Paris Letters (3 page)

I’ll tell you why we are the biggest, fastest, clearest, safest, and best in the league. And I’ll be offering it for the best price, obviously.

The third subhead will address you and those in your target.

If you’re a mom, I’ll discuss family packages. If you’re a student, I’ll tell you about our affordable high-speed Internet. If you’re a senior, I’ll tell you that Medicare will cover a portion of the cost and you won’t need a medical exam.

The fourth subhead will tell you that you’d better act now or you’ll be sorry.

I’ll write about how this is a limited-time offer, which it may or may not be. Next month I’ll have another offer, which will be more or less the same as this offer. “I’ll add a customer testimonial here too,” to add validity to the claim.

And a final sentence that will tie to the overall concept of the campaign, unless the client changes it. Then it will say, “Act now to take advantage of this incredible offer!” or something else equally uncreative.

Signed arbitrary title

John Big Shot Client Whom I’ve Never Met

P.S. 90 percent of the time, you’ll only read your name and the postscript so I’ll give the most important information here: the offer and how to get the offer. Plus I’ll mention yet again that it’s a limited-time offer (not).

P.P.S. The average U.S. household receives 1.5 trees’ worth of junk mail each year. In 2010, there were 114,235,996 households in the U.S. That’s a lot of trees.

3

Clean Out Your Underwear Drawer

My first step to Paris started in my underwear drawer.

During the slow morning commute to work the next morning, I pondered how I could save or make $100. I looked around at the people in the cars around me. All of us in our little boxed-in lives listening to music, talk radio, or an audio book, calling friends, and trying to make use of the time we were spending in the car. All just to get through the commute. All to make it bearable. All of us off to work, trying to afford our lives. How was I going to afford my future life?

Clean out your underwear drawer.

I knew this voice. Call it God, the authentic self, my imaginary friend, or the angel assigned to my case. It was the Wise Guy in my head who was constantly calm. His voice was mine, but also not mine. When my voice trembled, his was strong. When my thoughts were frantic, his were assured. In my mind’s eye, he looked like Mr. Miyagi from The Karate Kid. An old Asian guy who said a lot with very few words. And his presence in my car that morning was so palpable that I could have reached over and tickled his knee.

I have turned to Mr. Miyagi at times for assistance with my job. When I prayed for the next headline, I prayed to him. Sometimes I would write to him in my journal, and he would write back in my journal. And sometimes, if the deadline was looming, I would make my requests out loud. “Please give me a headline!” This was often followed by “Pretty please, pretty please, pretty please.” Which was often followed by “I’ll do whatever it takes. Just give me the answer before the meeting.” Which was sometimes followed with a quiet “Or I’ll be totally screwed.” And finally, after a minute of silence, the headlines began to flow.

At this point, if I didn’t have my journal out, I would reach for a napkin or a receipt to write down the lines. Or a coffee-stained pack of Post-it Notes, the back of a magazine, or a paper grocery bag. I’ve even written headlines on the car insurance papers stored in the glove box. Seasoned copywriters will always have a good pen in the car too. One with flow, like a Uni-Ball Vision. When the ideas came, they came fast, so preparation was key.

I spent a lot of time writing at stoplights, taking dictation from Mr. Miyagi. Was it God that wrote these headlines? Was it a genie? Was it just me? No. Yes. I don’t know.

On one morning, I was sitting at a light, writing a few lines on a napkin, when I looked over and saw Jon Hamm, the star of Mad Men, sitting in his car waiting at the light too. He was likely on his way to the studio to play the part of someone like me. In that moment, I wanted to play anyone but me.

I’ve often walked into the morning status meeting with a handful of inky Post-it Notes and handed them over stealth-style to my art director partner, the one who would later put the ideas into layouts. The project manager would ask where we were with the concepts for the next campaign. I’d confidently respond that the concepts were complete and just needed to go into layout. My partner would have looked at me bewildered, knowing that at the end of the previous day, we had had nothing. On the way back to our offices, she would look down at the Post-it Notes, which detailed the ad with headlines and layouts, and nod knowingly.

