Invisibility

The Crown

My crown has been giving me some trouble lately. No, not one on my head, but in my head. Years ago I suffered an unfortunate incident that took out my front tooth and now I have a crown for a maxillary central incisor. For those who know, this is very obvious. For those who don't, well, I suppose there's a certain "something not quite right about your smile," as my daughter so diplomatically put it last week when I finally divulged that what she'd been looking at for her whole life wasn't exactly original equipment. There’s no room for ego when you’re hiding in plain sight and someone turns the spotlight on your imperfections.

Nearly two decades after “the incident”, I have been told by my dentist that the integrity of the crown has been compromised and it is only a matter of time before I lose it. When the dentist asked what may have caused the crack, I had to disclose that I took an elbow to the face. Now, this was not an elbow to the face suffered from a bout in the ring nor a thieving squabble, all of which I have endured with class and grace. It was an elbow to the face on my very first day of women’s recreational soccer. The blow came from nowhere, blindsiding me completely. The referee's whistle remained silent. From day one, these women have proved to be more trouble than I ever bargained for. I’ve had to navigate some trying times with this roster of sapphic strikers.

To be fair, I wasn’t the only straight woman on the team. I knew it was the birth of a lasting friendship during that first post-match excursion to Chili’s when she tried to recruit me for her doomsday prepper commune. Incredible. Despite the fact that it has now been a couple of years since I have played on that soccer team, I am still her go-to companion for all things DNR. In fact, just yesterday she messaged me with the most wild request yet. She asked me to attend a class with her, the description for which is as follows:

“Preparing, stuffing and mounting skins of animals is an ancient art form. In this introduction to the craft you will learn basic techniques. After a brief introduction, you will prepare a mouse rug or stuffed mouse in an action setting you choose. All equipment and materials are provided, and you get to keep your mouse!”

Yes, mouse taxidermy. She even suggested that our mice be staged in a soccer play for posterity. What a woman. Of course I said yes immediately. Unfortunately, the dates conflict with the burial of my grandfather—another morbid topic. But, as she says, arguably less morbid than taxidermy.

I digress.

An elbow to the face was unexpected. While I myself was a completely unskilled novice, these women were feisty and aggressive, which was exactly what I was after. If I don’t have a physical activity to help regulate my feelings, then they come out in my writing, and no one wants that. (Aside: I don’t expect anyone else to be responsible for my emotional regulation or affirmation, though companionship means everything to me.)

Anyway.

The crown needs to be replaced. I will have to undergo a few different treatments in order to prepare my mouth for the new arrival. Last Tuesday marked the inaugural torture session in what promises to be a diverting dental odyssey.

This first appointment was in the early morning before work. I hadn’t realized the treatment involved novocaine until the needle was halfway to my gums, by which point rescheduling would’ve triggered what my dentist portentously calls “appointment dominoes,” what I recognize as the bureaucratic equivalent of dropping a lit match into a fireworks factory.

The introduction of novocaine to the mix made my stomach lurch for a moment. That day I had back-to-back meetings until 4p, two of which were interviews that I would be moderating with what we call “high value” participants (meaning they are wealthy in ways I’ll never comprehend and require white glove treatment).

Worse yet, I'd be on display in what we affectionately call "the fishbowl," a conference room with enough snacks to feed a small army and a TV the size of Nebraska. And who should be attending but the new head honcho himself! There I'd be, trying to look competent while half my face hung like wet laundry and a river of drool charted new territory down my chin. There is nothing quite like being observed professionally while physically compromised. The horror of it would live forever in company archives, ready to resurface whenever someone needed a good laugh.

I asked the dentist if it was possible to skip the numbing agent and just raw dog the process. They gave me an appraising look and said it was “inadvisable”.

I scrolled through my mental Rolodex of connections for replacements, but finding a last minute moderator is more difficult than it seems. Some people think they can moderate, but to build rapport quickly, manage the flow of a conversation, and make sure you are hitting every research objective is challenging. Moderators need to be restrained enough to allow the participant to struggle, or grow angry, interject just enough to guide them to a specific topic without leading or creating bias, all while managing a side chat with the observers in the fishbowl, and coding thematic annotations for future analysis at the same time. Someone with these skills, last minute, with subject matter expertise? I quickly realized there was really no way around it. I would accept my fate and simply try my best, whatever that means.

