Apparently even bankers admire balls. Or Chutzpah, as Colette put it. Apparently I've got more'n my faire share.
The stares on the m�tro this morning slid right off my head as I burrowed through my notes, barely snagging even a solitary claw in my state of mind. I was expecting them.
(I would have gloried in them but that bit got old when I stopped wearing three pounds of goth eyeliner sometime last century.)
Somehow, when you know why people are staring, when they're staring because they're supposed to be staring, the air doesn't seem quite so infused with discomfort.
Somehow, that statement rung stupidly obvious the moment I hammered it out on the long-nail-unfriendly keyboard.
Today they were staring because I promised SyBase boy across from us that I'd wear a tie, and I did what he did yesterday, I picked the outfit to go with it. I'm taking fashion tips from a 30-something geek who still lives with his mom and knows more about playstation games than Parisian monuments.
Movin' up in the world, me. ;)
So as I was sucked in through the surreally smooth sliding doors of the bank this morning, there were quite a few grins as my heels tapped their confident (sounding) march along the marble. Black heels, black slacks, black shirt that would be as form-fitting as the slacks except my curves have deepened since I wore it last summer,
and silver linux tie. Deep shimmering silk pewter with a thousand monochrome-silver penguins arranged in all directions.
And large mass of bright yellow hair, which I'd like to take the credit for matching to the yellow beak of the one coloured penguin on the noose, but I ain't got that much style. I just ordered it off the web that way.
All's I got is balls, and Andr�-Marc grinned as we did our manly handshakes, and Jaouad is in particularly good humour today, and as the gang of us marched back along the marble from the coffee-bar on the first floor, there were seven ties swinging in unison and strangers from down the hall were chattering excitedly about Montr�al, single-malt Whisky, playstations and random things.
St�phane the golden boy shook my hand and his blonde head broke into a grin and the atmosphere is full of pleasantries that make the hypnotic pull of the monitor slightly less dizzying. When Jo�lle brought him a piece of Whisky-cake and I called him a wuss for not wanting whisky in the morning, he wandered over to split it with me with a big ol' conspiratorial smile plastered across his face.
This was significant, somehow.
Now if only they'd stop calling me the C expert...