Marshmellow Fluff

At 28 I was well on my way to being a jet-setter or the next Monica Lewinsky.

I landed a job as an executive at a Los Angeles based company, which meant that I often flew to Chicago and  New York.  For the first few months I was in awe they even hired me.  Even though professionally,  I had received accolades for my hard work, dedication and professionalism, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.  On paper and through reputation I was a great hire.  An independent, strategic thinker, according to my resume.  But for some reason, as I sat at my desk in the high rise building that overlooked the Hollywood sign (on a good day and with limited smog), I felt like I was waiting for my mom to return to her office and take me back to elementary school.  But I faked it as best I could and it seemed to work brilliantly.

For a girl who rarely left the confines of Orange County, and for someone who traveled outside of the state  for the first time at age 18, traveling was a huge shift in my reality. I could pack a mean bag since I grew up being shuffled every other weekend to my dad’s house.  Those weekend custody trips allowed me to hone my luggage packing efficiency but a trip to New York packed much more of an excitement punch than a trip to my dad’s house in Lake Forest did.

Catch a red eye tonight, no problem! 

Be ready to leave on last minute’s notice, you got it! 

The first time I traveled to New York and hailed a cab into Manhattan, I felt alive.  More than that, I felt grown up.  I did the math and concluded that, if someone payed for my plane ticket AND my hotel room AND my food for 6 days, I had to be important!  Walking to my first meeting in New York I checked myself out in the reflection of the building windows.  My black pumps, my power skirt, my tailored jacket, I looked so chic, so important, and so much like the hundreds of other people that made up the swarm that surrounded me. 

I was up and coming. 

 I walked on the trading room floor at the New York Stock Exchange.  I dined with the Ombudsmen for lunch at an exclusive lunch club that, up until recently, didn’t even allow women into.  I had late night dinners with CEO’s, I danced with the Mayor, I sat with ex-civil rights icons and listened to them tell me first hand accounts of the civil rights movement.  I was soaking up moments that I would one day tell my grand kids about.

And then, there are the stories I won’t be telling them about.

Eating dinners at hotel bars meant my path crossed many times with men looking for one night (and sometimes more) away from their wives.  Men that looked like your everyday nice guy, watched intensely as I ate dinner alone.  Slowly getting closer and closer to me,  as if I were some wounded bird that was prime for pouncing.  Without fail, before I could get the check I would find myself making polite small talk with him, while in my head I was screaming at him, “GO HOME TO YOUR WIFE AND CHILDREN YOU PIG!”

In Chicago, I met a man who was staying at his “downtown loft” and spoke of an early morning the next day at his law firm.  After talking for the twenty minutes it took to flag the bartender down so I could pay my bill, I politely said goodbye and excused myself.   Ten minutes after I got to my room there was a knock on my door. 

 The hotel concierge had a note for me which read:

“The town car is waiting for you downstairs, my driver will take you to my loft, I would like your help in picking out a tie in the morning.”

This was one time in a handful of times I was approached while traveling.  Airports, hotels, dinner functions, black tie events, all places which seem to scream, ” What happens on a business trip, stays on a business trip.”  I was single for most of the time I traveled for work but never once did I take any of them up on their offers.    There was something so sad and empty about their proposals.  While I have never been the kind of girl to imagine my wedding, or pick out china patterns by my 16th birthday, I wasn’t jaded enough to consider hooking up with random strangers in the realm of possibility.  Maybe I am boring, maybe naive but after traveling for three years I had come to one conclusion…I prefer sleeping in my own bed.