Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
Discussion Questions
About the Author
_147503057_
To all you lovestruck romantics. Take your shot.
One Bhanu
I worked in UX. UX had always been, and still was, my techy passion. Most people had no idea what in the world UX stood for, much less what it was (user experience, BTW). It was simple, really. To put it humbly, I was the all-powerful bridge connecting creativity to technology, functionality to experience. Ever used an app or website and didn’t find yourself frustrated with navigation or have any negative experience, then you, my friend, experienced good UX design and had an entire dauntless team to thank for the smallest clicks and details that made your browsing exploits so flawless that you didn’t even realize you were having them.
That, of course, was oversimplifying. A great deal went into the tiniest things down to color specs. Tons of meetings and research and late nights went into every thought. Today was no different.
It was six in the morning, and even the sun hadn’t peeked through the rain clouds on this Pacific Northwestern day. I’d buzzed around getting coffee and waffles in my elegant, flowing cardigan, feeling very much like a princess. Granted, one who was isolated in a tower but not-so-secretly enjoyed it. I spoke of…remote work. When else could a girl feel like a princess in baggy pajamas and no bra?
Fret not, I had donned a bra and shimmied into a meeting blouse to look the part, brushing my hair into a low ponytail as coffee cooled, and patted on light makeup while munching on waffles. I wasn’t typically a breakfast person, but there was something about waffles that I couldn’t shake off. So bad was my waffle addiction that I’d splurged on one of those heavy-duty waffle makers that made four perfect squares at a time. And yes, I was eating all four this morning. A few blueberries in the mix, smothered in butter, a dollop of whipped cream, and I was the happiest person in the world.
Odd-hour meetings were part of UX. Although my company was based in Seattle, we worked with clients from around the globe. Thus why hybrid work worked so well. No one was going to make me fight Seattle traffic and battle to the death for parking spots for this meeting.
Worldwide clients paid pretty pennies for us to collaborate with them on their next big tech designs. Typically, websites and apps. When I say websites, I don’t mean WordPress. I mean industry giants with complex coding and hundreds of call-to-action buttons leading to a million user interfaces to push product and make sure their company rose above intense competition.
UX was cutthroat.
I prepped my slides for my segment, making sure the presentation was ready to go, and went over the hurdles clients were sure to toss out. They had a lot to say and seemed particular for no valid reason. Mainly because they didn’t know what they wanted or what worked best.
Like, sir, why would you insist on that ugly shade when color theory clearly explained why it wouldn’t work? It didn’t fit the mood, the atmosphere, or the purpose of the app, and created horrendous legibility issues. And testing showed that 85 percent of users were either disturbed or distracted by said ugly color.
These were typical annoyances a UX team almost always had to deal with.
I sat down at my sprawling desk—made too small by all the items on it—with an oomph, careful not to spill coffee, and shoved another bite of waffle into my mouth. I’d love to say that I was extra careful with my desktop and laptop out, plus a tablet and phone because we were techy-techy, but nah. I enjoyed waffles with butter and sans syrup, so there was at least that. Less sugary, sticky mess to attract ants.
A hefty sigh left my lips. All screens up. Slide deck prepped and loaded. Virtual platform on. A few large squares showed the bright-eyed faces of coworkers blinking back at me as we prepared to go live. Those squares quickly multiplied as others joined.
My role as senior lead UX researcher meant I oversaw mind maps, extensive user studies, field tests, and more to make sure every aspect, every click and tap, every color, typography, size, responsive design, et cetera, was at its quality best.
As lead, I worked with the leads of other subteams, which made me Mama Duck, who pushed and protected her vast army of researcher ducklings while often butting heads with extremely particular designers and particularly overworked devs (coding developers).
But that was because we were passionate. And we made beautiful, thrilling designs.
I glanced up to see our lead dev hop on screen, but I was too busy enjoying this fine cup of cinnamon coffee to care. Sunny skimmed across his screen, a little wrinkle in between his brows as he focused, and then a smile cracked his uptightness. Probably looking at cat videos. He looked like a cat guy. An annoying cat guy.
I messaged my team in the private chat and then opened up a chat with the PM (project manager). Gabrielle declared all was a go.
My heart did a shimmy in my chest. No matter how many times I presented, which was at least once a week, it was a little unnerving when it came to presenting directly to overtly opinionated clients. Would they slash our research down to the nub, or would they let us do what they were paying us to do? It was always a shot in the dark as to what their mood would be. The men on our teams never seemed this stressed, which had me wondering if guys had it easier. What a dumb question. Of course they did. Clients probably respected male leads and took their word as gold. After all, what did I, a woman who’d worked in the field for over five years with a master’s in UX theory, possibly know about some damn buttons?
Carol, the big boss overseeing multiple teams on various projects, started the show and handed it off to Gabrielle. She smiled, flashing dimples, and essentially looked like a doppelgänger of Gabrielle Union. She had a slightly deeper voice and made these wild facial expressions that promised nobody wanted to argue with her. She was, hands down, the best PM ever, and I’d learned a great deal from her. A shield against the higher-ups for us and a moderator between leads at times. She was a well-oiled organizing machine, and ever so eloquent.
Carol dinged me. I was up next.
“Thanks so much, Gabrielle,” Carol said with an accent, for some reason rolling the r. It was funny until she announced, “And now let’s hand the meeting over to Bhanu.”
Damnit, Carol.
My name is Bhanu. Pronounced “Bon-oooh.” It was almost always expected to have to correct someone on the pronunciation, to the point where it had become standard. But Carol—granted she wasn’t my direct boss nor did she have a lot to do with me personally—and I had been working together at this company for years, and half the time she still said my name wrong.
She reminded me of an old classmate, Cathryn, who had once complained, “Ugh. I’m so sick of people misspelling my name.”
“Try having people mispronounce your name,” I’d countered.
