If I were a woman of larks or whims,1 I would never have made it through two phone screens and been flown here to sell myself in person. I’m a grinder, a hand raiser, a doer of extra-credit assignments. I’m the one who gets into the room with the men when there’s only one space for a woman. And I’ve crammed so hard for this lark that if it ends in rejection, I’ll be the one saying no. That’s how I like it. That’s how I need things to be.
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