Shortly after graduating from college with a degree in English literature, I decided I should, like so many other graduates I knew, “go into sales.” I got a job at a public relations company and was assigned “non-profit/government accounts” (not exactly the money-making and glamorous clients I had envisaged). My first appointment was at a busy, city police precinct. I arrived for my meeting with the police department’s media relations specialist at the same time an infamous rapist had been brought in for booking. News reporters swarmed the building and my contact paid scant attention to what I had to say or what my company had to offer. I felt rather puny in that environment, especially as I looked at the P.R. guy’s tanned, bulging biceps…his upper arms were almost the size of my thighs. He left the room “for a second” and never came back. After waiting way too long for him to return, I snuck out of the building.

Almost all my appointments were in some way or other embarrassing and unproductive, and my sales career ended within a month. I was left with two expensive souvenirs from those uncomfortable and futile weeks: a “business” suit (long ago donated to charity) and a Coach attaché. The attaché still resides, wrapped in a soft cotton t-shirt, on the top shelf of my bedroom closet; it’s taken out for moisturizing once a year.

At the time I bought my attaché, Coach’s goods were considered high quality but a bit stodgy. These days, Coach is hipper…

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