Her first angry email was only four lines long. Following a subject line that testified “corporate life is not so bad,” she took issue with a short rant she had found on my web site. “You make it sound like a day job is a cop out,” she chastized. “I have a day job but I’m proud that I made the leap from my dream to reality. I can actually pay my bills, and you know what? – most days that feels good.” She gave no specifics, not even her name, and no clues as to where in the country she lived. Something in my gut sensed there was a story here, if I could get its author to reveal more.
We corresponded occasionally for a couple weeks. Slowly came her gender, and then her first initial, W. She wrote generally about corporate life and dream life, without any identifying details. The lack of specificity kept me intrigued. There was a reason for her secrecy: “The path my life took after living my dream made me a much happier, more interesting person. But people only want to hear about the early years. They’re not interested in my life now. So I hide the early years, so people can discover the real me.”
Slowly she trusted my sincerity of interest in the “real” her. She agreed to be profiled if it might help bring this point of view to the book. Her name was Wendy Jones. I wouldn’t have to get on a plane to come see her – a drive across the Golden Gate Bridge would get me there. She worked in Marin and lived in Sonoma. She was 42.
She grew up in Albuquerque. Her father was a secret service agent, her mother a schoolteacher who earned $30,000 a year. They’ve been married fifty years. Wendy was one of four children. In high school, her dream was to travel. She wanted to be a flight attendant, but back then there were height requirements, and Wendy was too tall. Five ten. All her friends and boyfriends were shorter, so she stooped and slouched. Her parents sent her to a finishing school to improve her posture. The series of classes ended with a trip to New York for a modeling convention at the Waldorf Astoria hotel. She put up with the classes because she wanted to see New York.
Out of thousands of teens at the convention, Wendy won. The prize was to be a modeling contract with the Ford Agency. Instead, Wendy snuck out to head down to the fashion district. She wanted to see the building at 550 7th Avenue; all the famous clothes designers had their studios inside. She was standing in the building’s lobby, soaking up the atmosphere, when the lobby guard asked, “Are you here for the ‘go-see’?” Unsure what a “go-see” was, she nodded. He sent her up to a floor. On the elevator was a very distinguished looking man. He too asked her, “Are you here for the ‘go-see’?”
“Yes,” she said.
Her first angry email was only four lines long. Following a subject line that testified “corporate life is not so bad,” she took issue with a short rant she had found on my web site. “You make it sound like a day job is a cop out,” she chastized. “I have a day job but I’m proud that I made the leap from my dream to reality. I can actually pay my bills, and you know what? – most days that feels good.” She gave no specifics, not even her name, and no clues as to where in the country she lived. Something in my gut sensed there was a story here, if I could get its author to reveal more.
We corresponded occasionally for a couple weeks. Slowly came her gender, and then her first initial, W. She wrote generally about corporate life and dream life, without any identifying details. The lack of specificity kept me intrigued. There was a reason for her secrecy: “The path my life took after living my dream made me a much happier, more interesting person. But people only want to hear about the early years. They’re not interested in my life now. So I hide the early years, so people can discover the real me.”
Slowly she trusted my sincerity of interest in the “real” her. She agreed to be profiled if it might help bring this point of view to the book. Her name was Wendy Jones. I wouldn’t have to get on a plane to come see her – a drive across the Golden Gate Bridge would get me there. She worked in Marin and lived in Sonoma. She was 42.
She grew up in Albuquerque. Her father was a secret service agent, her mother a schoolteacher who earned $30,000 a year. They’ve been married fifty years. Wendy was one of four children. In high school, her dream was to travel. She wanted to be a flight attendant, but back then there were height requirements, and Wendy was too tall. Five ten. All her friends and boyfriends were shorter, so she stooped and slouched. Her parents sent her to a finishing school to improve her posture. The series of classes ended with a trip to New York for a modeling convention at the Waldorf Astoria hotel. She put up with the classes because she wanted to see New York.
Out of thousands of teens at the convention, Wendy won. The prize was to be a modeling contract with the Ford Agency. Instead, Wendy snuck out to head down to the fashion district. She wanted to see the building at 550 7th Avenue; all the famous clothes designers had their studios inside. She was standing in the building’s lobby, soaking up the atmosphere, when the lobby guard asked, “Are you here for the ‘go-see’?” Unsure what a “go-see” was, she nodded. He sent her up to a floor. On the elevator was a very distinguished looking man. He too asked her, “Are you here for the ‘go-see’?”
“Yes,” she said.
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