I Never Promised You a Goodie Bag Page 12

  But I knew there was more involved with transforming my company than making resolutions. I realized that I’d taken the company as far as I could on my own, and now I needed help.

  I had heard about a course at MIT called “Birthing of Giants.” A master’s program for entrepreneurs, it was an intensive series of classes in all the high-level stuff that I’d never thought about in a concrete way—vision statements, corporate culture, best practices. This was exactly what I needed, so I applied and was admitted along with sixty-four other under-forty business owners from around the world (sixty-one were men; one of the two other women was part of a husband/wife team). I worked in a female-dominated industry, my employees were women, and I’ve always thrived on my relationships with women. Not only was this totally male-dominated environment alien to me, but I felt deeply intimidated by the other students’ knowledge. Most were MBAs with all kinds of business expertise that I’d learned by my wits—not in graduate school. I felt like such a fraud. Here I was, just having won an award most of them had applied for and lost, and I had already forgotten about that accomplishment.

  So I put on my tough exterior armor and sat at the front of the class, absorbing the course work like a sponge but speaking to no one—at least initially. When the others were getting together for drinks in the evening, I was back in my dorm room, poring over what I’d learned during the day. I’m sure I was known as “that bitch from New York.”

  Over time, though, I started to warm up, and I was deeply affected by the passion of my fellow students. There was always an incredible array of speakers, and each of the business owners who attended was invited to tell the story of his or her business at some point during the course. I listened while these strangers spilled their hearts about what their businesses meant to them, and how they had poured so much meaning into their work. For the first time, I felt surrounded by kindred spirits. I realized a truth that has stuck with me ever since: Everyone’s got their something. Everyone in that room had a story—whether it was sickness, poverty, divorce, or some other adversity—and they had all channeled their personal challenges into something beautiful. Their stories might be different from mine, but we all had one.

  Finally, on the last day of the course, I was the only person who hadn’t spoken. This was at a time when the people who knew what had happened to me were a very select few, and certainly no one in my office knew. I’d never sat down and told a bunch of girlfriends what had happened, much less sixty-four strangers whom I’d been so intimidated by just a short time before. In telling me their stories, these strangers had shown me the respect of treating me as their equal, as if I was as worthy as they were to sit in that room.

  I got up in front of them, and for the first time in my life I told a large group of people about my personal tragedy, and how my company had been born of my commitment to spend the rest of my life helping people celebrate. I said that I got up every day and helped people to laugh and express themselves, and I loved what I did. Their response was staggering to me—a standing ovation followed by dozens of e-mails telling me how much my story had meant to them.

  It was a life-changing experience for me to reveal myself that way among peers, and to feel nothing but respect, acceptance, and gratitude in response. It taught me that at least some of the time I could fully be myself—all the sides of me present and visible for the world to see.

  I took everything I learned at MIT, and I brought it back to my company. The first thing I did was to change my title to chief visionary officer; aren’t events, and business, and life, all about vision? Inspired by my experience of telling my story, I decided that it was time to come clean with my people about who I was and why I believed so strongly in the work that we did. I gathered all my employees together for an off-site retreat, and we talked about our mission statement as a company and why they thought our work was important. And then I told them my story, every bit of it and then I said, “I’m sorry for not expressing my gratitude for all those years.” I broke down and cried right there in front of them, looked around into caring, tearing eyes. This time, I wasn’t making them uncomfortable or nervous; they felt compassion for me. It’s amazing how disarming a simple apology can be, not an “I’m sorry but” which feels conditional, but an honest “I’m sorry,” which is limitless. I realized it was no longer enough to work hard and expect everyone else around me to do the same. We all needed to know why we were there, and why our work mattered. Of course I also hoped that they might gain some understanding of—and maybe a little forgiveness for—the scary mask I’d worn for so long.

  Not long after, my staff was planning a massive four-day event for an international nonprofit organization. This was one of the most important clients we’d ever had, and the conference involved hundreds of leaders flying in from all over the world, multiple venues, meals, conference rooms, and daily activities for the leaders as well as entertainment for their spouses. The finale was a dinner cruise around Manhattan. We worked like dogs to make sure that everything was perfect, and the whole four days leading up to the cruise had been seamless. I trusted my people implicitly, and I gave them positive feedback for their work. It was proof that I could be both a perfectionist and a human being.

  Then on the last night, as the dinner cruise approached the dock to unload my clients after their perfect evening, a pin in the brake pad broke. The boat bore down on the dock, unable to slow down or stop until it actually crashed into the mooring. I mean, this was not like a little Oopsie, we just bumped the dock. This was a plate-smashing, people-flying-in-the-air collision with the dock. I couldn’t have invented a worse ending. Luckily the injuries were only minor, but the finale of my four-day extravaganza was sirens and ambulances instead of smiles and goodie bags. It was an unmitigated, unpreventable disaster.

  When my staffer called me to tell me the news, I could sense how terrified she was. I don’t know what she expected or feared I might say, but she knew how much was riding on this event. She knew not only that this organization symbolized millions of dollars of business but also that our reputation was on the line. My reaction to her in that moment would be the test of the new me. Who would I be in a crisis—the scary boss who prided herself on her supernatural perfectionism, or the woman with a mission much larger than any single event?

