Of Black panties and Sapphire cufflinks

I have spent several hours in the last year watching my boss haggle over a few hundred thousand dollars as I chewed at the tip of my pen, eyed the Russian Geologist and wondered with a sigh if I have masked my curiosity well.

I have walked into plush offices and shook hands with the stalwarts of this industry. Who do not, after years of experience realize am all talk no cock kind of person. We have spread charts of seismic data supporting Palynofacies analysis on a table over a rainy day and contemplated the Bitumen content of the yielding oil. Never once have they noticed my mind stray to a different kind of spreading after shoving all papers from the table aside.

I get dressed each morning, gawking at the mirror every single time and wondering if I have concealed my lust well. If there are traces of any lace peeking through the crisp cottons and polyesters.

I am now used to being the only woman in a 200 man ‘bored’room. Not an eyebrow is raised nor a question. They would send me an official email from a different country while working late with a slight vulnerable undertone. They copy me with a 100 other men and address the emails as Gents and Miss A with a smiley Over a few drinks, they would call me sweetheart in a foreign language that I know. They protect me with ferocity when hit on by a random at a bar. They would touch my arm and whisper in my ears on a night when it has not drizzled enough but the Bar has no place to breathe.

However, I am not the one they want to go home to. I am not the one whose education they sponsor and buy pink dead bunnies for. I wear pants. I am their equal. They might look me up and down when I walk into the room at a staff party wearing chandeliers in my ears and 2-inch heels to show my legs off. They might even picture me without it and leer at me with a knowing smile. However, that is the end of it. I get a lift home and a “good night honey” and on an indiscriminate unwelcome occasion, a pass is made.

In college, I had dreamed of traversing the Himalayan Transect with a knapsack and an energy bar, of living in drab tees on rigsite where the halogen lights burned my skin. I do not remember the transition from Coveralls to Leather shoes happening at all. Mr.Jack Daniels was not a part of my plan. Although Now he is an inherent element of my lonesome evenings spent at picturesque locations with Chrome lighting and Maître Ds.

It feels good to be a part of the corporate scene in this Industry. To be monitoring Mother Earth to cough up enough barrels to grease the motor that runs this world. It does feel good to be updated on a 100 orange collars working relentlessly to devoid the continental shelves of Oil.

P.S I am not complaining at all.