“Thank you for sharing, Chad,” Christine said, then circled the room with her eyes.
“Who do we have next?”
All eyes shifted to the nametag of Linda Swanson, a bespectacled, matronly looking woman in a navy blue polyester pantsuit. A small New Jersey perfume plant had recently ousted Linda when Estee Lauder purchased the company. Although she preferred not to name the company, she explained where the plant was located and the fact that they made Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds, providing clues to a mystery that otherwise only perfume trade insiders could have been able to solve.
“I would like to launch a glamorous perfume under my name,” Linda blurted.
“Terrific, Linda…just terrific.”
Kate Maddson spoke next. She had revolutionized the umbrella. Sam Frankel had a miracle vitamin that would increase energy and sex drive. One latecomer, who rebelliously did not put out a nametag, was interested in importing housekeeping staff from China. Apparently, lots of people in Asia will do windows, he joked.
The members now moved their gaze down the assembly line of confessions to me.
“Hi, I’m Jessie Desalvo and I was a book publicist for Smith & Drake. And, well, the only thing I can tell you is that after this week the only thing I know is that my boss and I have finally have something in common. Neither of us wants me to be a book publicist again.”
Chad Braddock started laughing and was soon followed by most members of the group, and while I had not intended my admission to be comical, it was hard not to laugh out loud at the sheer impossibility of it all. I let out a relieved guffaw, the first release of laughter I had had in days. It felt good. Christine directed her attention to the next person, and Chad gave me a wink.
All of the examples showed people trying to find a life beyond corporate, a life with a new direction; whether those paths would lead to anything remained to be seen. These were purpose-filled people asserting themselves.
After our introductions, Christine encouraged “open networking.” Networking with the unemployed seemed a little counterintuitive to me, but there we were. All of us now leveled by our dismissal, equal in our rejection, but each with varying degrees of anger, depression, and confusion to deal with. Some of the more experienced MFB members jotted down names of entrepreneurial bloggers, and networking groups like Le Tip that met at Starbucks in Battery Park on alternating Thursdays. We compared notes about where to find even more conversation, and, in turn, even more confidence building.
This world of seminars and lectures was not foreign to me. Most of my career had been spent booking authors, from Warren Buffet to Marianne Williamson, in places like the Learning Annex and the General Assembly. When looking on the websites of these establishments, it seemed that more and more professionals were teaching seminars with catchy names like “Start Your Own Start-up” to “Living Supersized in a Downsized World.” Ex-corporates could choose their flavor of empowerment, whether it was the law of attraction or an office with the proper feng shui. What plagued me was not the lack of help out there, but just exactly what kind of help I needed.
I was also struck by lack of anything to talk about, so while comparing notes with Linda Swanson, the soon-to-be perfume mogul, with no real career news, I panicked and mentioned my newly landed position as a wedding planner. It seemed that in my absence of having any specific career goal, keeping busy doing something, anything, would help me with this career transition.
“I really like helping people,” I told Linda with all the confidence of someone who has no idea how to help herself, much less someone else.
“If you’re in the business of helping people out, I have a project for you,” said a woman decked to the hilt in a Chanel brocade jacket and designer denims.
“You should see my closet.” Enter today’s featured speaker, Caroline Hendricks, a recent alum of the program, who was here to share her story about building a custom art business online.
Eager to keep the conversation going, I added, “I love going through my closets. When I realize I hate everything inside, it gives me license to buy new stuff.”
Nearby, Chad Braddock was shaking his head. No doubt his wife was able to fill a closet or two on that Salsa salary he had brought in through the years.
“Mars and Venus. Mars and Venus,” he quipped as he exited the conference room.
Following Caroline’s compelling story about selling emerging avant-garde art to her formal stable of Wall Streeters, the group began to file out. Linda Swanson was first to hit the lobby and grabbed for the ladies room key. In full cattle mode, I followed her, letting her shoulder the responsibility for taking and returning the key to the ladies room.
Back in conference room B, Jerome Shiffman had settled himself in front of the wipe board, where he now drew in green (erasable) marker a large oval structure on top of a pyramid. His nameplate in place on the podium, he was ready to tell us all about his new company, Forbidden Fruit. He held up a large spiky piece of fruit, which he explained held magical properties that would make you live longer and better and provide you with the energy of a teenager. When pouring samples of the juice for the group, he made sure first that no one was planning on driving or using heavy machinery following this meeting. Another icebreaker, or a legal disclaimer; I’m still not sure.
After the initial nausea and gag reflex had worn off, it was, as Chad put it, “not that bad.” Jerome asked the group to become sales representatives—cue the pyramid diagram and an instant job opportunity was born! Network marketing is the new catchphrase for what Amway did in the 1950s; get other people to sell things for you. As the group grows the people on top take a cut of the profits from the people they recruit. In a perfect world, everyone gets richer and richer. The goal is to avoid being the person on the bottom.