  I passed the test. I reassured her that there was no way any of us could have predicted a broken brake pin (I mean, seriously? Did I even know that party boats had brake pins?). And I told her that the most important thing was that she was okay. And I meant it. From the bottom of my heart and soul, I meant it.

  Chapter Eleven

  I Never Promised You a Goodie Bag

  We all want a happy ending. If every event is a story, then a goodie bag is like the kiss at the end of the fairy tale. We’re all waiting for it, and when we finally get our prettily wrapped reward, we tear into it like a child at a birthday party.

  Inside that goodie bag there might be nothing more than a granola bar and a shampoo sample, but party guests will sharp-elbow their ninety-year-old grandmother out of the way if it looks like there might be a shortage. You think you’ve seen the worst humanity has to offer at a Prada sample sale? Try imagining the last lifeboat on the Titanic. The last helicopter out of Saigon. Now imagine me standing between a horde of upper-crust revelers and the single remaining goodie bag. I swear to you: it will get ugly. Grown women will fight over who got the better shade of lip gloss. Guests will scream at my staff because they want to know why they got the regular goodie bag instead of the VIP goodie bag. They will actually climb over each other to get to those little bags, and then they’ll end up tossing all of it. So many times I have walked out of events to see trash cans full of the books, pens, and picture frames that my staff and I had spent hours stuffing into those shiny bags.

  At most events, the bags aren’t put out until the very end of the night, and I have seen guests actually leave a party early just so they
can stand on line to wait for their goodie bag. Every time it happens, I’m surprised all over again. Really? I want to say to them. You left the good time in there, just for the promise that there might be something worth having in this little bag?

  Once I did an extravagant party for a massively successful biotech company. The invite went out in a black box, and packed inside were hangover cures, party poppers, confetti, all to foreshadow that this would be the event of the year. At the party there were aerial performers and seven-foot-tall ice sculptures that shot vodka into custom-made glasses in the design of the company’s newest prescription launch. For the unveiling of the new drug, the CEO was lowered down among his one thousand guests from a high, darkened ceiling. The whole event was like a circus, a game show, and Mardi Gras rolled into one. Finally, after this incredible star-studded, million-dollar event, a guest came up to me and said, “Where are the goodie bags?” I had to laugh.

  Over the last few years I’ve conducted my own secret war against goodie bags. I’ve gently pointed my clients away from the pens and the lip gloss. If they really feel they must give something, then I’ll encourage them at least to make it fun and edible—cookies and milk, or the next day’s New York Times and a bagel. When I planned a big banquet for a women’s nonprofit, I managed to convince them to make a donation in lieu of dessert and goodie bags. At all events, everyone takes dessert being served as their signal to leave. So instead of wasting all that food and spending money on goodie bags, my client announced to the guests that they’d donated the dessert course to a shelter for women. I loved that gesture, because it acknowledged the meaning behind the event. After all, life’s not about the presents, but your presence. I wanted to jump for joy and scream, “Rock on with your big bad selves for paying it forward!”

  To me, goodie bags have become a metaphor for life. It’s fine to hope for a happy ending to any given situation, but it’s when we expect a really specific outcome that we can get into trouble. Yet, truth be told, I had gotten to a point in my own life where I was kind of looking around and saying, “Is this it? Where’s my goodie bag?” In my case, that goodie bag was “the one”—my soul mate.

  During the years that Rachel, Deanna, and I were living together, we were all single at one time or another— often at the same time—and we came up with a brilliant idea that I swear merits a patent. We’d throw a huge party and invite all of our friends, colleagues, and basically everyone we knew, and ask them to bring their cutest unattached male friends. It was genius—a party where at least half the people would be single men. How often does that happen?

  Our building had a roof deck that everyone could use, and we packed it full. My specialty was something I called sangria but that was actually clean-out-your-liquor-cabinet punch mixed up with some fruit and sugar. I served it in enormous bowls, and by the end of the night everyone was cross-eyed.

  Those parties were a buffet of men, and without fail we’d all meet someone before the end of the night. When the party was over, there would be seven of us left: Deanna and Rachel with their potentials, me with my new interest . . . and of course Bennett, washing the glasses. He was always there, the pal who’d take the trash bag when I handed it to him as I went off to flirt with someone else. And he never once complained. One year, when I was already paired up with a boyfriend, I remember the man saying to me, “What’s with Bennett?” I just laughed and said, “He’s my sidekick and my best friend.”

  On one particularly memorable night, I was juggling two men that two different friends wanted to set me up with. Before the party, my friend Susan had been talking up a man named Evan. She said she had a feeling we’d really like each other. He was a Harvard Business grad who was running his family business and had an entrepreneurial streak. And he loved music and dancing, which were my obsessions. So I said, Fine, fine, bring him. Then my friend Lisa wanted me to meet a single friend of hers. He was gorgeous and incredibly charming, and forever after my friends and I would nickname him Beautiful Boy. I was never afraid to stack the decks, so I told Lisa that of course she should bring him. The more the merrier.

