Quiet Your Job is Perhaps The Solution of Your Problem – The Story of Andrea Dreesine
When I first met Andrea Dreesine in 1985, she could have been the cover girl for Yuppie Magazine. She and her husband, a prominent plastic surgeon, came to me for help in buying an apartment on Sutton Place—one of New York City’s most exclusive areas. A graduate of the Wharton School of Business and Finance, Andrea was a rising corporate star. Sacked in one of the most notorious boardroom battles of the 1980s, she was snapped up by a leading international financial services firm, given a $200,000 salary, and named executive vice president. It was understood that she was being groomed for the presidency. It was easy to see why.
Andrea was striking. Tall and thin, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, she reminded me of a magnificent bird of prey. There was that kind of intensity about her. While she wasn’t rude, you could tell she wasn’t interested in any more small talk or pleasantries than courtesy dictated. Andrea didn’t mince words, nor did she show any self-doubt. She was looking to hunt down and seize all that she wanted from life.
It wasn’t easy working with Andrea and her husband. They both worked twelve-hour days. They hardly saw and spoke with each other, so it was rare they had the time to sit and chat with me about apartment hunting. Actually, that worked out for the best, since before we even got around to contacting brokers they were contacting divorce lawyers. Andrea remained my client, and while the divorce was being finalized, I helped her find an apartment of her own on the Upper East Side, not far from where she worked. After finalizing her apartment purchase, I’d see Andrea every January for a financial and career checkup. She never spoke of anything personal. Her career was her life.
That made it especially difficult when in 1993 her company had two bad quarters in a row. The primary shareholders—an English investment banker and an Asian financier—had both invested in the firm because of its ability to generate cash. After it had been in the red for six months they pressured management to downsize and simultaneously boost revenues. Andrea’s position wasn’t in danger, but she was given the job of hatchet woman. Even though she already seemed to be living in the office, it was subtly made clear she’d have to redouble her efforts if she wanted to remain “next in line” to the throne.
Right around that time she came to me for her annual “checkup.” She didn’t look well. She’d crossed over that line that separates “striking” from “sickly.” Her intensity no longer seemed to come from a place of self-confidence; it smacked of desperation. We went about our consultation in the same businesslike manner we’d always taken. She explained what was happening at the office in her usual detached and analytical style. Then something happened that was totally out of character. “That’s Vivaldi, isn’t it?” she asked.
(Let me back up and explain that I always have classical music playing in the office. It can be crowded and chaotic in the converted apartment I use for my practice. Phones are always ringing, and people are always working on at least three things at once. I’ve found that classical music—particularly from the Baroque and Romantic periods—helps to subliminally soothe nerves. That’s why when I get into the office one of the first things I do is load the CD player with enough disks to take us through lunch.)
Andrea was right: It was Vivaldi. I was surprised because it was actually a fairly obscure concerto, not The Four Seasons or some other well-known work. “You know music,” I said in response. She chuckled and told me she’d studied the cello for most of her life, giving it up only after college. She then went on to tell me how much she’d loved playing Vivaldi. Her whole face lit up, not with the intensity I’d grown used to seeing but with a warmth I’d never seen her display before. But just as suddenly as the change in her appeared, it vanished. With her usual no-nonsense attitude she finished telling me about her on-the-job problems and pressures. “What are your suggestions?” she asked.
“Quit,” I said.