The procedure went efficiently, and I found myself wondering if the numbing agent had been necessary at all. My threshold for discomfort has always been substantial; I can hold still while being stabbed repeatedly.

Once I settled my bill, I took off like a prom dress. I usually take the back roads, preferring the pleasant company of the river on the scenic route, but this time I sped my way down the main drag to get to the first interview as quickly as possible. Mouth slack, I attempted to sip my coffee with little success. I reflected, sadly, at my hubris as I watched it drip down my beige blazer. Another problem of my own making.

I hustled into the office catching a whiff of cigarette smoke and clocked someone returning a pack of Parliaments into their bag. Instead of focusing on the upcoming interview topics as I should have been, my thoughts drifted to a conversation I'd had with my spouse two nights earlier about Parliaments.

We had been playing a hand of gin rummy while the TV hummed with music videos on YouTube in the background. Around the house, I’m not typically the one choosing the music, and last week I wouldn't have known what to play even if handed the aux cord. S chose Charlie XCX for educational purposes. I had completely missed out on the cultural experience of “brat summer”, and still don’t think I could tell you what it is. We shuffled an assortment of her music videos as an introduction to her aesthetic. I have no idea which, but in one video she whipped out a pack of Parliaments and lit up. S said, “If you’re going to smoke, you should smoke Parliaments”. I’ve never tried Parliaments before, never even heard of them. I’m incredibly out of touch in many ways. Seeing the package of Parliaments in real life on my way into the office in the hands of a gorgeous woman in a power suit made me think, “huh, I guess I could try them”. I caught myself mid-thought. This is precisely why I won’t be casually smoking on street corners. We all have the freedom to experiment, but when others are watching, even the smallest choices become statements. The price of being seen, I suppose.

I badged through the turnstiles, made my way to the elevator, and rummaged through my cabinet in search of anything that could help with my coffee-speckled lapel. A kerchief! Perfect.

I wound the silk around my neck, tied an intricate knot and shot off to the meeting. After what felt like minutes of typing in my ridiculous password on multiple machines, networks, and apps, I put on my brave face and tested my lips— shaping words that I assumed would be most difficult: hegemony, magnanimous, amatory, palliate, oubaitori, and the like.

Ping!

My recruitment assistant sent me a message:

“Our participant, John Doe, has just cancelled his session with you. He spent too late a night out at a business convention and is feeling a bit under the weather. He sends his sincere apologies and hopes to connect another time.

Warm regards, &c &c”

Crisis averted? Too late a night on a Monday? Well, now I had an hour before the next meeting. So I spent the time wisely and prepared additional artifacts to deliver for the afternoon I walked to the corner store and bought a pack of Parliaments.

As I strolled back to the office, I fished a cigarette from the pack and awkwardly positioned it near my mouth. Attempting to press my lips around it, I quickly realized my efforts were futile when the cigarette began to roll away, landing softly on the pavement. With a sigh, I tucked the pack back into my bag and continued on my way. I don’t smoke anyway. By the time the next hour rolled around, I managed to manipulate my lips just enough to utter a small prayer, hoping to navigate the remainder of the business day without further mishap.

Visibility

Now, admittedly, I’ve been busy lately. Not the good kind of “busy” where you’re in a flow accomplishing things, but the kind where you’re spinning twenty plates on sticks atop a unicycle. With multiple contracts racing toward deadlines, my work calendar resembles a game of Tetris where the pieces fall faster than I can arrange them. I sacrifice my sanity for freedom from student loans and medical bills. T minus 2 months until more of these commitments end, and I can resurface.

Through it all, I can hear my dad’s voice ringing in my memory: “The Man doesn’t own you. You owe The Man nothing. You are your own corporation.” It’s the entrepreneur’s mindset I inherited, trading my expertise for deposits that materialize in my checking account. I set the terms of this exchange, even when it feels overwhelming. And, as mom always said, “you made your bed, now you have to lie in it.”

Regardless of my complicated relationship with my approach to corporate maxims, something within me bristled when the director casually told me this week, “New York is coming to town. Be in the office so you can be visible.”

