Flies, Oh My Lord! Volume 2

It was a normal summer day at the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City until an unfamiliar voice “Knock, Knock’d” on my cubicle’s imaginary door.

I turned to greet my visitor, certainly not expecting to see the bank’s general counsel pretend knocking. Yet, there he was. A law god descending from the C-suite Mount Olympus of the 19th floor to the labyrinth of our corporate cubicle farm on a far lower floor.

I put on my most serious business face and acted as though I hobnobbed with executive muckety mucks on the daily.

Thankfully, the dress-for-success gods had smiled upon me that morning. I was power-suited up in freshly pressed, crisp double-breasted seersucker. With a straw boater I could pass for an old-timey banker from the Deep South.

He asked a detailed question about our corporate volunteer program and — praise be to Alan Greenspan! — I had the information at my fingertips. And it was all typed up in an official memo!

Before long we were lobbing words like “cost benefit analysis” and “ROI” and “metrics on the impact of doing well by doing good on employee recruitment and retention” back and forth like we were in the finals of corporate Wimbledon.

People! I was in spotless seersucker! Using acronyms like ROI! Gabbing nonchalantly with the general counsel of the Fed!

Next career stop? The Fed’s board of governors in DC! There would be cocktail parties! Meetings with Alan Greenspan! Golf outings! Oprah!

We finished our convo and the good counselor followed his breadcrumb trail back to the 19th floor.

I floated over to my buddy Matt, Keeper of All Institutional Knowledge. He was as gobsmacked as I was about our highbrow visitor.

Then he brought me back to Earth with four small words. “Cecilia, your zipper’s down.”

I ran back to my cube, sitting to perform a dramatic re-enactment of my career’s death. My fancy pants were stiffly starched and generously pleated, ensuring maximum visibility per square inch.

No. Just, no. I mean, really God? Couldn’t you come up with a more demure comeuppance?

Exposing oneself was not one of the seven habits of highly effective people and Stephen Covey himself couldn’t suggest a graceful recovery.

And while there was no definitive proof of cause and effect, our 16th floor home was never again graced by the presence of a corporate deity.