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EMAIL ETIQUETTE IS A REAL THING
It takes about half a second for me to realize that I’ve messed up. Big time.
And isn’t it always the case when you accidentally “reply all?” Practically as soon as you hit that send button, you know—you justknow—that you’ve broken the first rule of email etiquette:neverreply all in a professional email, unless expressly told to do so, unless the email chain demands every member of the trail to be a participant in the conversation. And certainly, absolutely, and resolutely, you should never reply all to an email as a new junior hire with the sentence “OMG GIIIIRLLLL! How cool!!!” and nothing else.
“Shit shit shit fuck fuck fuck,” I mutter under my breath, searching frantically for the fateful “recall email” option in Outlook, the one that could potentially save me from ending my career before it even begins.
Getting fired now certainly isn't an option for me—especially not after the years it took to find some stability. It’s been three months since I started this job as an associate production manager, and I can now say it’s the longest I’ve had a job without having something or someone in my life make it go wrong. Not just that, but it’s also that this role I somehow managed to get by the grace of god or some higher power (probably karma—it was high time the universe threw me a bone) isactuallythe dream job I never even dared hope for. For the first time in my life, I'm doing something I want to do. For the first time in my life, I’m not living for anyone but myself.
Which is why, with shaking hands, I quickly find the recall option and double-click it with the speed of light, praying to the fashion gods that the silly response didn’t get sent out to the twenty-something people on the email trail—the clients, my company’s VP, our design team, and, more importantly, Lena Bouras, my boss.
I look over my shoulder into Lena's office, watching as she reads something on her computer screen while talking on the phone, furiously waving her hands in the air. Knowing my luck, she's already discussing my mishap with HR, telling them what I did, and asking them to prepare my paperwork to fire me.
Lena lives by a rule of perfection. The entire company ethos does, in fact. Which is why I'm certain I'm a goner if anyone finds out what I did.
Email etiquette is a real thing in corporate America. Perfect perfection, even more so in the fashion industry.
But when 10 minutes pass and no one’s stopped by to pull me away into an office to have a “special talk,” I call my friend Molly in design, my old friend from high school and the person who helped me get this job. The person Iactuallymeant to email.
“Molly Chan, ready-to-wear junior designer,” my friend answers with utmost confidence.
Iwould never be able to answer the phone as easily. I probably would've stuttered through hello. Mumbled my name. Maybe even forgotten it altogether. Sure, Bridgett Quinn is an easy name to remember, but with me, anything is possible.
“Hey,” I squeak, my voice smaller than a mouse’s.
“Bee? Why are you calling me? I’m only on the other end of the floor.”
“I’m trying to keep a low profile,” I whisper into my headset, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Molly takes a beat before asking “What’s wrong?”
“Um. So. I made a mistake,” I tell her, twirling my long red hair around my finger.
A heavy silence comes from the other end of the line because Molly is well aware of Lena’s reputation. And my history with job retention, for that matter.
“Jesus, Bee, already?” she whispers. “I thought you said you weren’t going to mess this one up. That you loved this job.”
“I do. So much.” And it's true. More than I ever expected to. Finding out how the production process in fashion works might not seem fascinating to most, but it's become everything to me. Learning the tricks of the literal trade; understanding how things are made; how materials are chosen and why. There is so much that goes into it, so many people involved from beginning to end, and it’s my department’s job to make sure it flows. It also helps that the company I work for, Sartoria & Co., is a strong believer in sustainable fashion, which, as a big thrifter myself, makes me feel better about working at a company that responsibly produces and sells new clothing. They aren’t exploiting factory workers; they hold themselves accountable and regularly make sure all their manufacturers are complying under their own stringent set of ethical norms—or at least that’s what their website and employee introductory packet said.
It’s a dream company, which is precisely why I groan, running my fingers through my now-messy hair—because I don’t want to mess this up.
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t mean to. I was just so excited that…” I sigh deeply. “Lena added me to the email trail you’re also on—the one with the Stevenson project?—which,finally, because she hasn’t let me in on any external comms since I started working here three month ago—and when I saw the details and sketches of the designs you sent over, the ones we’re proposing for them… I thought I was replying just toyou, but?—”
“Oh my god, please tell me you didn’t ‘reply all’ on that email trail.”
My silence is confirmation enough for Molly.
“Bridget.Dude.”
“I know. And to add insult to injury, I may have used exclamation marks. Four of them. And definitely threw an OMG in there, I’m sure.”
I can practically hear Molly facepalm from the other side of the phone. “Lena has fired people for less.”
I try to swallow the knot in my throat, to clear it, but nothing seems to help.
