Apart from two sour, single seniors, I am the only woman in our banking department. It means I can basically get away with anything.
I don't 'forget' my skirt when strutting down our open plan, but I do blink my eyes when I need Excel 'input'. Or a coffee. Most of my colleagues are too geeky to admit it, but I know something is melting on the other side when I smile.
My boss is aware of my special position at the bank. We have a silent understanding and play house. He is the husband, I am his wife.
My mater alma position usually works to my advantage. I am the first to be dismissed when the team embarks on an all-nighter. I participate in quite a few high-level meetings, since I add a nice touch of glamour when we arrive together in his MG. “Representation is a big part of our business. Will you be wearing that red lipstick tomorrow?” The boys don't bother to backstab or bite since they feel I am no real competition anyways. They were never big on lipstick.
My position brings about a little bit of responsibility, too. Like any housewife, I am expected to know what’s going on in the minds of our little ones. At the request of the hubster, I will do research on the impact of their bonus letters; at the request of the boys, I will indicate that their allowance should be raised. Once in a while, I’ll turn a blind eye to a pair of 'forgotten' briefs under my boss’ office desk. (Must have been his sports bag tipping over.) In a relationship, you have to leave the other one some space as well.
All in all, I consider myself a lucky gal.
But last week, my boss took our relationship to the next level. I was invited in his office for a conference call. As I sat down across the desk, he kicked off his shoes. "I just feel so at ease around you", was the poor excuse for forcing thick, suffocating gas upon my nostrils. It was a very long hour.
I am considering divorce.