The Ladies' Room
Five minutes into her pitch, Sara Blakely could feel it dying. She was sitting across from a buyer in the Dallas offices of Neiman Marcus, sometime in the fall of 2000, a twenty-nine-year-old fax-machine saleswoman from Atlanta with no background in fashion, no retail connections, no business degree, and a red nylon backpack on her lap containing a single prototype of footless control-top pantyhose. Her friends had begged her to buy a Prada bag. She hadn't. The buyer was polite but unmoved — the words were landing somewhere in the middle distance between Blakely's enthusiasm and the woman's clipboard, dissolving on contact. So Blakely did the only thing she could think of, which was also the most absurd thing she could think of: she asked the buyer to come with her to the bathroom.
In the ladies' room of the Neiman Marcus buying office, Blakely put on her white pants — first without the prototype, then with it. The buyer looked at the before. She looked at the after. "Oh, I get it," she said. "It's brilliant — and I'm gonna put it in seven stores."
This scene — a grown woman dragging a department-store executive into a restroom to model her own underwear — has since been bronzed into the founding mythology of American entrepreneurship, told and retold at commencement addresses and TED stages and Fortune summits until it has acquired the burnished quality of parable. But what makes it interesting is not the audacity, which is the part everyone remembers. What makes it interesting is the bathroom. A woman solving a women's problem in the only room in corporate America where no men were present, because the entire industry she was trying to enter was run by men who, as she would later put it, "don't wear pantyhose — or if they do, they don't admit it." The Neiman Marcus ladies' room was not a metaphor. It was the literal architecture of her competitive advantage.
The manufacturer she'd finally persuaded to produce the prototype — after every hosiery mill in North Carolina had turned her away — didn't believe her when she called with the news. He told her he thought she was just going to "give these as Christmas gifts for the next five years."
By the Numbers
The Spanx Empire
$5,000Personal savings used to launch Spanx in 2000
$1.2BValuation at Blackstone majority-stake acquisition, 2021
9MPairs of Footless Pantyhose sold since launch
200+Products in the Spanx line
10,000+U.S. retail locations carrying Spanx
$0Spent on advertising for the first 16 years
100%Ownership Blakely retained until 2021 — no outside investors
What Did You Fail at This Week?
Clearwater, Florida, is a beach town on the Gulf Coast — a place of relentless sunlight and exposed skin, which is a cruel environment in which to be, as Sara Blakely would describe her adolescent self, "really flat-chested." She grew up on a cul-de-sac near the shore with her younger brother Ford, their father John — a trial attorney who worked high-profile cases, including Mays v. Twigg, the baby-swap trial that had Diane Sawyer calling his office — and their mother, a watercolor artist who would later sketch the drawing for Spanx's original patent application. The parents divorced when Sara was in high school. The family was comfortable, educated, the kind of Florida household where ambition was assumed but its direction left open.
What was not left open was the family's relationship to failure. At the dinner table, John Blakely had a ritual. He would look at his children and ask: What did you fail at this week? If Sara or Ford had nothing to report, their father was disappointed. Not angry. Disappointed — which, for a child, is worse. When they did have failures to confess, he would high-five them. The cheerleading tryout that didn't pan out was celebrated not for the outcome but for the attempt, and then mined: What positive came out of it? Sara's answer, in that particular instance, was that she'd met her best friend at the tryout.
This dinner-table catechism — failure as the evidence of courage rather than its absence — was not a philosophy Sara would have been able to articulate at the time. She simply absorbed it. It became the substrate of her psychology, the operating system running beneath every later decision: that the only true failure was not trying. Years later, when she would tell this story at Stanford or on Oprah's stage or to Guy Raz on How I Built This, it would sound like a neat parable about growth mindset. But at the time it was just her dad being weird at dinner.
The lesson acquired darker resonance as she grew older. An unusual number of people close to Blakely died young — by her early thirties, she had lost friends and acquaintances in a boating accident, a car hitting a cyclist, a fall down a flight of stairs, a horseback-riding accident. Two different prom dates died. At sixteen, she watched a friend get hit by a car. "It kind of gave me a sense of urgency, I think," she has said. "I don't want to take any day for granted." The proximity of death, arriving early and arriving often, fused with her father's reframing of failure into something propulsive. If you could lose everything at any moment — if the person sitting next to you at prom might not be alive next year — then the risk of embarrassment, of rejection, of hearing "no" from a hosiery mill in Asheboro, North Carolina, was vanishingly small.
