Cindy

Droog

Read Cindy's bio and previous columns

March 10, 2008

Bra In My Desk; If Only It Were That Exciting!

There is a bra in my desk drawer at work.

It’s not because I’ve been up to any crazy office shenanigans involving nudity. If only it were that exciting!

It’s there because I don’t have time to go the mall. I need a new bra. This one works. So, one day this past week, I’d planned to jump online during my lunch hour and place the order. I just needed to refer to the brand, style number and size.

Most normal people would write that stuff down, and bring a piece of paper to the office. Not me! Again, I’m a little time-crunched. So I shoved the bra in my purse, relayed it into my desk drawer and forgot about it for a few days.

On Tuesday, just as I pulled it out, a coworker – male, of course – comes by to ask me a question. I’m just sitting there, holding my bra.

Frank: “Um, yeah. Is this a bad time?

Me: “Oh. I, well, no it’s fine. I was going to buy a new bra online . . . um, forget it. Can you just come back in two minutes? Pretend you never saw this?”

Fat chance. Poor Frank is probably scarred for life. He’ll never be able to look me in the eye in meetings again, but he’ll definitely look there rather than anywhere else!

On Wednesday, my longest running wardrobe malfunction finally caught up with me. A few weeks ago, I lost my professional-looking, leather, burgundy, expensive gloves. It was mid-February in Michigan, just about the time when all I can think about is ditching wool for linen.

Of course, I refuse to buy new gloves at this time of year, because I am sure that would be a waste. But we get three massive blizzards in 10 days.

Lucky for me, my son’s puppy-dog mittens are in my car. I throw them on one bitterly cold morning a few weeks ago. And every day since.

Back to Wednesday. I arrived at the office at the same time as our new managing director. He’s a nice guy. He’s never met me, and he opens the door for me. I enter in front of him, say good morning, and unbeknownst to me, drop a cute little glove with paw-prints on it.

James: “Um, ma’am. Yes, excuse me. I think you dropped this.”

Me, only slightly stammering: “Oh, thanks. It’s my son’s. (Awkward laughter.) I lost mine. So, just for today, these were in the car, and well you know. They make me think of him, so it’s kind of nice.”

He replies with a very kind, “Yes. I have kids, too.” But I know what he was really thinking. Something along the lines of, “Who is this odd young woman wearing puppy gloves? And even worse, she just admitted to me that she sits in her cubicle thinking about her kids, when she should probably be thinking about strategic initiatives centered around our transformation."

He’ll never know my real name, because heretofore, in his mind, I am Chihuahua. Or Paws. If he’s nice, maybe he’s nicknamed me Snoopy. But definitely not Cindy Droog, intelligent master of all things strategic.

On Thursday, I looked as good as it gets for me. Knee high boots. Black skirt. New jewelry. I even did my make-up, which occurs approximately twice every five days. All this, and an 8 a.m. meeting that I was completely prepared for. 

Little did I know that February’s winter weather had won another wardrobe battle. While lifting one kid out of his car seat, I somehow managed to get white salt all over my black outfit. I didn’t have a clue until the kind woman sitting next to me around the table leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry. I have some stain remover in my cubicle.”

I thought maybe I spilled some coffee. I looked down, and to my horror, saw that I looked more like an unintentional zebra than a sleek, black panther as I'd planned. 

Thank goodness for that stain remover. And that she was smart enough to keep something useful – something that wasn’t lingerie – in her desk drawer.

© 2008 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

Click here to talk to our writers and editors about this column and others in our discussion forum.

To e-mail feedback about this column, click here. If you enjoy this writer's work, please contact your local newspapers editors and ask them to carry it.

This is Column # CD086. Request permission to publish here.