THE STORY OF MY WHITE PANTS
I had all my ducks in a row. We arrived back in the states late on a Wednesday night. There was immediately a bit of repacking we needed to do. Rick and Emmy had flights scheduled for the next day to get back to Madison. Rick was leaving first following a quick client meeting on the Upper Eastside. That morning he packed his luggage into a Lift, went to the meeting, followed by getting into another Lift and he was off to the airport. His reward for promptness was between the time he left for the airport and arrived in Madison he got Covid, lucky him. Emmy wasn't scheduled to leave until later in the afternoon. She's still my my little darling and even though she's a young adult now and totally capable of taking care of herself I insisted on taking her to the airport and making sure she got there and on the plane without a hitch. I received the appropriate side eye for my parental concern.
This left me at home all by myself with four client projects now needing immediate attention. The workload was intense, stressful and completely satisfying knowing that there was work to be done including scrambling for another job. Within the next four days I reviewed the first bid with our assistant's help on the largest project we were dealing with preparing pages of questions and concerns for the contractor. Then I moved on to product sourcing finding over eighty items with the qualification of immediate delivery for another client, screen shot them and emailed all. For the next task on the list I finished a set of drawings for a third client. Then I did all the grunt work for meetings with three prospective contractors on a forth project. I am clearly patting myself on my back
and neglecting to mention that Rick helped extensively with the product sourcing. (The italicized section of this last sentence was added by the Editor-in-Chief)
All things seemed set for my first real contact with clients since our return from Italy. I was ready, very very ready to get back into the swing of things.
It was now Tuesday, the day after Memorial Day, the day we're all allowed to flip off the fashion police (headed by our very own Editor-in-Chief) scrutinizing and confidently put on our summer whites.
I rose early and got done all my pre-vacation ablutions: a thirty-minute Stairmaster workout, a brief spritz in the shower (the shaving and shampooing had been completed the night before), brushed my teeth, sprayed a little deodorant and got dressed - in my slim fit stretchy white pants. Normally my daily routine would have included making a banana and coffee smoothie (yuck) but this morning I decided to pass, I'd pick up a Starbucks Frappuccino at Grand Central before I boarded the Hudson line to Croton. I should also add that the day we arrived back in New York I reinstated my intermittent fasting routine to work on those few extra pounds I inevitably put on by eating my way through an a minimum of two bowls of pastas and a grande coupe di gelato each day we were away.
I got to Grand Central, bought my ticket and that Java Chip skim milk no whipped cream Frappuccino before heading to the train. The train was virtually empty allowing me to take a row of three seats: one for me, one for my satchel and one for my frap. It was 7:39 AM. It was an express train making only two additional stops before getting to Croton.
For the next hour I would I fight between playing solitaire on my phone and staring at my Frappuccino asking my self: should I take a sip and break my fasting rules of nothing before 11:00 or should I say "Screw it" and just drink the damn thing. Don't judge me. I held to my resolve with the plan of getting to my client's home and depositing the by now watery Frappuccino in their frig until after my designated time to eat.
At Croton I got off the train, my satchel in one hand and the frap in the other. My client was waiting for me in her sporty two-door BMW. There is no graceful way of getting into one of these cars. I put down my bag , opened the door, threw my bag in the back seat and while balancing the frap bent myself in the only compressed position I could to get into the passenger seat. Total success.
We got through the security gates at my client's home, and she graciously let me out before she pulled the car into the garage. This required the same amount of gymnastic contortions to extricate myself from the passenger bucket seat of her BMW as it had to get myself into the seat. I got my bag out of the backseat while still balancing my frap in the other hand. I was so impressed with myself, my first outing post vacation, tanned, wearing my summer whites and looking gooood. At this precise moment was when I felt a little wetness on my leg. I first had to question whether this was imaginary or real. The sporty BMW had been fully air-conditioned so I wasn't sure if it was the contrast I was feeling between leaving the cool car into the heat of the ninety degree day or something much more dreadful. I hadn't come in contact with any water source that I could remember. With both hands occupied carrying my bags on one hand and the frap in the other I did a quick check for a water source. I found it right away.
At some point during the ride from the train station to my client's home the frap had managed to slosh out right into my crotch. It looked as if I had crapped my pants. I couldn't have worn a pair of jeans or a pair of black pants, anything that would have hidden the stain or at least made it less obvious. There's nothing more visible than a coffee stain with bits of chopped up chocolate on a pair of white pants.
My client, her daughter and her husband were all standing outside waiting to start their weight lifting session with their trainer. There was nothing to do but to dive in and exploit the situation commanding center stage with both arms raised, a huge smile on face saying, "How do you like my entrance?" There was no place to hide. I had to embrace the situation. I had to ask my client's husband if he might have a pair of shorts I could borrow. This was comedy in itself. My client's husband is about six inches shorter than I am and a fitness nut. Chuckling, he went into the house to see what he could retrieve. Somehow I was able to squeeze myself into the one pair of stretchy shorts he had. I then had to turn over my soiled pants to my client. She carried them off in mock disgust to the laundry, sprayed them with spot remover and threw them into the wash. I survived our meeting with the first contractor wearing my client's slightly tight shorts but was able to retrieve my pants before the second contractor meeting. We carried on laughing all the way to my client pulling my pants out of the dryer checking out for any remaining stains and declaring, "I think your crotch looks spotless".
Client relationships in the interior design field frequently go beyond a simple professional relationship. You are required to not only be a designer but frequently a therapist and confident. This time the roles were reversed. This time the client saved my butt and did it with grace and humor. I love my job.