Around the same time her parents split, her father handed her a set of cassette tapes: Wayne Dyer's How to Be a No-Limit Person. She was sixteen. She memorized them while driving around Clearwater. Her friends mocked her for it. She didn't stop. "No one wanted to get stuck in my car after a party," she would joke later. When, years afterward, she appeared on the cover of Forbes, some of those same friends reached out: "I guess we should have listened to those tapes."
The Fax Machine Years
After graduating from Florida State University with a degree in communications — she had been a cheerleader, a sorority sister in Delta Delta Delta, and a member of the debate team — Blakely intended to become a trial attorney like her father. The LSAT intervened. She took it. She bombed. She enrolled in a prep course, studied obsessively, took it again, and scored one point lower. "I wondered, 'What is the universe trying to tell me?'" she has said. The answer her psyche produced was: Drive to Disney World and audition for the role of Goofy. She was too tall for Goofy. They offered her a chipmunk. She never wore the costume; she spent her days at Epcot, wearing a brown polyester space suit and saying, eight hours a day, "Hi, welcome to Disney, watch your step please." Old school friends would come through the line, spot the Mickey Mouse name tag, and do a double take. "Sara? Sara Blakely? Is that you?" "Yeah, just get on the ride."
Three months of the Happiest Place on Earth was enough. She moved back to Clearwater, moved in with her mother, and took a job with Danka, an office-supply company, selling fax machines door-to-door. She was twenty-two years old. For seven years, she would wake in the Florida heat, drive around, cold-call offices, get doors slammed in her face, occasionally receive police escorts out of buildings, watch people rip up her business card while she stood there, and repeat. "I got comfortable with hearing 'no,'" she would say later, and the understatement is instructive. What the fax-machine years gave her was not mere tolerance of rejection but something more chemical — an immunity, a callus on the psyche that would prove essential when she tried to convince an industry of men that women needed footless pantyhose.
At night, she did standup comedy. Observational humor she compared to Seinfeld's and Cosby's. Her signature opening move was to fling a pair of pushup-bra pads into the audience. "It would defuse everything, and disarm them," she said. Every performance terrified her. She was afraid of public speaking. She was also afraid of flying, of heights, and of puking. She did all of these things anyway and regularly, which is either the definition of courage or of masochism, and in Blakely's case may have been both.
During the fax-machine years, she spent a great deal of time in her car — not just driving between sales calls but sitting, thinking, visualizing. "I think recreationally," she has said, "if that makes any sense. I'll sit on the couch and three hours will go by when I'm lost in thought." She was trying to figure out what she actually wanted. She knew she was good at selling. She knew she hated selling fax machines. She kept asking herself: what would I sell if I could sell anything? The answer, when it came, arrived not as divine revelation but as a wardrobe malfunction.
Scissors and White Pants
It was 1998. She was getting ready for a party. She had a pair of white pants that had hung in her closet for eight months because she couldn't get the look she wanted underneath them — no visible panty lines, no bulges, no stocking feet poking out of sandals, but the smoothing compression of control-top hosiery. The existing options were a girdle (too bulky, too grandmotherly) or regular pantyhose (seamed toes, visible through open shoes, the whole foot situation). She grabbed a pair of control-top pantyhose, grabbed a pair of scissors, and cut the feet off.
She looked in the mirror. It worked. The compression smoothed everything out; the absence of feet meant open-toed shoes were possible. She wore them to the party. The only problem: the cut edges rolled up her legs all night. But the idea was there, lodged like a splinter.
"I wanted my clothes to fit better, and so my own butt was the inspiration," she would later tell Fortune. "I might be the only woman in the world grateful to my cellulite."
What happened next is the part of the story that never gets enough emphasis, because it is not dramatic. For a full year after the scissors moment, Blakely told no one — not her friends, not her family, not her boyfriend. She worked at Danka during the day and spent her nights researching patents, trademarks, and hosiery manufacturing. She wrote her own patent application to save on the cost of a lawyer, studying other patents at the Georgia Tech library to learn the format. She found a patent attorney to do the final filing for $700, a fraction of the typical cost because she'd done most of the work herself.