Today, Jerome wanted to fill spots 1 through 12 on his personal food pyramid. Passionate about this juice, Jerome was so personally vested in the company that he had stocked up on several cases that were now being warehoused in his living room. His take-charge attitude was as refreshing as his strange little juice samples. All in all, the group was enjoying his corporate comeback story, which had begun five years ago when he was let go from Lehman Brothers, where he was selling sub-prime mortgages.
His “never going back” moment happened when he sat on his couch and proceeded to build a business there. Most interested in his story was a fellow financial services refugee, Lillian Gorman, who had chosen the route of spiritual empowerment to heal her corporate wounds. Upon being ousted from her cubicle, she chartered the first flight out of JFK to Arizona. While visiting a spiritual retreat in Sedona, she was romanced into sinking her 401(k) into a condo near the red rocks. Lillian had cornered Jerome and was already signing on as a salesperson.
“There are no coincidences. I am salesperson number one,” she boldly declared.
She was no doubt buoyed by the cosmic energy and recent real estate purchase in Arizona. This job was perfect for her and she, too, could work from her new Southwestern-patterned couch in Sedona.
As the final war stories were relayed, network meetings jotted down and articles circulated, Christine excused the group, reminding us once again to take our nametags, for next time! Before I could leave, Christine met me at the door and handed me her business card and home address.
“Can you be at my place on Sunday?”
And of course, I could be.
The subway ride to Caroline’s apartment in Astoria took longer than I thought, but nothing was going to bring me down. I was officially back in the work force. I had gained a client; even the word client made me feel important, needed, necessary.
Caroline wanted to discuss her wardrobe. Unclear about exactly what to expect, I felt confident that I could easily maneuver myself around her closet and tell her what looked good on her and what didn’t. Maybe this could be the start of my career as a fashion stylist. Even tho
ugh I had no formal training at the House of Dior or a degree from FIT, I loved clothes and, well, you have to start somewhere. Note to self: Get a copy of French Vogue for the ride home.
I thought it would be important to present a classic look, so I was appropriately attired for the occasion in a tailored pair of navy trousers and a Kelly green sweater set. I purposely chose an outfit that was not too bold, something that would be non-intimidating, like an outfit an author might wear to be interviewed on CBS Sunday Morning.
I arrived a few minutes late and was prepared to apologize profusely for my tardiness. I hate being late for anything and being late for my first client meeting bordered on the careless. But some people had a looser grip on time than I did, and Caroline was one of them. Caroline did not answer when I rang the buzzer, so I waited in the lobby for 10 minutes, pondering whether I was in the right place at all, or maybe I had gotten the date and time wrong or worse, had completely misunderstood what I was supposed to be doing here. I double-checked my voice mails, my texts, even my GPS to make sure that I was in the right place at the right time. I was. After the third ring, I was buzzed in without a word. Caroline answered the door, clad in a towel, turban, and bathrobe. Caroline immediately commented on how “charming” I looked.
“I just got back from the gym. Pardon my appearance.”
Her appearance looked pretty good to me, robe or not. She was about my age, well proportioned; one might describe her as a handsome woman with a girlish figure. She was nearly six feet tall. She offered me a drink and a snack before taking off her towel turban, revealing a thick blond mane of hair, which she immediately tied up in a clip that she had holding her robe together.
My attention was diverted from her suddenly plunging neckline to a tray of fresh strawberries along with a pitcher of water with cucumber slices. The tray was perfectly appointed, the berries were perfectly ripe, and the Kate Spade dessert plates and matching juice glasses looked like they were part of a window display at Bed Bath & Beyond. I was right. They hadn’t been used before. When I commented on them, she said, “Just got them. T.J. Maxx, $14.99. I mean, you can’t go wrong.”
Like a sartorial harbinger, these small pieces of information that she shared told me a lot about her habits. When I gazed around the room, I noticed a bundle of unopened shopping bags whose contents had yet to be worn as well. Like little guideposts to the stores along Seventh Avenue, Loehmanns, T.J. Maxx, and Barneys were lined up next to one another in what appeared to be address order. It looked like on her way back from the David Barton Gym in Chelsea, she had done a little retail exercising as well. Perhaps that’s what had delayed her.
“I thought we would start in the walk-in closet,” she said. And instead of excusing herself to change into clothes, she simply led me into the next room. The “walk-in closet” was more like a walk-in room, complete with a center island, and featured two Henry VIII-looking chairs in case, while you are getting dressed, you needed to take a break. Perhaps the overwhelming number of shoe choices might make you lightheaded and in need of a place to rest.
“I just don’t know where to start,” she explained as she looked around the room, which was actually larger than some Manhattan studio apartments I had been in.
Frankly, I didn’t know where to start, either; there were more clothes here than the stock room at Bloomingdales. I took a deep breath and surveyed the custom-built closets that lined the walls; were there four or five?
“Why don’t you tell me what you need the most help with?” I adopted a prescriptive, doctorly tone like when you go for an exam and the doctor asks, “Where does it hurt?”
“I guess before we start, I should tell you my little secret.”
