Confessions of A Naughty Girl

Maintaining Your Utmost Professionalism

I think that in the year and a half I've been writing this blog, this may be the most serious post I've ever written.

But really, isn't it time I took things in a different direction? We all need to grow up at some point.

So today, I had a rep lunch. Rep lunches are always a mixed bag because you never know if it is going to be the best/worst meal you've ever had. My first ever rep lunch was with a state tourist magazine. The rep was a huge fan of the outdoors and spent seventeen (I counted) minutes discussing how much he enjoys looking at sparrows when he's nesting in his cabin. We then segued into how geographically-remote business practices have become and marveled that over the course of the past two centuries, we've moved from an industrial, manufacturing-based society to a service-based, techno-dependent work force.

I almost died during that lunch.

Our rep lunch today was with an oldie but goodie who was introducing his latest protege to our agency. The Protege was brand-new to the business and wanted to get acquainted with us, as we would likely be working together in the future. He wasn't bad looking at all - not necessarily my type, but definitely good enough. And that's really all one needs.

Ordinarily I would throw in a disclaimer about how I don't think I'm fantastically hot and I am not egotistical, but screw it. From the second I met him, the guy was clearly trying to get acquainted with my pants.

The entire lunch, he acted as though we were on a first date...asking questions, where was I from, what accounts did I work on, did I enjoy the missionary position, things of that nature. Finally, after answering his slew of questions, I looked around at the rest of the table, when all of a sudden he blurts out, "I swear I know you from somewhere." I shook my head, but he proceeded to inquire about pretty much every place I've ever resided, until finally he exhausted himself and tore into the crab cakes. (Not that there was much left, as going up against me in crab-cake consumption is like challenging Barry Bonds to a home-run hitting contest.)

Anyway, so it's about halfway through lunch that I realize the table leg I've been kicking this entire time is actually the Protege's leg. Oh yes, I had been playing an unconscious game of footsie with this guy ever since we divvied up the calamari.

Shit.

Wanting to maintain my utmost professionalism, I promptly apologized with a very humble, "I'm so sorry, I thought I was kicking the table leg," and he gave me a shit-eating grin, Cheshire Cat-style smile and replied, "Oh, that's fine. I really enjoyed it."

Wow, great. Predicted time of employment in the real world for this guy: 5 business days. It's a good thing his boss is a chauvinist, because that shit wouldn't fly otherwise. I'm sure he and boss returned from lunch and he shared the story with him and got a high-five and a slap on the ass. And possibly a $10k raise. It's times like these I have penis envy, because if I could do something totally inappropriate and get a high-five, a slap, and a raise, that would be a five-star day for me, really. Steak and red wine for dinner!

Anyway, a few minutes later, I feel a strange sensation rubbing against my foot. I peek underneath the table, and sure enough, Protege is playing footsie with me. And smiling at me! At a rep lunch. How positively kinky. Part of me thought, "Bring it, bitch", and the other part thought, "Quelle horreur!"

I contemplated calling him out on it, but decided he was kind of cute and I should let it slide.

I mean, surely we've all made mistakes. There is the case of my very dear friend, America*, who received a job offer via email and instead of forwarding, replied back to the HR director saying, "Yeah bitches, the Ho got hired!" Surprisingly, the offer was not retracted and she went on to a long and sometimes happy career.

There was the time that my hilarious co-worker got drunk at the office party, had a chat with the boss, and when the boss told some unbelievable story, hit him hard on the arm and exclaimed, "Get the f*ck out!"

I recall another time when I had to fill out some grad school graduation paperwork and they asked me for the circumference of my head for a cap. Having sat in a cube with no access to a flexible tape measure or string (or even a decent-sized piece of paper), I pulled out a wooden yardstick and began measuring around my cranium just as the boss was walking by. He made some scathing comment about the lax standards for granting Master's degrees in today's world and I mentally gave him the finger when he walked back to his desk.

And perhaps best yet, when I was training for my Scooter Racing competition at my old agency, I took a little workday scoot around the 14th floor (on three separate occasions) and, having not figured out how to work the brake, ran headfirst and crashed - first into a wall, and twice into the executive VP of the agency - who had to break my fall and was not amused.

So all things considered, perhaps I am not the best to lecture on maintaining your utmost professionalism, other than to ask that one does as I say and not as I do. And oh, mind your feet at the dinner table.

*Names have been hidden within country names to protect the guilty.

posted by KA @ 12:21 AM