Upon Meeting a Young Professionalette

We all know the feeling. You are walking down the main business avenue of your metropolitan business center and you are feeling good. Dominant, really. You're wearing shoes from Italy, a suit from Italy, and cologne from the part of France that's near Italy.

You are a force walking down that street. Young "professionals" who are only as professional as the last TPS report they filed are tripping over themselves trying to learn all of your secrets. Young ladies are tripping over themselves trying to get your attention. Old Professionals drop their ivory canes and trip themselves to death. All this tripping clears the sidewalk of all obstructions except one. Down the block, matching each confident step of yours with a confident click of stiletto heels, is a Young Professionalette.

You've tried preparing for this moment. At every soiree, you keep an eye out, trying to catch a glimpse of this elusive creature. You listen to all the stories and watch every episode of Sex in the City. You stay awake at night worrying over their raw and unnatural power. The only way you ever fall asleep is convincing yourself that they don't exist and that Sexual Revolution thing was all whooey. You devise contingency plans and adopt the policy of completely avoiding them at all costs. But what do you do now? Do you admit defeat and veer off course? Where do you go? Do you risk hiding in a second-rate clothing store or even (gasp) a Subway restaurant. Imagine the shame (Hey Johnson, did you enjoy your 6 grams of fat or less! hahahahahahahhaha)! You have to walk on.

Look at her. All smug and confident. How dare she call herself a young professional. Do they even sell Audi's to women? Isn't that against the law in Sweden? Or is it Switzerland... OH God, she's in your head. Next you won't know if Toulouse-Lautrec was Pre- or Post-Impressionist! Yowzerz...

Ok, keep your head. You can do this. As you see it, there are a few options right now. For one, you can keep your head up, assert your dominance and keep walking by without giving her any attention. But that won't work, she's too powerful. You could always just take her out. That would get you in a lot of trouble. But you DID network with that Judge last week... But wasn't he a traffic judge? ... They have influence, don't they? Fine, you won't take her out. But maybe you should take her out. Yes! That way, you can take her to a nice restaurant, woo her with your many fine linens and maybe, just maybe conserve some of your dominance. Look at her! She may be your boss one day and this could be your only chance! DO IT! HERE SHE IS!

"Excuse me ma'am, but I think you dropped something."
"Yes?" She responds, looking behind her. When she turns to ask you what you were talking about, you are flustered. That was a horrible lead-in. You dropped something? Where do you go from there? Oh God, she's turning back.

...

You're running now. You didn't want to hit her with your attache case, but you had to. It was the only other option. Well, you could have run away, but that's what you're doing now. So you got the best of both worlds, right? Looking behind you, you see that she managed to fall down in a very professional manner. Impressed, you keep running.

You turn the corner, duck into the subway and catch a train just before it leaves. You fix your hair and your tie, look around and assess the situation. Luckily, you decided to wear your Armani pinstripe suit. Being the raging fashion this spring, you suspect that there are at least 100 young professionals in this city wearing the same suit. There's no way they'll track you down.

No one in the train suspects a thing. The initial hurry to get to the train caused alarm, but now that alarm was being replaced by the normal tripping over themselves. You gather your things, and head to an open seat on the other side of the train. Everybody is tripping and the path is all clear. That is, everyone except one. In your peripheral vision you see someone else heading for the seat. And you hear a distinct, confident click with every step.

The confident click of stiletto heels.

Click... Click...