"Ideas are the most vulnerable in the moment you have them," she has said. "I waited a year before I told any friends or family what I was working on, and that's because I didn't want ego to have to get involved too early." She knew the responses she'd get — Why hasn't someone done this already? The big guys will knock you off in six months. — and she knew those responses would kill it. "Had I heard those things the moment that I had the idea, I would probably still be selling fax machines."
This is an unusual kind of discipline. Most entrepreneurs — certainly most entrepreneurs as naturally gregarious as Blakely — want to talk about their ideas. Talking about ideas feels like working on them. Blakely understood, instinctively, that premature exposure could be lethal, that the psychic energy required to defend an unbuilt thing from skeptics was energy diverted from actually building it. She protected the idea by keeping it invisible.
The Good Ol' Boys of Hosiery
When she was ready, she drove to North Carolina — the hosiery capital of the United States — and started cold-calling mills. She had $5,000 in savings. She had no connections to the industry. She had a prototype made from modified pantyhose and a conviction that would have looked, from the outside, like delusion.
The mill owners were men. The entire industry was men. And the pitch was: a young woman with no apparel experience wanted them to manufacture a product they'd never heard of for a market they didn't believe existed.
"They would always ask me the same three questions," she told Fortune. "'And you are?' Sara Blakely. 'And you're with?' Sara Blakely. 'And you're financially backed by?' Sara Blakely. They'd show me the door and say no, thank you."
She was turned away by every mill she visited. Then, a few weeks later, one of the owners who had said no called her back. His name has never been widely reported, but the reason for his change of heart has: he went home and told his daughters about the pitch, and they demanded to know where they could get a pair. "He ran the numbers and said they didn't add up," Blakely later explained. "But he decided to help me based on the fact that he had two daughters."
This is a detail worth pausing on. The product that would become Spanx — that would eventually be valued at $1.2 billion, that would make its inventor the youngest self-made female billionaire on Forbes's list — was greenlit not because a businessman saw a market opportunity but because his daughters recognized a personal one. The entire industry had been making hosiery for women's bodies without consulting those bodies. A man's solution to panty lines, as Blakely would note, "is a G-string. They put underwear in the exact place we've been trying to get it out of."
She chose the name Spanx while sitting in her car — she would later say that her best ideas came to her at traffic lights — and pulled over to the side of the road to write it down. The "k" sound had a good track record in both business and comedy (Kodak, Coca-Cola). The word itself carried what she called "virgin-whore tension." "I used to hold my breath every time I said it out loud," she told The New Yorker. "People were so offended they'd hang up on me." When the Spanx website first went live, her mother accidentally directed a tableful of luncheon guests to spanks.com, a porn site.
Oprah, Providence, and the Red Backpack
Spanx launched in October 2000, in seven Neiman Marcus stores. Blakely had secured the placement through the bathroom demonstration in Dallas, but getting the product onto shelves was only the beginning. She needed it to move off shelves.
So she called every friend she had who lived near one of those seven stores and asked them to go in and buy Spanx. She offered to pay them back. "You gotta do what you gotta do," she would write on Instagram years later, categorizing this under "unhinged" founding behavior. She personally drove to the stores to rearrange displays, moving her product from what she called "the sleepiest corner of the store" closer to the register. She knew this probably wasn't allowed. "I always say, ask for forgiveness, not permission."
She was running out of friends and money when the phone rang.
Oprah Winfrey's team was calling. Spanx had been selected as one of Oprah's Favorite Things for 2000.
Right when I was running out of friends and money, Oprah called. She chose it as her favorite product of the year.
It is difficult, at this distance, to convey the magnitude of an Oprah's Favorite Things designation in the year 2000. In the pre-social-media landscape, Winfrey's show was the closest thing American consumer culture had to a papal endorsement. Blakely had, in fact, sent a prototype and a handwritten note to Winfrey's team — the kind of cold outreach that works approximately never, until the one time it does. Winfrey tried the product. She liked it. She told America.
Thousands of orders rolled in. Bloomingdale's called. Saks called. Nordstrom called. In its first year, Spanx generated $4 million in revenue. The following year, $11 million. The manufacturer who had expected Blakely to hand out her product as Christmas gifts for the next five years was, presumably, recalibrating.
Through all of this, Blakely continued to carry the red nylon backpack. She continued to be her own model, demonstrating the product in store after store, pulling up her pants on national television, doing six to twelve appearances per month on QVC despite the fact that every appearance made her want to throw up. She bought a Spanx license plate for her car. Women started following her home to ask for free product.
