I’m about to embark on a sartorial experiment as a professional woman, and see what happens.

I wasn’t going to write this, but — what the heck.

Last Thursday, I hosted an women’s leadership event at a restaurant in New York City. I dream up new ideas all the time, but each time, it’s an experiment. I never know what to expect.

But I digress.

As an event planner, I’m incredibly anal about the details. The contract for this January 21st event had been drawn up November 5th, 2015. A new Events Director called early January to alert me that his predecessor had moved on. I promptly revisited the terms of the contract again over the phone: the layout for the party, the headcount, and most importantly — — the protocol in the event of ‘no-shows.’ I called him one more time event week to re-confirm the details.

And again, upon arrival in person at the restaurant event day.

Midway through dinner, two things became apparent.

There were several no-shows.

And the wine that would be subbed in for each no-show, as discussed, was not showing up.

I excused myself from the dining room to address it. Instead of the newly ordained Events Director, a self-important general manager presented himself. He proceeded to lecture me on how I was asking him to break the rules, why the previous Events Director was let go, how much the room really cost in comparison to what I was paying. Conclusion: I wasn’t deserving of the terms I had confirmed three times prior to the event. This restaurant was his kingdom.

I may be demanding. But I’m reasonable. Don’t change the rules mid-game and not tell me. He kept parroting a new policy. I kept saying, “You can’t change the rules after I had confirmed them no less than three times.”

Here’s the detail I left out.

The dress couriered to me for the dinner was a sample size and didn’t fit. I scurried to put on a substitute because I needed to get to the venue before everyone arrived. My L’agence dress — ahem — -made my top half ‘assets’ more prominent. So, yes, myself and the General Manager were engaged in a heated argument. But, I’m stomping away indignantly making my point.

And his eyes are transfixed somewhere south of mine.

Anyone looking in from the outside, could say the exchange was amusing. But I wasn’t amused.

My friend Jane has often advised that I write a book about my dating life in New York City and title it THE BROWN GIRL BLUES. But I may be on to a new sartorial experiment. I’m always covered up to the neck. Almost to a nun-like fault. So what if I trotted out this L’agence dress more often and chronicled the reactions.

I’ll title it “WHO LET THE GIRLS OUT?”

Perhaps you have experienced this too as a professional woman at some point in your career. Write me and let me know.