Sometimes I like to fantasize that I accidentally got a job.
I rush around the morning of my first day in my 80’s power suit and heels, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and my briefcase in the other. I check my watch, kiss my husband goodbye, and rush off. To Google.
When I get to my desk, I look out at the Empire State Building, the Chrysler building, parts of New Jersey, the Hudson River and then I hug myself for having such a big window.
Later I arrange some important papers on my desk and type a letter to Hillary Clinton about what not to wear and changing weather patterns.
I typically have lunch at a place called Claud’s, which I made up, followed by drinks on the rooftop of the Peninsula with some of my colleagues, secretaries and bodyguards. Sometimes I have to step away to take an important call from the President of the Ford Motor Corp.
Back at my office, I slip off my shoes and put on my sneakers. I jog on my treadmill while watching the stock reports on TV. Then I imagine myself having stocks.
Before long someone walks into my office while I’m dictating a letter or polishing my trophies and demands to know who I am and what I’m doing there.
At first I’m taken aback, but then I yell, “You’re fired!” and demand a raise. I storm out of the office to sit in my private ladies lounge on the third floor. I splash some cold water on my face in front of the mirror, and look myself straight in the eye.
“You go right back out there and show them what you’re made of!” I say, and take the rest of the day off.