“Charlotte! Charlotte, are you even paying attention?”
The entourage of people around the large cherrywood conference table stared at me, their eyes wide with confusion. They looked a bit concerned and slightly embarrassed for me.
My mind had definitely wandered. What had I been thinking about?
With its plush carpet, cream-colored walls, and elegantly displayed contemporary art, the forty-story building’s eighth-floor executive conference room looked out toward the Bayou—which was muddy and stagnant. The dandelion-sculptured fountain and water sparkling in the unusually perfect Houston spring day had entranced me.
Rapidly tapping the top of my pen against the soft laptop mat in front of me, I dug deep (and dug fast) for remnants of the conversation that had taken place before I zoned out. The quick staccato of the clicking brought me back to the present, and I responded confidently.
“I’m sorry, Richard. Yes, I agree with the target demographic, and I feel confident that the campaign will bring in the sales numbers we’re looking for.”
His response was a slow and agreeable drawl, but his look was still doubtful. “Okay, then.”
He stood, grabbed his laptop and phone, and headed out of the conference room, saying over his shoulder as he left, “Charlotte, can I see you in my office?”
Some of my colleagues turned to watch me leave, shrinking down a little in their chairs. Some of them actually avoided eye contact. I could feel them thinking, She’s in way over her head.
I stood, gathered my belongings, adjusted my periwinkle blue skirt, and then buttoned its matching suit jacket. My expensive high heels dug into the carpet as I left the conference room and followed behind my boss.
His gait was fast. Slowing my pace, I took the time to prepare myself for this conversation.
“Shut the door behind you, Charlotte,” he said as he sat down behind his desk. He leaned back in his chair, rested his clasped hands across his belly, and waited until I sat down in front of him.
“What’s going on, Charlotte? Are you okay?” His concern was expectedly genuine, different from the tone he had previously used in the conference room. He had mentored me up through this company—which offered financial services, specifically retirement planning—for the past few years. I was ashamed of my distracted behavior.
My career with the company had started right out of college, and I’d been promoted steadily and predictably over the years. Recently, I became vice president of sales; subsequently, I became disillusioned with my life’s path.
Apparently, if this little chat was any indication, Richard had begun to sense my restlessness. The fact that I was daydreaming during our Monday morning executive briefing might have also given it away.
“I’m fine, Richard. I’m a little out of sorts today, but I’m totally on point. I promise.”
“You do know you deserved your promotion. You earned this position.” His eyes were kind and soft, and his tone was gentle.
My shoulders sagged. I forced myself to sit up straighter.
Don’t show weakness, I thought.
Even if I didn’t understand what was happening to me, I didn’t want Richard to have any doubts.
“I know, Richard. You picked the right person.” Fake it ’til you make it, I guess.
After a thoughtful pause, he changed topics and moved on to something more personal. “Are you looking forward to your party Saturday night?”
My fiancé, Mark, was hosting a party Saturday night to celebrate my promotion and our engagement. And, of course, to show off our beautiful new home just off Kirby Avenue. The house had a pool and the perfect sized yard for a party tent.
We’d recently purchased an 8,000-square-foot classic Georgian home, and oddly, the size made me feel suffocated, instead of free. Mark had pressured me into buying it, even though I’d insisted I wanted to wait until we were married. But it was what he wanted for our future, and so I went along with his plan. Mark was a stockbroker, and good impressions meant everything to him. Mercedes, check. Large impressive home, check. Beautiful wife, check. (Not to brag.)
Pasting a practiced smile on my face, I made sure it reached my eyes and responded, “Oh, yes! Mark has found the most amazing caterer and a highly recommended string quartet to play. It should be lovely. You are coming, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” He leaned back in his chair again, seemingly satisfied that I was going to get back to normal.
“If there’s nothing else…” I started to stand. “I want to make sure I get my forecasts for the next quarter completed before the end of the day. You know how the Accounting department can be.”
My attempt at levity was well received.
“I’m here for you if you need me, Charlotte. I hope you know that.”
I nodded at him, turned around, and shut his door quietly behind me.
Back in my corner office, I removed my jacket and draped it on the hanger on the back of my door.
After shutting the door, I slipped off my shoes and went to stand at the window. My polished appearance reflected in the glass, and I grimaced at the image staring back. The outer shell was classically pretty, but inside was a hollow emptiness that something was missing. I felt unfulfilled. My dark brown hair fell to my shoulders in an asymmetrical cut, meticulously flat-ironed straight. My eyebrows were dark and groomed, framing my dark blue eyes.
I stared vacantly out the window, past my reflection, and longed to rip off this constricting suit and burn it in the nearest trash can. The chains of corporate America were smothering me, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could do this. I wished I could pinpoint the exact moment I became so disillusioned, but I couldn’t. The feelings crept up on me until one day—most likely the day of my promotion—I just stopped being happy.
Out the window and across the street, in a strip mall of shops, was a dance studio I’d been going to—a pole dancing studio.
Earlier this year, while working late on the mundane task of annual budget activities, Richard had sent me across the street to a local Irish bar to pick up dinner. The pole dancing studio was just around the corner, and the neon red letters and heart on the marquis had caught my attention.
