all dressed up and nowhere to go

I am meeting Sofia to look at an apartment. She is going to prep me for the Sunday Open House I have volunteered to do.  The apartment is a studio rental in midtown. 

We are meeting at 11:45.  I plan on leaving at 11.  I dress conservatively and professionally.  A dark Jil Sander pantsuit.  Black patent leather heels.  And pearls.  I feel like an imposter. The last time I wore a suit to work was eight years ago, and I haven’t worn pearls in ages.  I had no idea so much fashion-planning was involved in real estate.

As I’m leaving, I get an email from Sofia.  “Can we make it 11:30?”  So now I’m rushing.  On the way to the bus stop I get another email and learn that Sofia has asked another agent — one with experience — to also help at the Open House.  I think two people are one person too many, and call Sofia to decline.

I go into the office, having changed into a grey pencil skirt, black slinky top, and the same stylishly uncomfortable patent leather high heels. I feel very grown up in the shoes, despite my inability to walk more than a few steps in them.

I introduce myself to one of the firm’s most successful brokers, and ask her if I can help with anything.  She asks what I am doing on Sunday and I tell her I have no plans. She is doing an open house on a $1.1 million dollar pre-war two bedroom on the westside and is happy to let me help.  She looks at me and without my asking says, “You are dressed perfectly.  The only thing I might suggest is to wear more comfortable shoes.”