The great wardrobe change came about in the winter. For most of my career at Goldman Sachs, I commuted from Pound Ridge into the City, got off the train and jogged to work. My starting point station depended on how hung over I was.
I kept Hugo Boss suits in a closet at work, had them dry cleaned near the office, and changed back into comfortable sweat clothes for the commute home. The workout gear also served the purpose of soaking up the sweat that broke out when I started slugging vodka or flavored rum right after work.
But now, living in my own apartment on 84th and 2nd Avenue, I went to AA meetings almost every night on the Upper East Side. Because I didn’t have time to go home between work and meetings, and I couldn’t bear the thought of not dressing as a girl after having been in a straitjacket of a suit all day, there was only one answer.
I spent the day as Clark Kent and on the way out of Goldman Sachs I transformed into Wonder Woman
One day in late November, I began to get squirrelly around 5 p.m. just like when I was drinking, but instead of vodka I needed lipstick.
Before I left the privacy of my office, I applied eye shadow, mascara, and brow definer. Looking at myself in that small, pink hand mirror, I felt I had struck the right balance: I was already feeling better because I had begun to transform, but not enough for anybody to really notice.
One of the assistants tapped on the glass window of my office. I hurriedly pushed all my makeup into my top drawer, stood up and opened the door. “Do you want to take a call from Bloomberg?” “Of course,” I answered, wondering if she had noticed.
I could have sworn she looked at me funny, but I couldn’t be sure
After the call, I went to the men’s room, where I changed into pink corduroy pants, a bra, a pink sweater, and black high-heeled boots.
After going through my email one last time, I carefully packed my belongings, keeping accessible what I needed for the final touches to my appearance.
Obviously, minimizing my time transforming in the men’s rooms decreased the likelihood that somebody would walk in on me.
The office had cleared out early so I did something I didn’t normally do on my floor: I put a light coating of deep red lip- stick on and headed for the elevator. A slow-to-come elevator used to enrage me when I couldn’t get out of the building fast enough to get some liquor in me. It was almost as bad today because I stood exposed in the hallway with lipstick on and no place to retreat.
The elevator came and I rushed in. Good, I said to myself, only one other person was present. Feeling relatively safe, I dutifully took out my iPhone because that’s what people do on elevators. Peeking up at the other occupant, I realized he was a senior investment banker whom I had been friendly with. We often talked about career and family while going up to Bloomberg for TV hits. Since we both had experience living in Asia, we also swapped stories about our adventures there.
He wouldn’t look at me and I did not know if that was because he was just busy answering emails or he thought I was some type of freak with makeup on.
What’s he thinking? Why is he ignoring me?
Suddenly the grains on the tan ligneous walls of the elevator began twisting and the car started getting smaller and smaller. I really needed to get out immediately.
Once the door slid open, I sprinted out to the second elevator I had to take down to the first floor. This one was larger and always full, so it was easier to sink into the corner and be anonymous.
With thick wooden stalls and higher quality marble, the bathroom on the first floor of Goldman Sachs’ headquarters was grander than others in the building because client events were often held on the first floor. This bathroom, the closest to the exits, was rarely occupied at six or seven, when I was leaving. I put on my wig, added to my makeup and donned a frilled yellow blouse.
Rushing toward the exit, I nearly bumped into a Goldman Sachs hospitality person who I didn’t really recognize though I probably passed him several times a week. He did a double take when I went by; I hurried into a stall and loudly slid the lock.
I crept out of the auditorium and willed myself to the last obstacle, the turnstiles, after which I was free of Goldman Sachs and worry. The same two security guards stood at the card swipe station. Initially, when I began this complex dressing dance, I avoided looking at them and kept my head down, but they were always respectful. After a couple of weeks, I would catch their eye and nod.
Today, I looked them in the eye and said, “Goodbye, have a nice night.”
Maeve DuVally is a former Goldman Sachs executive and author of “Maeve Rising: Coming Out Trans in Corporate America.”
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