake of glancing at the Caller ID before jabbing the power button. Great, my mom. Answering this call was the last thing I wanted to do in front of the Douchebros, up to and including stripping down to a string bikini and dancing the cha-cha, but if I didn’t pick up now, my mom would go into an anxiety spiral and by the time I called her back an hour later, would have convinced herself that I’d been kidnapped, taken overseas, and held for ransom on a modern day pirate ship.
I chose the lesser of two evils, and answered. “Hey, Mom.”
Chad smirked, and I shot him a glare.
“Ooooh, watch out, I think she’s on her period,” he stage-whispered, and the other guys snorted and gave him high-fives.
“Daaaaarling,” my mom said in my ear, skipping straight past ‘hello’ and any sort of perfunctory inquiry into how my life was going. “I’m ordering the champagne this very instant, and you haven’t respondez s’il vous plait’ed to dinner yet.”
“I always come to Friday dinner, Mom,” I said. I tried to say this like a reasonable adult stating a fact, which, technically, I was. Only somehow, it came out as a whine.
Family: it’s f**king magical.
There was a heavy sigh, as if I had just single-handedly brought about the fall of Western civilization. “It is called etiquette, dear. It exists for a reason.”
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