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Spray Tan Mistakes and Erectile Dysfunction Disasters
Paige Chadwick
There arethree things that are not tolerated in my family. Ironically, the first is failing to be number one at whatever you’re doing at the moment, whether you’re playing a ‘friendly’ game of tennis with one of the Rockwell children, or you’re learning to walk at the same time as your nimble cousin Anya (who later goes on to make the USA Gymnastics team). You’ve probably heard of the ABC rule of sales, Always Be Closing. The Chadwicks follow an ABW variation—Always Be Winning. To my father, Phillip Chadwick III, CEO of Chadwick Mutual Funds, and my mother, Daniela Chadwick, model-turned-fashion-mogul,everythingis a competition, and it’s better to be dead than to come in second. They’re the winningest winners in America, as are two of their three offspring.
I’m the third.
The second deadly sin in the Chadwick household is being overweight. My parents don’t believe in ‘slow metabolisms,’ only lazy people. But slow metabolismsare a thing. I know because I inherited our Grandma Jean’s sloth-like one (and curly ginger hair that resembles a clown wig when there’s even a hint of moisture in the air—thanks, Grandma Jean). My big brother, Phillip IV, as well as my younger sister, the perfect princess Tiffany, are tall and lean like both my parents. They have striking blue eyes (with 20-20 vision, of course) and blond hair with just a slight curl to it that resembles perfect beach waves, whereas I’m short with green eyes (one near-sighted, and one far), and if I even think about eating a carb, I swell up like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. So, I’ve pretty much spent the first twenty-eight years of my life either feeling extremely hangry or binge eating Doritos, followed by months at the gym to work off the devilish orange triangles. I’m working on body positivity—I swear I am—but it’s just so freaking hard to erase decades of programming.
And now, for the third and final transgression, for which you will swiftly be ostracized from the family—being late for anything, ever. Chadwicks show up fifteen minutes early—not because we value other people’s time (that would be stupid). It’s so we can suss out the situation, find the most powerful place in the room to sit or stand (standing is infinitely better, by the way), and make any adjustments that give you even the slightest advantage. I’ve actually seen my mother take over the lighting controls at swanky restaurants until she achieves a soft, youthful glow.
So, let’s go over that again so the people at the back of the room don’t miss anything. Don’t be a loser. Don’t be fat. Don’t be late.
My thin little sister Tiffany is about to win, win, win! because in two days’ time, she’s going to marry the heir to the Tyson Oil fortune in a disgustingly lavish ceremony on the most ultra-exclusive island in the entire Caribbean—Azure Island. And I’m in the process of committing thethird deadly sin because the festivities started two days ago, and I’m still in New York, which makes me unforgivably late.
And here’s where two of the three rules come into conflict because if I were to have been on time, that would have made me a failure at work, and since I’m not allowed to fail, because that would make me a loser, and I’m not allowed to be late, I’ve got myself in a realSophie’s Choicesituation here.
Well, okay, so I’m exaggerating a little bit. I’m not choosing which of my children lives and which one dies. But let’s just say I think I get what poor Meryl Streep was going through because this is one freaking impossible decision. In fact, I’m about to commit the fourth (and slightly less deadly) sin in the Chadwick family—crying in public. I can feel the prick of tears welling up behind my eyes. I fight with everything in me to hold it together because I’m currently sitting at my desk in the sleek, ultra-modern office of Prescott Marketing and Ad Solutions.
I won’t cry. I refuse to. It’s simply not done. Not by Chadwicks and certainly not by the executive assistant to Guy Prescott, ‘therealDon Draper’ (well, according to Guy after a couple of whiskeys anyway). He may be a bit of a blowhard, but the truth is Guy is known around the globe as the king of advertising. He’s a creative genius who could sell hair ties to Patrick Stewart. He’s my boss, my mentor, and a giant twatwaffle who has made me two days late for my little sister’s destination wedding trip.
I should’ve left for the airport an hour ago, but Guy is currently in crisis mode for our biggest client—the pharmaceutical company that makes Vialis, the little green pill that assists men with erectile dysfunction. You’ve no doubt seen our ads of smug, satisfied middle-aged couples, and more recently, the one starring aging rapper Li’l Rhythm,who’s mounting his comeback via a song about how he’s ‘aging like fine wine, still rockin’ that hype, he’s got Vialis in his pocket and he’s got his groove on tonight.’ (Yeah, I wrote that line when the team was coming up blank.) I also wrote this little gem:
Grey in my beard, wisdom in my eyes,
It’s the motion in the ocean, baby, not the size.
Got my swagger back, and I’m on the rise,
With Vialis in the mix, I’m reaching new highs.
Get it? He’s ‘on the rise’ and he’s ‘reaching new highs?’Wink wink.
It’s crap, I know. But it gets even worse because I also wrote this even crappier verse:
I still got the rhythm that I always had,
But now I got Vialis so my girl ain’t sad,
You should get it too, you’ll really be glad
You don’t got to worry cuz this stuff ain’t bad.
So, as it turns out, that last line simply isn’t true. But I’ll get back to that in a minute. First, I’m sure you’re wondering what an executive assistant is doing writing lyrics. So allow me to explain. I’m not just an EA. I’m a future ad executive, which means right now I have to be a fixer, a problem solver, a Jill of all trades. I swoop in and do what needs to be done, no matter what needs doing. Six months ago, the team was writing that jingle, it was two a.m., they were stumped, and I was forced to stay to make sure they finished the song before Li’l Rhythm got to the studio to record later that morning. I’m no rapper, believe me. I just really wanted to go the hell home so I finished the damn song so we could all leave.
Anyway, the song was a huge hit among young boomers and older Gen X men (our target audience), sales of Vialis skyrocketed, Li’l Rhythm’s career bounced back from oblivion, and he started selling out stadiums again. Only, four nights ago, he took one of the little green pills on stage during a concert to show how ‘effective’ it is (gross, right?), only to suffer a massive heart attack twenty minutes later.
Sales flatlined along with Li’l Rhythm (who, luckily, only flatlined for six minutes). The stocks, however, are dropping by the hour, and with each dollar, a portion of their ad budget disappears with it. We’ve been working around the clock to spin this, but let’s face it, you can dip a shit sandwich in chocolate and deep fry it, but it’s still a shit sandwich.
As Guy’s go-to woman who can fix anything, there’s no way I could just mosey on out of the office with a wave and a ‘See you in a week! Good luck with that.’ Besides, Guy is also in the middle of a nasty divorce, so his life is a ‘total shitstorm’ which means my sister’s wedding ‘couldn’t have come at a worse time.’ In the six years I’ve been working for him, he has never needed me more than he does right now. And I know he’ll pay me back for staying. He’s the kind of person who rewards loyalty. And since he’s my very best shot at my dream career, I’m forcing myself to stay put in my seat while he’s in Chicago in a meeting with the makers of Vialis, going over the three strategies we’ve come up with. He needs me here to get the team started on whichever strategy they choose the second that they choose it. And so, I’m waiting, even though I know that, in a few minutes, I’m going to have to rebook my flights, yet again, which is a panic-inducing thought that is bringing on these damn tears.
I glance out the wall of windows on the opposite sideof the office that looks out over the city. Yup, it’s still a cold, grey January morning, unlike the Benavente Islands in the Caribbean, where the rest of my family is probably lounging poolside, sipping fruity boozy drinks right about now. They’re also likely shit-talking yours truly from dawn till dusk.
“Do you think she’ll even bother to show up?”
“Not a chance.”