By 2002, she had sold enough — and proven that she was not a one-hit wonder, a fear she harbored until the day she sold 10,000 pairs of Power Panties in five minutes on QVC — that she could make two critical hires. The first was Laurie Ann Goldman.
Marcia and Jan
Goldman was a former licensing executive at Coca-Cola — brisk, polished, forty-seven years old, the kind of woman who carried an orange Hermès Birkin and kept a bowl of Atomic FireBalls on her desk and got around Atlanta in a white Mercedes sedan with a panoramic sunroof. Blakely appointed her CEO in 2002, recognizing something about herself that many founders never do: that inventing a product and running a company are fundamentally different competencies, and that self-awareness about the distinction is worth more than ego.
"Being self-aware as an entrepreneur is one of your greatest gifts," Blakely has said. "I knew what I was good at. As soon as I could afford to, I hired people to do the things in the business that I'm not so good at."
Goldman's favorite slogan, printed in pink on the office wall, was "Success is the only option." Blakely's was "Don't be afraid to fail." The two of them, as The New Yorker's Lauren Collins observed, were "like grownup versions of Marcia and Jan Brady." They would stay up late in their pajamas brainstorming product ideas. The dynamic worked because it was genuinely complementary — Goldman brought operational rigor, Blakely brought product intuition and brand instinct — and because Blakely had the rare founder's gift of hiring someone to do the job she couldn't do without feeling diminished by the arrangement.
The Spanx headquarters, which they built together on the seventeenth and eighteenth floors of the Sovereign Building at 3344 Peachtree Road in Buckhead, reflected Blakely's vision of what a company run by women for women should look like: pink shag carpeting, mirrored tables, pink velvet sofas, translucent white curtains separating workstations. "I sat in gray cubicles long enough," Blakely said. Only thirteen of the hundred and five employees were men. Blakely's office was painted red, one wall plastered with vintage Life covers featuring female subjects — Carol Burnett, Mia Farrow, Germaine Greer. On the floor in a corner sat a nineteenth-century wood-and-leather corset, Scarlett O'Hara style, price tag still dangling: $795.
Product meetings were held in rooms with names like the Florida Room (green palm fronds, ceiling fans) or the safari-themed library (leather armchairs, vintage photographs of women golfers). Products were tested in a hushed chamber with a three-way mirror and pale-blue wallpaper printed with butterflies. When Blakely first started visiting hosiery mills, she discovered that the industry tested fit by putting pantyhose on plastic forms — small through XL — and standing back with clipboards. "They'd say, 'Yeah, that's a large,'" she recalled. "And I'm, like, 'Ask her how she feels!' You know?"
Every Sixteenth of an Inch
The obsessiveness that Blakely brought to product development is the least-told part of the Spanx story, probably because it is the least cinematic. It is easier to narrate the ladies'-room pitch or the Oprah moment than to describe three years and over a hundred prototypes spent perfecting a bra.
The Bra-llelujah — named by a male contract worker who came up with it in church — took exactly that long to develop. It was made partly on a hosiery machine, had a front closure and wide straps free of metal sliding adjusters, and looked a bit like a sports bra. Where the original Footless Pantyhose had shifted the focus of hosiery from legs to behind, the Bra-llelujah turned attention from a woman's breasts to her back. "When you do not have that hook and eye in back, it feels amazing — it just feels delicious," said Jadideah Duckham, Spanx's director of research and development, a onetime interior designer who had no apparel experience when she joined the company.
Duckham — blond, slim, a convert to shapewear only after moving to Atlanta from Florida and gaining fifteen pounds — embodied Blakely's hiring philosophy: find smart women who understood the problem from the inside, not industry veterans who'd been trained to think about hosiery the way hosiery had always been thought about. "Every sixteenth of an inch of a bra counts," Duckham said during a New Yorker profile visit. "It's so different from everything else we work on."
The strapless bra was even harder. The problem was physics: keeping it in place during movement, being able to raise your arms, being able to dance. "The big idea is taking a regular strapless bra and turning it upside down," Duckham explained. "Most strapless bras angle down in the back, which makes the bra feel like it's dragging, but the angle on ours is up." It eventually debuted as the Bra-Cha-Cha, retailing for sixty-eight dollars. A tugboat captain who tested the men's line liked the briefs so much he asked to take his pair home.