I could make myself more “visible” for the sake of… office politics(?), but I do not have the bandwidth. Apologies, in advance, bosstie, but I will remain in the shadows, invisible, where I can do all that needs to be done to keep these plates spinning.

Where were we…ah!

New York arrived. I did an exemplary job of sidestepping as I nimbly toggled in and out of double bookings after my Parliament excursion. Morning interviews complete, and lips fully functional, I skipped onto the elevator to dash to a conference room on another floor. The doors opened when, lo and behold, New York was on the elevator. In our shared four-floor ride, our exchange was as follows:

M: Oh! Hello, how are you?

NY: I am well, thank you. But travel has been difficult. My last flight here had been cancelled due to the blizzard, and then this time there was a huge fire!

M: Oh no! Well, bye.

[Exits elevator]

Need to work on that elevator speech.

Regrettably, my early dentist appointment disrupted my morning routine and I had forgotten to pack my lunch. I had a tight gap in my schedule around noon, so I power-walked to the nearest sushi restaurant. I like sushi, but that’s not why I chose it. They have the cheapest lunch deal: salmon sushi bowl with miso soup for only $7. Can’t even get a 10oz latte for that price!

I got in the long line spilling out of the door and down the hall. I bit my lip nervously looking at the clock when, to my surprise, the man standing in front of me in line turned around. New York himself, with an expression of pleasant recognition, said:

NY: We meet again!

M: Oy vey “Hello!”

NY: Come here often?

M: Oh no, what do we talk about? What do I say? I have nothing. “Haha”. Courtesy laugh, there we go. Now what? Didn’t he just come back from somewhere in Europe? Why do I know that? Was it Austria? Where was it… “So, tell me about your time abroad.”

Bingo.

We took our sushi and walked back to the office together. What could have been an excruciating 20 minutes turned into a detailed illustration of the art and history of Vienna, and I didn’t have to say a single thing. Because I couldn’t power walk back to allow for enough time to slam a sushi bowl before the next meeting, I had to strategically take bites off-camera between demos. C'est la vie.

The next morning we had an “all-hands” meeting in a cavernous conference room on level two. It was the kind with stadium seating reserved for executives and board presentations. I’ve perfected a system for these mandatory gatherings: arrive early enough to be spotted by my leader and the department heads, grab a free pastry and coffee from the catering spread, make deliberate small talk with three key stakeholders, and then vanish precisely as the lights dim for the PowerPoint. This strategic appearance lets me avoid both attendance-related reprimands and the actual hour-long meeting, freeing me to tackle my inbox from the refuge of my desk.

On this occasion, I arrived five minutes early to make my presence known. I was encouraged to take not one donut, but two, because the caterer said “Crullers are superior to Old Fashioneds” or some nonsense.

When the PowerPoint flickered to life and dimmed the room, I executed my escape plan. I waited until the Director of Marketing, always the last to arrive, stepped through the doorway, then slipped out behind him before the heavy door could click shut. Victory in hand, I moved stealthily down the hallway with a donut in each fist, already tasting freedom, when I rounded the corner and collided directly with New York himself.

NY: Apologies. Oh! Hello, you.

M: Geez Louise, of course. “Hey!”

NY: I heard there were going to be donuts. Too many good options to choose from? Am I headed the wrong way? Or are you?

M: Ha, yeah… lots of good options. I need the carbs, you know, I’m going to start training for a race. I think we are both going the right way. Donuts are down the hall. Run!

I don’t know why I am like this. I have never quite figured out the root cause of this behavior, my elaborate commitment to remaining unseen. At some point in my life the impulse to sidestep had crystallized into a principle. But I don’t know if I care to put an effort into changing it at this time. Maybe later. I need to take a raincheck on my own introspection, slotted for a future season when I won’t be so busy constructing unsanctioned reconnaissance missions to get things done. My first order of business is carefully, methodically bringing these spinning plates to rest and returning them to their designated shelves.

Sometimes, despite your best efforts to reduce your footprint on the corporate radar, life has a way of putting you in the fishbowl anyway. Fate shines a light on you at the exact moment you least expect it. While I’d prefer to be invisible, sometimes there is just nothing you can do about it. And if you’re going to be visible, you might as well wear it like a crown.