  At the party, from the second I laid eyes on Beautiful Boy, I was mesmerized. I happily neglected everyone else. Toward the end of the night, I was approached by a cute boy in glasses and a funky plaid shirt. He said, “Susan will kill me if I don’t at least say hello and thank you for inviting me.” I looked at him blankly, and then he said, “I’m Evan, Susan’s friend.” Then I remembered: Evan, of course. So I said, “Oh! It’s you, hello, thanks for coming.” Evan invited me to go out dancing with his friends, but I begged off and said I had to stay with the party. Then I happily went back to talking to Beautiful Boy, whose actual name was Dave. He was the last man there (not counting Bennett), and before he left, he asked me out for Friday night. So of course I said yes.

  The next day Susan called me and said, “So what did you think of Evan?” My eyes were filled with Dave, and I could barely remember Evan. I told Susan I thought he seemed nice. Then she laid it on thick—Jen, I swear he’s great, he thought you were so pretty, he really wants to see you. (Meanwhile she pulled the same routine with him, I’d find out later—Jen thought you were adorable, etc., etc. She played us both like fiddles.) I said, Sure, have him call me. And he did—so we made plans for that weekend. But really, my priority was my date with Dave.

  My first dates with both men went exactly the way I might have predicted. Evan picked me up in his bright yellow Mazda Miata (which I loved and we bonded over—not just anyone who’s not a cabbie can rock a yellow car) and took me to a cool Moroccan restaurant. He was too nervous to eat, but I got him to loosen up a little bit by asking, “So how was your day?” He kind of looked at me, a bit surprised, and said, “What do you mean?” I said, “I mean, how was your day?” To me, that’s a more caring way to find out about a person’s life rather than to just up and ask them what they do for a living. So Evan told me about a problem he’d had at work that day. Then he said, “You’re a business owner, what would you have done?” I said, “Hmm. I would have handled it completely differently.” And then I gave him my opinion. Evan started laughing and said, “Uh, why don’t you tell me how you really feel?” I said something that’s my motto to this day: “If you want a different answer, ask a different girl.”

  During our date, I noticed that Evan took me seriously, and I liked that. On the way home we talked about music, and I realized that he knew all the same obscure hip-hop bands that I did. It was a fun evening, but there were no sparks. We shook hands at the end of the night, which was totally typical for me.

  Dave was a different story. We flirted all evening during our first date, and I cannot for the life of me remember what we talked about. And I think we made out in the cab. Well . . . rules were made to be broken.

  The next weekend they both asked me out again, and I said yes again, although I was still putting my money on Dave.

  That Friday, Evan picked me up at my building, and he hailed a cab. I remember I was wearing a halter dress and these funny green butterflies in my hair (not sure what that fashion moment was about, but anyway), and when we got in I leaned forward to tell the cabdriver what route to take to the restaurant. It was laughable—even on a date I couldn’t loosen my type A control-freak personality. Meanwhile, Evan must have been thinking, Who is this pushy broad?

  While I was talking to the driver, Evan’s only view of me was from behind. He was quiet while I gave my instructions, and then he said two words to me that shifted the whole dynamic. Those two words were: “Nice back.”

  I don’t know exactly what happened in that moment, but it was certainly chemical. There was no other way to explain it. I turned around to look at Evan, and that was it. I thought, Oh my God, I love him.

  We went to Grove Street, a romantic bistro in the West Village, and sat in the outdoor garden. I looked across the table at him, and I was thinking, How did this happen, could I already be in l
ove with him? All my senses were firing. I knew that something was going on here—I had recognized something familiar in Evan.

  I said, “What’s the story with you, what’s the issue? There’s something a little broken in you, I can feel it.” I guess it takes one shattered spirit to know another, and in the middle of dinner he opened up to me about his complicated family relationships, old wounds that were magnified by the fact that he worked with his father and uncle in the family business. Meanwhile, he really wanted to leave and make his own success, but he felt a tremendous obligation to carry on what his grandfather had started, and he was pretty resentful about all of it.

  I listened to him, and then when I got up to go to the ladies’ room, I did something so uncharacteristic of me that I’m surprised at myself even in retrospect. I walked around to his side of the table, I took his face in my hands, and I kissed him—deeply—right in the middle of that tiny thirty-person restaurant. It went on so absurdly long that someone actually picked up a piece of gravel from the ground and threw it at my back—like, Enough, get a room. I was so embarrassed that I abruptly stopped kissing Evan and ran into the bathroom.

  I’m sure he was as shocked as I was, and when I got to the bathroom, I was shaking all over. I took a few deep breaths before I opened the door to leave, and there he was, standing right outside. I said, “Do you have to pee or do you want more?” He came in with me, and we stayed in that three-by-three-foot bathroom for a good fifteen minutes. Just kissing—but still. I didn’t do things like that.

  When we left the restaurant, I sat down on the stoop of a brownstone, and I said, “I have to tell you something.” And then I told him everything—the whole story of the attack—which I had never, ever done on a second date. He dropped down next to me, and we talked until 4:00 a.m. He took me back to my apartment, and then he went home.