I’m sitting here in the dark and it’s like 2:14 am and I can’t stop thinking about how STUPID I am. Like really. You’d think at 52 I’d have my stuff together but I spent basically my whole lunch break hiding in the third floor handicap stall just... sweating. I have this big job, okay? I’m supposed to be the one who knows things and leads the strategy meetings but today I just felt like a giant fraud in a navy blue blazer that cost four hundred and twenty-eight dollars. It started because of this quarterly review thing. I had to stand up in front of eighteen people—I counted them around the long oak table—and talk about our Q3 projections. And normally I’m good at that stuff, you know? But my daughter moved back home last month because she couldn't afford her rent and my mom is starting to forget where she put her keys every single morning and everything just feels... heavy. And I look in the mirror and I see my mother’s face looking back at me and then I look down and it’s like my stomach just decided to stop listening to me three years ago. I went into the bathroom at exactly 1:04 PM. The meeting was at 2:00. I just wanted to check my hair but then I saw it in that big mirror by the sinks. The way the light hits those flourescent bulbs—is that how you spell it?—anyway, they’re so bright and mean. And the blazer, it’s this really nice Italian wool blend, but it was pulling right across the middle. Just a little bit. But enough that if I breathed out or moved my arm to click the presentation remote, you could see the button straining. And I just stood there. For an hour. I must have unbuttoned and rebuttoned that thing fifty times. Maybe more. I’d turn to the left, then the right, then try to stand really tall until my back hurt. I even tried stuffing a bunch of Bounty paper towels in my waistband to see if it would smooth things out but that just made a weird crunching sound when I moved and made me look even bigger. God, I feel so pathetic even typing this out. Like, who does that? A Vice President of Operations shouldn’t be shoving paper towels under her skirt at 1:30 in the afternoon while her team is waiting for her. Then Sarah from marketing came in. She’s like twenty-six and has those legs that go on forever and she was just huming some song and fixed her lipstick in ten seconds. I literally ducked into the stall and stood on the toilet so she wouldn't see my shoes under the door. I stayed there for twelve minutes until I heard the door click shut. I was literally shaking, you know? My palms were so sweaty I almost dropped my phone in the bowl. I just kept thinking that she looks like a "professional" and I look like a sack of potatoes trying to pretend I'm in charge. Why does it matter so much? I know the numbers. I know the business better than anyone in that room. But all I could think about was if Mr. Henderson was going to look at me and think I looked... soft. Or old. Or like I’ve let myself go since the merger happened. It’s like, you work your whole life to get the title and the office with the window but then you’re held together by spanx and sheer willpower and you’re terrified someone’s gonna notice the fabric pulling. It makes me feel like I'm failing at being a woman and a boss at the same time. I ended up walking into the conference room at 2:02. Two minutes late. I NEVER am late. I just kept my arms crossed over my stomach the whole time I was talking, even when I was showing the slide about the overhead costs. I bet I looked like I was angry or something. I saw Jim looking at me funny during the Q&A part. He probably thought I was being difficult but I was just trying to keep my midsection from touching the edge of the table so nobody could see how the blazer sat. And now I’m awake and I keep thinking about that blazer sitting on the chair in the corner of my bedroom. It’s a size 12. I used to be an 8 for fifteen years. I should probably just give it to Goodwill but then what would I wear to the board meeting on Friday? I feel like I’m losing my mind over a piece of clothing but it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s like everything is changing and I’m just trying to pin it all down—my body, my kids, my job—so it stays put for just five minutes. I hope nobody reads this and knows it’s me. I mean, how many 50-year-old women are hiding in bathrooms in midtown? Probably a lot, right? But it feels so lonely when you're the one doing it. You spend all day being the boss and the mom and the daughter and then at night you’re just... this. Just a person who’s scared of a button. I’m gonna try to sleep now but my heart is still doing that fast thumping thing and I'm already dreading getting dressed tomorrow morning.