Boss Babes

Believe In The Impossible

The first thing I noticed about Kirra were her legs - thin, tan and toned, bursting with the potential energy of a thousand suns.

"She runs cross country," I thought. In fact, her entire petite, muscular body was something I aspired to have myself, but was typically too exhausted by the end of the working day to haul myself to Fitness City in pursuit of. My office butt was definitely showing - my once-comfortable favorite jean shorts now refused to properly cover my ever-expanding, unwanted posterior.

It was Fourth of July weekend and I was selling souvenir t-shirts from the promotional advertising firm I worked for under a faded pop-up tent at our town's annual street fair. This weekend was supposed to be a celebration of our wonderful country, but all I could think about was George Carlin's quote about the American Dream - "You have to be asleep to believe in it."

I hated my job, I hated that town, and most of all I hated standing under that stupid tent since the teenager we hired to do it for us failed to show up for their shift. I should've been lounging in our air-conditioned office a block away catching up on paperwork but instead I was slowly melting into a rancid pile of boob sweat. 

You could say I was suffering from a bit of burnout and general dissatisfaction with life at that moment.

Cross Country Girl was browsing the shirts on my back table - ones from previous years sold at a hefty discount. Blonde curls stuck to her shoulders and a red flush covered her her cheeks. At least I wasn't the only sweaty mess around that Saturday afternoon. 

"All of these are on special for five dollars," I lied. The ones on the back table were always priced at five dollars - but if you made the customer feel like they were getting a deal, they were more likely to buy. It's a common Jedi mind trick in the advertising world. 

"Got any kid's ones? My son always needs play shirts that are easy to wash." she asked, perusing the stack of smalls with vintage car graphics on them. 

"How old is he?" I inquired.

"Almost three." She said. "He's a monster but I love him." I laughed.

"Well, he's at that age.  Here, I have a few toddler and extra smalls in this pile." I replied and grabbed the stack for her to browse. She picked out one with a cherry-red mustang and paid in crumpled singles.

"What do you do when you're not selling t-shirts?" she asked me once I had bagged up the shirt for her. 

"I run the office for the company that makes these," I replied, gesturing to the crumbling facade of the advertising agency down the side street. The name of the place was peeling off our weathered awning. I hoped it wasn't too obvious that the company was in dire financial straits, on the off chance she happened to own a business in need of our services. "We do promotional marketing for companies - things like pens, mugs, coozies, whatever you like with your logo on them. Do you own a business?" 

"I do, actually!" she beamed, and started digging in her woven backpack for what I assumed was a business card. "Have you ever heard of Flourish?"

I hadn't. 

"It's a premium health and wellness company! Take this and tell me what you think! I'd love to hear your opinion on it!" She shoved a plastic sandwich bag overstuffed with a bunch of brightly-colored packets in my hands and was gone before I could ask more about what she did. 

'Kirra Clark, Brand Promoter'  The paper card inside the packet revealed. I hadn't had a chance to give my card to the pretty blonde girl or finish my sales pitch. At least now I had a name and contact info for the potential new lead.

Ope, you almost had it! Gotta be quicker next time!  I chuckled to myself, randomly remembering an appropriate message from a recent insurance TV commercial.