There’s a particular kind of sweat reserved for days like this. Not gym sweat, not s*x sweat, not even the oh-God-I-just-sent-that-email-to-the-wrong-client sweat. No, this was cold, calculating, imposter-syndrome-soaked panic juice. I’d showered, exfoliated, primered, concealered, and still... my entire nervous system had filed for resignation.
Friday. The mixer. The “impromptu presentation” that Ryan had tossed at me like a live grenade with a polite smile. I’d practiced in my head all week... and by practiced, I mean catastrophized creatively while pretending to do actual work.
Jynelle did my makeup while eating cake and blasting trap music. Said I needed to look like I knew how to invoice God. She contoured me like a threat and handed me a lipstick shade named “Ruin Him.”
“Don’t tal