A few days after that budget meeting, I’d stopped in on my way home and was instantly fascinated with the studio. The lobby was small; it had thick, white carpet, white leather couches, and a mirrored wall. A rack of short, short shorts, and a variety of tanks and sleeveless T-shirts stood up against a wall. Below the shirts sat a shelf of high-heeled platform shoes for sale. The shoes were hot pink and glittered gold, red vinyl and clear plastic. I had touched them (fascinated) as I waited to be helped.
The dark-haired receptionist had addressed me, jolting me from my daydreams.
“Hi, can I help you?” She’d placed the phone back on the receiver as she stood to greet me. I’d stared as she’d unfolded herself from the chair and continued to rise. (She was so tall.)
“Um, yes, maybe, I don’t know.” I’d laughed at myself and bit the corner of my bottom lip. This was not a world I was familiar with—but it called to me—and I’d hoped she could ease me into it.
“First time?”
I had smiled at her. “Obvious, is it?”
Her eyes had roved down my pantsuit and then back up. She’d shrugged and giggled, crinkling up her nose. “Kind of.”
Her youthful laugh had put me at ease, and I’d relaxed.
“Are you interested in classes?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
She’d reached for a tri-fold brochure and slid it across the desk. Unfolding it, and pointing to a schedule, she’d walked me through the types of classes and cost. I’d glanced at her figure—and her lack of clothing—as she’d talked, and then I’d sucked in my abs a bit.
“You can sign up for ten classes, or fifty, or you can get a membership and come as often as you want to.”
“Maybe I’ll just start with ten.”
Her face had broken into a huge grin. “Great! Do you want to see the studio?”
“Sure!”
As she’d stepped out from behind the desk, I’d glanced down at her feet, noticing that she wore six-inch platforms, leg warmers, and a pair of shorts like the ones on the rack. I’d tried not to gawk, but her body was incredible. While I wasn’t on the heavy side, I had gone a little soft in the past few years—my size twelve suits had gotten a little snug.
“Now, you have to take off your shoes when you go into the studio; only bare feet are allowed.” She’d lifted one foot, taken off her shoe, and done the same with the other.
I’d slipped off my heels, placed them on a silver shoe rack, and waited for her to open the door. She’d smiled at me patiently, raised her eyebrows, and asked silkily (as if she was unveiling the most delicious secret in the world), “Ready?”
I had nodded at her and followed behind as she opened the door to what appeared to be a ballet studio—but it wasn’t. Gleaming gold poles stood floor-to-ceiling, shiny and flawless. The polished wood floors shined up at me, and the red walls at either end gave the room a sultry vibe.
She’d flipped a light switch, and a soft glow had shone from the canister lights recessed into the ceiling. One wall was floor-to-ceiling mirrors; the other was a room separator that opened to a second studio, if needed.
The room had captivated me. I was charmed by the secrets I imagined it held. The room had been quiet and empty, and I’d felt the pull to touch one of the poles. Reaching out, I’d touched it gently and then gripped it with my hand.
Looking over my shoulder at the woman, I’d said, “What’s your name?”
She’d smiled at me like she knew the pole goddesses had bitten me. “I’m Erin.”
“Hi, Erin, I’m Charlotte. You can call me Charlie.”
“Hi, Charlotte. That’s a pretty name. I think I’ll call you that. Should I sign you up for classes?” She’d had a cheeky grin on her face.
That had been months ago. I’d gotten stronger and leaner since then. My abs were now tighter, my thighs more muscular, and my size ten skirts had replaced my twelves.
I looked down at the studio sign from my office window, and a flicker of excitement and joy washed over me. What time were classes today?
I looked at the pink gym bag under my desk, sat down, and then pulled up the studio website on my phone.
There were two classes tonight: one at 5:00 p.m., and the other at 6:00 p.m. I usually went on Tuesday and Thursday nights, but tonight, I needed a class.
The clock on the wall of my office indicated it wasn’t even lunchtime. Sighing heavily, I glanced back at the site. The schedule indicated there was a noon class. Could I make a noon class? Adrenaline rushed through my body at the thought of dancing off the morning’s stressful meeting.
I hurriedly slipped my shoes back on, grabbed my bag from under my desk, and my purse from the desk drawer.
Hitching my purse over my shoulder, I ran out of my office. My assistant was typing away at her desk, and I spoke in a clipped tone on my way out.
“Peggy, I need to run an errand. I should be back by 2:00 p.m.”
Peggy looked like a Peggy, and she had been with me for years. She stopped typing, glanced at my bag, and then back at me. “And what should I tell Accounting?”
I stopped, paused long enough to pull myself back into the moment, and then looked directly at her. Her eyes were knowing. I felt myself slipping farther from my position. “Tell them I had to taste cake, and I’ll have the numbers uploaded by close of business.”
“Should I update them for you?” She smiled at me.
“I can do it, Peggy. It won’t take me long.”
We continued to look at each other a beat longer—a standoff of wills—until I smiled back at her. “I have to go.”
She shook her head, and then she went back to typing. “Be careful.”
I left the elegant office’s hallway and moved toward the elevator, waggling my fingers at her. The glass office doors shut behind me, and I stepped into the elevator, my smile growing the closer I got to the exit.