I expected her to tell me about her recent trip to Shopaholics Anonymous, an admission that I would expect based upon the fact that she had a garment rack full of newly purchased items with the price tags still on them. The rolling rack was like the ones you see being pushed through the streets of the garment district to transport the latest season from designer showroom to Macy’s for a quick trunk sale. I had never seen one in someone’s home. Mainly because no one had the room for this and secondly, because no one has this much turnover on merchandise requiring that new arrivals wait outside the closet until more space could be cleared. Another clue was the dressing room floor, which was covered with shopping bags from Bloomingdales, Bergdorf’s, and Bendel’s—the three Bs of high-end retail.
“Maybe I should just show you?” she said. And before I could say buyer’s remorse, Caroline had taken off her robe.
“I had lap band surgery,” she confessed.
I had never seen lap band scars or surgery scars of any kind before, nor was I comfortable with a near six-foot-tall naked woman casually conducting a conversation with me about her body. I was in new territory on both counts. The scars were about three inches in length and made a zigzag square pattern down the length of her belly. I tried my best not to react and make her feel uncomfortable, but she was not in the least bit fazed. I was the one who was uncomfortable, and I had a difficult time figuring out where to set my vision.
“Pretty invasive, huh? They really don’t tell you what it will look like. But apparently, they fade over time.”
She explained that once you have this surgery, you have to eat less and less and in the last few weeks, after losing 65 pounds, she had actually gained back five pounds. She was ashamed, horrified, and panic-stricken over the weight gain. That was why she had asked my help.
“And now, I just have nothing to wear,” she said with what had to be the most ironic comment I had ever heard.
Her dilemma was further exacerbated by the fact that she was not wearing a stitch of clothing. But I secretly suspected that the opposite was true. Could she really be without anything to wear with all the clothing options around her? I was overwhelmed as well; I collapsed in one of the Henry VIII chairs to regroup for a moment, as though weighed down by the conundrum she had just saddled me with. I already recognized the first stage of recovery: denial. She was in complete denial about what her problem truly was; it was not that she did not have anything to wear, but way, way too much when it came to wardrobe options.
“Let’s take it slowly, one closet at a time,” I said.
I suggested a tour through the closets where she could pick out some things to try on for me. This was a great solution, because not only would it give me a sense of what fit her, but it would also get the naked woman who stood in front of me into some clothes.
Closet number one was filled with fur vests and animal prints; frankly, it looked more like an exhibit at the Museum of Natural History than a workable wardrobe. I dismissed going through this one first; it was too big of a bear to handle. Closet number two was “fancy,” she told me. This was haute couture, high designer, and featured fewer pieces, but some big space suckers, like a full-length Yves Saint Laurent ball gown that had never been worn and spread out to take up seemingly half the closet. Okay, I’m exaggerating. It was really just a quarter.
“It’s insane, I know, but I got a great deal on it.”
“And where exactly did you plan to go in that one?”
“Nowhere really, but I thought it would be a good thing to have,” she fumbled.
When I pulled out a Joan Vass two-piece black ensemble with cutaways, Caroline explained that she thought it might be fun to dress like one of the Real Housewives of New York. Of course, the tags were still on this outfit. Because things worn on reality television are never actually really worn in reality.
“Fun?” I asked. “Are these outfits having any fun in your closet? You know what’s fun, taking that $6,000 and heading to the Caribbean. That’s fun.”
I said it jokingly, but good humor often has a darker side and I was getting a little annoyed with this blatant waste of money. But Caroline responded in kind.
“That would be fun, and I have the perfect
thing to wear.” She pulled out a sequin-accented sari skirt that, yes, would be perfect for the islands.
“Now you’re talking,” I said, “except I think maybe the sequins might be a little much…”
“Ya think?”
“Yeah, I think.”
I didn’t want to make the woman feel bad by letting her know that $6,000 for two outfits, even if they were a good deal, was not money well spent when you don’t wear the items and you keep them locked up in your closet for three years. I was ready to move from anger to acceptance, but she needed a little more encouragement.
“How about we sell them on eBay to recoup some of your losses? I’m sure someone needs a ball gown to attend a fundraiser or a Real Housewives Halloween costume party.”
She loved that idea, mainly because it might open up some more discretionary shopping dollars and also provide more space in her crowded closets. Whatever the reason, we had to move these pieces out of her working wardrobe and release them back to where they belonged, which was any place but here. I immediately conjured up a picture of the husband and wife setting loose into the wild their beloved lions at the end of Born Free.
Getting back to basics, I realized, was the key to success. And a little tough love wouldn’t hurt, either, I reckoned. I instructed Caroline to pick out an everyday outfit she felt the best in. Two pieces she loved, that she wore, over and over again, because they made her feel good. She immediately picked out a black pair of tailored Michael Kors trousers and a perfect white button-down blouse from the French shirt maker Anne Fontaine.
“This is my uniform,” she shared with me.
Trying it on put us both at ease. We had our basic template for what this woman actually wore. But the truth lurking inside closet number three was her true secret: 25 outfits, identical to the one she was wearing. The problem was they were all different sizes, each representing one step on her journey to weight loss.
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