My in-car copywriting with Mr. Miyagi was part of what made me a successful copywriter. I had made it. Making it happened after a series of awards, promotions, and bumps in pay. Once you really made it, you were middle management. And if you were middle management, you had to go to the 9:00 a.m. daily status meetings. The status meeting was filled with project managers, studio managers, and creative managers who had also made it.

Head Mistress led the status meeting. She was like a bossy babysitter. She was on task. She was on time. She was professional. I bet if she could do anything with her free time, she would go grocery shopping or organize things or boss other people around.

Sanjay, the IT guy, unabashedly played games on his phone during the status meeting. That is, when he made it to the meeting at all.

Squealing Liam was always in attendance. He and his perfect posture were always early. He always tattled on those who were late. He was the nice kid on the playground who even the nerds hated.

I was one of the leaders of the creative department, which was filled with art directors who draw the pictures for the ads and copywriters who do the writing for the ads. Together, they would come up with the idea for the ad. I was a copywriter, but officially I was an Associate Creative Director. This title meant I qualified to sit in this daily status meeting so project managers could boss me around. Because I had made it.

I was typically three minutes late for status meetings. It was a passive-aggressive thing. I knew this. I was aware. If I had not been required to be in the status meeting, I would probably be three minutes early for work. I would probably be a model employee. I’d probably even have perfect posture like Liam. But as it was, I walked into a full group who picked up their pens as I sat down and opened my notebook.

Trying to stay focused and not get caught doodling geraniums in the margins was the hardest part of my job in the status meeting. Usually at some point, the back of my neck would get hot and the lion inside would start pacing the cage. Rather than roar, I nodded and let them tell me what they needed me and my department to get done.

Thoreau said that the majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation. Quiet desperation. That was me in the status meeting.

• • •

Clean out your underwear drawer.

This wasn’t the first being from the ethereal realm I’d felt in the passenger seat of my car. A few years ago, a colleague of mine died of a heart attack. He and I were like peas and carrots at the office. Whenever we wanted a coffee, we’d fetch it together. Lunch plans were always a matter of private consultation before public commitment. When he didn’t show up to work one morning, I began learning about grief. To mask it or heal it (I am not sure which), I would imagine him hopping in my car to go grab lunch. I’d imagined it so often that I could almost see his long legs trying to fit into my small Honda Civic. Knees to the dashboard. The same jeans. Always the same jeans. And his floppy red hair in the corner of my eye. Imagining him there led to talking with him.

“I’d like to re-create the status report,” his phantom self would say. “But this time, instead of Complete Budget Reports, I’d write Buy Bananas. Instead of Send Layouts to Client, I’d write Make Magic Wands.”

“You’d need magic wands,” I’d say, sometimes out loud. “Because magic is the only way this is going to get done.”

Then we’d howl, or rather I would howl alone in my car, and I’d feel a little less horrible about never seeing my floppy-haired friend ever again.

Clean out your underwear drawer.

After Mr. Miyagi opened his big divine mouth and gave marching orders, I thought about this mysterious instruction and realized it made perfect sense. If I were to ever save up enough to quit my job, I would want to travel. And if I wanted to travel, I’d have to pack a suitcase. And if I were to pack a suitcase, I wasn’t packing my tired, worn-out underwear. So why not take care of that task now instead of later, while I was still figuring out how to save or make that $100 a day.

After the traffic cleared, I drove to work and slipped into the status meeting. Instead of the usual quiet desperation, I felt excitement. I had a marching order from Mr. Miyagi. Could it be that the more I immersed myself in my pursuit to leave this job, the more insignificant it would become, and thus, less annoying?

Clean out your underwear drawer.

