It’s what the youth are calling…the finance bros.
*Shudders*
Sure, they’re not actually “finance bros” given they work for a golf company, but they sure as hell have the aesthetic down to a science.
Every day, I’m subjected to an agglomeration of company-embroidered vests, khaki chino shorts, boat shoes, and polos, all entwining with early morning bro hugs and gentle razzing.
Why does this bother me? Well, besides the fact that they are impossibly annoying to be around, I’m the only woman at the company besides the CEO. She, however, is barely in the office, especially with the launch of a new brand of Butter Putter mini golf courses.
But what really grates on my nerves and has me breathing into my desk drawer like it’s a paper bag at least once a week: they’re all married.
Every last one of them.
And sure, that’s not a bad thing, but if I’m honest, it’s not that they’re married that’s the issue. I’m the issue. It’s me. Because I too was once blissfully married.
And at the beginning of my marriage, there was love between me and my ex, there was excitement, there was passion. But as time went on, year by year, I could start to see my husband’sinterest in me slip. His passion to hold my hand, cuddle, kiss me good night—no longer there. And the love diminished until the last year of my marriage, when it came crashing down after my husband forgot my birthday, leaving me to eat a piece of cake I bought for myself alone at the dining room table while he played video games.
So being in an office building surrounded by men who are happily married…it’s…it’s just hard. Makes me think of Matt, makes me think of how inadequate I am, how I wasn’t good enough to hold his attention.
Not to mention I have nothing in common with them, unless they want to hear about the gum that got stuck on the bottom of my shoe while on a single-lady walk through Central Park over the weekend.
Nor do they care about my Sunday night girl dinner, which consisted of two dill pickles, one single Triscuit, and a cup of applesauce that I ate alone while watching the Menendez brothers documentary on Netflix.
There is a marriage cult, and I’m on the outside, looking in. Heaven forbid they ever find out I’m divorced. I can’t imagine the clutching of their embroidered vests, the horror that would wash over their freshly shaven faces.
Scottie Price, the single one, sequestered in her office, not to go near in case she’s contaminated with the “divorcées,” a rare condition that could spread if one comes in close contact.
“You coming?” Finky asks, nodding toward the conference room.
My nostrils flare. “Yes, on my way.”
“Good, don’t want to be late. Ellison is here today.”
My estrogen sonar perks up.
“Ellison is here? Really?”
“Yes. And you don’t want to be the last one in the conference room.”
No, I don’t.
I quickly grab a notepad and pen, secure my coffee, and then head out into the pit and across the office to the conference room, where the men are already gathering. As I move around the table and find a seat, I scan the room, my mind picking them out one by one in my editor brain.
Brad S: never uses an uppercase T when writingT-shirt, despite how many times I remind him.
Duncan: can’t remember to cite his sources, ever. I’m constantly chasing after him.
Finky: funny, but if he has to describe a putter, might as well settle forhard and grayas his description.
Chad: oh, Chad, the resident artist. I have to go over his mock-ups with a fine-tooth comb because he’ll even spell his name wrong.
Then there are Kyle, Ben, and Shawn, all righteous idiot interns who I think are here for the free swag rather than the experience in business.
And that’s only to name a few.
“What are your plans this weekend?” Finky asks Chad as we wait for Ellison to show up.
“Taking Danielle out to Fire Island for a concert. She has the whole thing planned. What about you?”
