A Happy AccidentI assume when most people meet Lisha Cranston, it's in a glamorous way. Perhaps at a cocktail party, a gala, or a celebrity's housewarming.
They meet her in the back of a limo on the way to a grand opening of a new flagship store, or at Fashion's Night Out. They meet her over the clink of champagne glasses, with smiles and toasts and cheers to the future. They shake her hand delicately or kiss her on each cheek, praying to themselves that they've made a good impression. They hope to God she'll remember their name, their face, any little detail about them. They consider showering her with gifts and then think against it, realizing it will make them seem too desperate. Then they rethink the rethink and decide to show up with a little something, a box of chocolates, a bottle of champagne, something to keep them in her memory--not that this will put them as even a blip on her radar, but she'll be diplomatic, kind, she'll make them feel like they're the only people in the world who matter.
This is the ideal way to meet Lisha Cranston. You meet her at some glamorous event you never dreamed you'd attend and you schmooze and smile and laugh a little too loudly at all her jokes. You hope she'll follow up and call you for lunch; you debate what the odds are that she'll remember who you are the next day when you call her for lunch. You go to bed with a smile, satisfied that you've become "friends" with such a fashion celebrity, an icon, the executive editor of Chic Magazine who has made a brand of herself in the fashion world.
Unless you're me. In which case, your bare naked ass meets her shortly before you ever do.
"Oh, sorry mate!" Lisha blurts in her cunning British accent, politely pointing her gaze down at the floor and backing out of the stall I'm occupying.
I've got my skirt hiked up over my hips and one leg is in the air, ready to flush the toilet with my foot. My ass felt a breeze when she swung the door open on me, but I was too shocked to react in time.
I whirl around, catching a glimpse of the famous Lisha Cranston herself as she practically falls over trying to get out of the stall. (It's one of those stalls you go in and think to yourself, Shit, the lock isn't working, but I'll just hold it closed. I am going to piss myself before I make it to the next stall; what are the odds that someone's actually going to walk in on me?) Odds are that when someone does walk in on you, it's one of the most talented and revered women in the fashion industry. And you're an intern.
I straighten up and walk out of the stall with my head held high, no shame. Shame tends to disintegrate when you've been sharing a one-bedroom apartment with four other people. I can handle taking a shower right after Serge took his morning dump after a long night of drinking at the pub; I can handle anything. I pause, wondering if that's something to actually be proud of.
Instead of darting out of there in embarrassment, I linger at the sink, taking an extra amount of time to wash my hands. I stare at the stalls behind me through the mirror, waiting for Lisha to emerge. Hi, there was a face attached to that albino butt.
Finally she comes out of the stall, meeting my eyes in the mirror. I beam at her. "Hi," I say with a psychotic lack of shame. "How are you?"
"Doing well," she beams back, bending down to wash her hands from her colossal, model-like height. "Sorry for walking in on you in the bathroom."
"Don't worry about it," I say, laughing. If we can't laugh at ourselves, someone else will.
"That's how I meet all my mates," she quips back, appreciating my good humor. "I'll see you around," she says, giving me a wink before she walks out of the bathroom.
And that's how I met Lisha Cranston, editor extraordinaire. Not ideal, but definitely makes for a good story.