That evening, I went home and did just that. Turns out it takes virtually no time to sort through an underwear drawer. I didn’t have to try each pair on to see if it would fit the way I did with the clothes in my closet. A quick glance at each pair made sorting easy. Many pairs were pitifully worn out, so in the trash they went. I was shocked to learn that I had underwear from many boyfriends ago. There was Five Martini Matt, Creepy Guy, Trust Fund Baby, Barista Boy, The Animator, Googly Eye Chef, Dreds, Austin (the place), Austin (the name), Web Guy (as in feet, not occupation), Travel Writer, Australian Newscaster, and Hottie But Homeless. But like any advertising campaign, the print run ended. One by one, they drifted or I drifted. Or there were questions of geography, the future, children, religion, and age—and we all had different answers for each. Yet a decade’s worth of undies was still under my roof long after the lover for whom they were purchased walked out the door.

And then there were the panties to wear for Spencer. These were reasonably newer than the rest. Lacy red with a matching bra. Spencer was an architect I’d read about in a magazine. He had been a visiting professor at a local university. His tiny postage-stamp-sized portrait beside the article was just as interesting. Blond curls framed his blue-eyed, smiling face. He worked on disaster-relief and environmental projects—admirable, which made him all the hotter. His brief bio said nothing about a wife or children, but it gave me a website. I emailed him a fan letter. He responded quickly, saying that he would be visiting my city and would love to meet.

The first day of school, the first kiss, the first day at a new job…all as nerve-wracking as that moment I met Spencer. I still didn’t know at this point if he was single. I just knew I wanted to know him. I met him at the university. He walked up to me with his smile. I shot back my most winning grin. He showed me the projects he was working on with his students. Afterward, we walked around campus. Cheerleaders and book-laden students in football jerseys sauntered along in jovial groups, ivy crawled up redbrick walls, and everyone wore school colors. I felt like I was on a movie set.

We found empty chairs outside a café, and he began interviewing me on my marital status, to which I responded with flirting. To which he responded with a month of late-night deliveries of Chinese food, serenades on my couch, and smooches that lasted to the early morning. But when the project was done, so was he. Off he went to the next project in the next town, likely thinking we had had a lovely time and life moved on.

I was devastated. I had believed in the story of us, from seeing him in a magazine all the way to applauding his do-gooder projects well into old age. But no. He had moved on to other do-gooder projects. A year went by with little more than a comment here and there on my Facebook page. When he did leave a comment, my day was made. He was the emblem of all the relationships that didn’t work out. He got all the glory. If I could have made things work with him, I wouldn’t have felt defective. He was the hero of my heartache, the knight that could have, but never did, rescue me from my loneliness.

I folded my red lacy panties and placed them back in my drawer. Soon, I had a big drawer with a tiny pile of underwear, all neatly folded like envelopes. This was more than just satisfying. A tiny chasm opened in my soul, and peace began to trickle in. I felt lighter.

Cleaning out my underwear drawer was such a lovely feeling that in the weeks that followed, I moved on to cull all my closets, except for the closet of art supplies. Too overwhelming. I opened it once and quickly shut it before a metal Prism pencil box fell on my head. Best to stick to clothes.

There were those slimming black Corporate Barbie pants. They had to stay for now. I had plenty of office meetings in my future before I could toss them. But what about the other black slacks that never fit as well or looked as good as the miracle Corporate Barbie pants? Those slacker slacks could go. As could the rest of the clothes that just didn’t work on my body for one reason or another. Did I need those Tshirts that had shrunk in the dryer so I’d have to constantly tug them down over my midriff? No. And what about those sundresses that I loved so much and wore so often five years ago that I never wore anymore? Tossed. Or those shirts with the armpit stains that never came out. Was that deodorant or me? Those had to go.

This first swipe of my closet was a weeding out of clothes that weren’t worthy to be worn in public by anyone anywhere, the ones that not even the thrift store would want. Immediately my closets looked better. And the feeling of spaciousness felt so good that I took another swipe a few weeks later. This time, I gathered all the clothes that were worthy to be worn in public, but no longer by me. Dresses that were just short enough to make me not want to wear them. Jeans that I never chose because I already had my favorites. And shoes. Why did I ever think I was a high-heel girl? All these B-list clothes were stuffed into garbage bags, heaved in my car, tossed with a thud at the donation drop-off door of my local thrift store, and replaced with a yellow tax write-off receipt.