At SPANX — we invent. We hold so many patents here. We are constantly inventing and creating brand-new products that have never been done before. What got me to start SPANX was being a frustrated consumer. Why I'm still doing it almost 20 years later is because I think there is so much opportunity to make things better for women.
Blakely herself holds five U.S. patents. The company registered forty trademarks. And the product line expanded with a kind of exuberant, slightly unhinged inventiveness: Tight-End Tights (legwear), Haute Contour (lacy lingerie), Bod a Bing! (casual separates), Skinny Britches (lightweight undershorts), On Top and In Control (tops), Power Panties (the lightweight girdle that sold six million units), Slim Cognito (a white girdle from which a woman in Midwest City, Oklahoma, around 3 A.M. on July 20, 2010, pulled over her head to rob a McDonald's cash register — a company milestone of sorts, captured on surveillance video). There was even a budget line, Assets, sold at Target, about whose packaging Blakely once noted: "We almost went so far as to make the word 'ass' bigger, in 'Assets.'"
The Inventor's Dilemma
By the late aughts, Spanx reported $350 million in global retail sales, an estimated 20 percent margin, and zero dollars of outside investment. Zero dollars of advertising spend. Zero debt. Blakely still owned 100 percent of the company. In early 2012, four Wall Street investment banks independently valued Spanx at an average of $1 billion.
Forbes put Blakely on the cover: the youngest self-made female billionaire in the world, at forty-one. She joined an elite club that included Oprah Winfrey and
Meg Whitman — women worth ten figures who hadn't inherited or married their way in.
Time named her one of its 100 Most Influential People the same year. She was invited onto Shark Tank as a guest shark. She was a regular at Fortune's Most Powerful Women summits. She gave speeches constantly — still terrified, still doing it anyway, speaking fees reportedly between $100,000 and $200,000 per engagement. She played the same Mark Knopfler song, "What It Is," at every takeoff because it was the only thing that kept her from crying on planes. "I have sweaty palms, panic attacks, my heart's racing," she said.
The paradox of Blakely's public persona was its deliberate forgettability. She had features "of the sort that are hard to fix in memory,"
The New Yorker observed. She had "the slightly daffy energy of a cheerleader, a sorority sister, or an imaginative babysitter, all of which she used to be." Once, a cashier at Target told Blakely she looked familiar. Blakely, standing beneath an enormous Spanx display featuring her own photograph, listed her entire résumé: inventor of Spanx,
Richard Branson's TV show,
American Inventor judge. The cashier paused. "You look just like my realtor."
This anecdote, which Blakely tells on herself with evident delight, captures something essential about her brand of entrepreneurship: it was radically personal but deliberately non-celebrity. She was the face and — as she would note with a certain wry pride — the rear end of the brand, but she was not trying to be famous. She was trying to sell underwear. The difference matters. Celebrity founders build companies that depend on their aura; Blakely built a company that depended on her body, her willingness to demonstrate the product, her refusal to outsource the pitch. "For 16 years, Spanx never advertised," she told The Cut in 2018. "This brand became a word-of-mouth brand by women sharing a good secret, but also by me refusing to say no to anybody willing to hear me talk about Spanx and the products we were making."
Business Is Not War
In 2004, against the advice of her parents, her boyfriend, and her lawyer, Blakely signed up for The Rebel Billionaire: Branson's Quest for the Best, a reality television show hosted by Richard Branson. The show required contestants to perform physical feats of escalating absurdity. Blakely — afraid of heights, afraid of flying, afraid of puking — did nosedives in a 747, climbed a rope ladder up the side of a hot-air balloon, and had tea with Branson at eight thousand feet. She finished second. Branson gave her $750,000, which she used to establish the Sara Blakely Foundation, a philanthropic organization providing scholarships and grants to aspiring female entrepreneurs.
She and Branson became friends. He would later reveal that he wore Spanx briefs. She would later set a Guinness World Record for climbing the side of a hot-air balloon and having tea on top. The friendship was built on a shared affinity for gleeful spectacle, for the idea that business could be an adventure rather than a campaign.
"When I started Spanx 21 years ago, I had people tell me, 'It's great you started a business. But business is war. I hope you're ready,'" Blakely told Fortune in 2021. "Why does it have to be war? I operated this business with intuition, vulnerability, and empathy. I had no interest in going to war."
