by Leigh Stein
“You may want to refresh your memory of the vesting schedule you agreed to when you signed the founders agreement.”
“Okay, fine, then I keep the shares until they fully vest. You can terminate me, but I still own twenty percent of the company.”
Leslie sighed. “Technically, we don’t have to buy your shares at all. We could terminate you and keep them, because of the seriousness of your transgressions. I hope you’ll consider our offer. And of course you have the right to your own representation.”
Klaus and Richard blinked onscreen, unmoved. Another startup with founder drama, so what? I was cheap, disposable. They knew I couldn’t afford to turn down the buyout offer. I waited in vain for someone to tell me I was irreplaceable. The whole platform would collapse without me. No one knew how to do what I did.
“So I guess you’re searching for a new COO then?” I asked. “Good luck with that.”
“Actually, we have one,” Evan said. “The youngest black pregnant millennial ever promoted to the C-suite. Katelyn’s working on the press release now.”
I looked at Khadijah. She held my gaze.
* * *
...
I was walking down Fifth Avenue in the cold, without direction, dumb with shock, unable to imagine how to tell John my life had just been changed without my consent, scanning the block for the best place where I could reasonably be left alone to consume a carafe of mimosas, when I recognized the banner.
“You Must Change Your Life,” it said, on a cotton T-shirt that cost forty-nine dollars. I took it as a sign. I bought gold-flecked compression tights and a zip-front, movement-reducing, high-octane performance sports bra. I was a hundred-thousandaire now; the world was my oyster. A woman named Elecktra helpfully entered my credit card information for a recurring monthly unlimited pass, the first month discounted for Pheel virgins.
It was still bright day, but the velvet curtains were drawn and a row of white pillar candles threw flickering shadows on the walls. For the darkness I was grateful. The studio was as warm as a womb. I tried to fold my legs underneath myself in a way that projected both my fragility and strength. There was a surprising number of women putting their mats down in alignment with little purple hearts at 11:15 in the morning. Get a job, I thought. I almost reached for my phone to check my email before I remembered I didn’t have a job. Stevie Nicks sang softly in the background.
“Welcome to your container,” a woman with the body of an orchid stem said.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Any recent injuries I should know about?” She put one hand on my shoulder and I almost started crying.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to tell her I wanted out of this body and into another. The only word I could think of to describe my wound was women.
“No injuries,” I said. “But I haven’t worked out in a while.”
“If it gets to be too much, just go into child pose.
“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Tressa,” she continued, speaking into her headset now. “I once had surgery. They told me I would have to relearn how to walk. They told me there would be pain. They said, here, take a pill for your pain. And I said—” Tressa turned up the volume on Kings of Leon and then turned herself upside down, against the wall.
I knew this was going to hurt. I knew my arms would tire and my legs would give out. At some point I’d be lying on the floor, unable to catch my breath, watching stars behind my eyes, regretting every decision that brought me here. But I also knew the music was going to get louder and louder until it sheltered us, a room full of women willing to do anything to our bodies if it drowned out the sound of our minds, each of us screaming for our own reasons, in the dark.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to all the women who supported me while I worked on this book: Kat Rosenfield, Julia Strayer, Alizah Salario, Julia Phillips, Jennie Baird, Sandra Rodriguez Barron, Laura Feinstein, Grace Do, Claire Dunnington, Elizabeth Trundle, Ingrid Aybar, Maggie Levine, Sarah Vogel, Sharon Shula, Lynne Greene, Roseline Glazer, and Raz Tal.
Erin Hosier and Margaux Weisman, you sprinkle the spirit dust on top of everything. I could not have written this without your encouragement, sage advice, and regular dosage of relevant links. You are my favorite influencers.
I am so lucky that Self Care has a home at Penguin Books. Patrick Nolan, Lindsay Prevette, Mary Stone, Allison Carney, Sara Delozier, Bel Banta, Lynn Buckley, Jennifer Eck, and Alicia Cooper: thank you for all your creative ideas, your enthusiasm, and your exceptional attention to detail.
I am grateful to the Ragdale Foundation for the gift of time and space to develop my work.
Brian Jacks deserves all the credit for making me laugh and keeping me sane.
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