“Fine. Just know I’m ordering a side of ketchup with my steak, though.”

In the ladies’ room, I hear a gaggle of high-pitched girls, the interns, enter, and I quickly activate the sensor on the flusher so they know they are not alone.

I wait until I hear all of the other stalls lock shut before I vacate mine. I even debate not washing my hands so I can scurry out of the restroom and back to my desk to avoid any and all possible contact with these plebes. But research suggests I’m 35 percent more likely to catch a common cold from a public restroom if I don’t at least run my hands under hot water for fifteen seconds. Knowing I’ve got the Voyager dinner tomorrow, I can’t exactly afford to stay at home for a week straight, despite the fact that a box of soup-ready matzo is probably already on its way. So, I rinse fast and grab some paper towels—but not before overhearing a bit of their conversation.

“Did you hear? Charlotte is going to the dinner,” one says.

“That’s not fair. Marigold should be going.”

“Thank you,” Marigold says. “I agree.”

“Yeah, you’re way more personable. And stylish. I can’t stand that giant purse Charlotte carries everywhere,” another responds through the stalls.

I’m not going to go so far as to say that I thought these girls liked me, but I definitely didn’t think they had it out for me. Nor did I realize my bag was such a controversy. I want to not care what they say about me, and normally I wouldn’t. But the truth is, I came to work today thinking this was a safe place. Clearly, it’s not. And worse, I can’t stop listening.

“At least it’s a Birkin,” someone else defends.

“No, it’s a FIRKIN. You know, a fake Birkin,” Marigold chimes in.

(Audible gasps.)

Marigold is correct in her assessment of authentication. But it’s not my fault. This is LA and the purse you carry dictates how your server will attend to your table, how much whip you’ll get on your latte, and so much more. I wasn’t about to drop fifteen grand on a bag, so I went down to—

“Chinatown sells them. Vendors carry knockoffs like hers on every corner. I’ve seen that exact one a million times.”

I storm out of the bathroom before the girls can see with their own eyes that the subject of their catty conversation was just feet away the whole time. Sure, that’d be vindicating, but I don’t want vindication right now. I want privacy.

I settle back down in my desk chair and it feels like I’m floating on a raft in the middle of the sea. I’m safe enough on this thing, for now, but I don’t know what to do next. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to wait to be rescued, or if I’m supposed to save myself in this situation. I’ve never felt like this since taking this job. My to-do list has always been a great neutralizer, but it’s not showing up as the lighthouse I need it to be right now.