This is not posturing. It is, by every available account, how she actually ran the company. She scheduled "oops meetings" where employees stood up and shared their mistakes, usually turning them into funny stories. She established a "Leg-UP" program that featured other female entrepreneurs' products in the Spanx catalog for free. She created a rotating philanthropy board made up of employees, allocating a portion of company profits for them to give away, sending staff members to surprise organizations with checks in hand. She donated $1 million to Oprah Winfrey's Leadership Academy for girls in South Africa, surprising Winfrey on air — rendering "the queen of talk, Oprah (and our accountants at the time), speechless," as Blakely wrote in her Giving Pledge letter.
In 2013, she became the first self-made female billionaire to sign the Giving Pledge, committing to donate at least half her wealth to philanthropy. Her pledge letter opened: "Since I was a little girl I have always known I would help women. In my wildest dreams I never thought I would have started with their butts."
The $1.2 Billion Feeling
For twenty years, people asked Blakely when she would sell Spanx. For twenty years, she said the same thing: "I'll just know." She had never taken outside investment. She had never needed to. The company was profitable from its first year and stayed that way, generating an estimated $400 million in annual sales by 2018 — all on $5,000 of initial capital, a return-on-investment ratio that defies the conventions of venture-backed entrepreneurship so thoroughly that it barely registers as a data point in that world.
In October 2021, Blackstone acquired a majority stake in Spanx at a valuation of $1.2 billion. Blakely retained an undisclosed minority stake and became executive chairwoman. She thanked, specifically, the all-female team she'd worked with at Blackstone.
"I've operated the business off of intuition the whole time," she told Fortune. "It's a feeling."
Then she gave every Spanx employee — most of them women — two first-class Delta plane tickets to anywhere in the world and $10,000 in cash. She posted a video on Instagram. There are screams. There are tears. One woman is going to Bora Bora for her honeymoon. Another is headed to a safari in South Africa.
"This marks a moment for female entrepreneurs," Blakely says in the video. "There aren't enough women being funded out there; there aren't enough women getting the support. Fifty percent of entrepreneurs are women and only 2.3% of all VC funding goes to women."
The $5,000 investment had returned 240,000 times its value. She had built a billion-dollar company without a single outside dollar, a single ad buy, or a single business class. She had done it by cutting the feet off her pantyhose in a bathroom and then, for two decades, refusing to stop talking about it.
The Corset in the Corner
There is a photograph, never widely circulated, of the interior of Sara Blakely's red-painted office at 3344 Peachtree Road. On the wall:
Life covers of Carol Burnett and Germaine Greer. On the shelves: Wayne Dyer, Eckhart Tolle, Phyllis Diller, Henry Miller — and
Living Gluten-Free for Dummies shelved, without apparent irony, next to Milan Kundera's
The Unbearable Lightness of Being. On another bookcase, a product called Bremenn Butt Lift in a Box, picked up at Bloomingdale's out of sheer curiosity. And on the floor, in the corner, the nineteenth-century corset — wood-and-leather, Scarlett O'Hara style, its $795 price tag still dangling.
The corset was not decorative, exactly. It was not quite a trophy, either. It was more like an ancestor — the instrument of compression and female suffering from which Blakely's entire enterprise descended, and against which it defined itself. The original panty hose had been invented to replace stockings and garters, which had been invented to replace corsets, which had been invented because someone decided that the female form required mechanical intervention to be presentable. Blakely's contribution was to take the last stage of that evolution — the control-top panty hose — and remove the part of it (the feet) that nobody wanted, while keeping the part (the compression) that everybody did. The innovation was not additive. It was subtractive. She took something away, and what remained was a billion-dollar idea.
The corset sits in the corner of her office like a reminder of what the industry used to do to women. Spanx sits on the shelves of ten thousand stores as evidence of what a woman can do to the industry. Between those two objects — the antique instrument of constriction and the modern garment of choice — stretches the entire distance of Sara Blakely's career: from the fax machine to the Forbes list, from the scissors to the Blackstone deal, from the beach town with no boobs to the thirty-seventh floor overlooking Central Park, where hidden behind the bar are jet packs and an inflatable motorboat, because the woman who built a billion-dollar company on the principle that anything can be improved is also the woman who hired a former Navy SEAL to devise emergency escape methods from her own apartment.
She is afraid of heights. She lives on the thirty-seventh floor. That is the joke, and also, somehow, the whole point.
