Boy/Girl Stuff

My first job was at The Richards Group. Stan loved to hire kids right out of school and once he had a new crop, he’d gather us in his office for his personal orientation to the agency. I know he talked a lot about 401k and the imperative of punctuality, but the thing I remember most was his “no boy/girl stuff” talk. He’d have none of it. If a couple was caught dating at The Richards Group, someone would lose their job. It wasn’t really a big thing for me; I was engaged. (I had purposefully not worn my engagement ring to my interviews, in fear that I wouldn’t be taken seriously. Little did I know it would have probably sealed the deal even quicker.)

Stan is smart guy. He knew that his plot to keep the workplace androgynous was a pipe dream, but he did have a point. Boys and girls are different. He didn’t try to sweep it under the rug.

Neither did a guy who worked for me in my early years as a creative director. I’ll never forget the day he came into my office, sat down and matter-of-factly said: “It’s a good thing you’re a writer. Because if you were a chick AND an art director, I don’t think I could work for you. But the fact that you’re a writer kind of makes up for the fact that you’re a chick. So we’re cool.” And we were. Good thing my creative director partner was a guy or he would have been S.O.L.

But my favorite boy/girl story is the trip my former partner and I took to a boutique hotel chain in southern Florida. My partner is one of those art directors whose work is so beautiful, it makes you want to cry.  You should also know that he is completely harmless. A formal football player, gentle giant, and very married father of three.  I was (and still am) married with two kids so we were two pretty unlikely candidates to race from Miami to Naples to Key West to a private island to experience the romance of our client’s properties. We dubbed it the “race for the sunset” tour because our client had given us specific instructions to be at the bar at each property at sunset. My partner doesn’t drink so he’d toast his Diet Coke and I’d toast my Sauvignon Blanc, then we’d run to our rooms to call our kids.

Our final stop was, without a doubt, the most romantic place I’ve ever been in my life. After checking in, we boarded a vintage wooden boat that took us from the parking area to the private island resort. Rooms were individual huts, complete with outdoor showers, netted bedding, and of course, no tv or phones. Once we convinced the bellhop that no, we were not sharing a hut, we headed to dinner. We gave our names to the hostess. She stood there. We gave our names again. We finally realized that she was frozen because she couldn't comprehend that we weren't waiting for another couple. Fully five minutes later, it sunk in and she seated us for dinner. It was surreal, a perfect setting complete with pink sunset, tiki torches, and lapping waves. All around us were wealthy honeymooners, high-end anniversaries, and others, well I’m not sure their spouses knew they were there, if you know what I mean. As romance swirled all around us, I looked at my partner and said: “Do you want to split the Key Lime Pie or do you want your own piece? "

Stan would have been proud.