When I started my career at CNN five years ago, the old hand who hired me offered this advice: Never let them see you sweat.

A cliché perhaps, yet when my phone rang Monday morning and the Big Cheese requested my presence in human resources, the words rang in my head.

Her call wasn't unexpected: for weeks the buzz at CNN had been that 400 people would be laid off as soon as the merger between AOL and Time Warner, CNN's parent company, was approved by the Federal Trade Commission. I figured my number was up, and strangely, my first reaction was not ''Why me?'' or ''How will I pay for my 3-year-old's preschool tuition?'' My first thought before facing the firing squad was that I wanted to go down with style.

Style meant astounding them with my composure, disarming them with my confidence. I was a sophisticated warrior in the New Economy, my own brand, ''the C.E.O. of Me Inc.'' -- at least that's what Fast Company magazine had told me. Heck, I'd been thrown out of better places than this. I would not be Joan Cusack in ''Broadcast News,'' blubbering in Holly Hunter's arms; I would be more like Woody Allen in ''Love and Death,'' joking with his assassins, refusing a blindfold. (Of course, he thought miraculous intervention was forthcoming.)

I was determined to exit with class and focus on the positive. The company had, after all, given me my start in television, from writing on the graveyard shift to doing my own stories on the air for the weekend business shows ''Your Money'' and ''Business Unusual.'' The last story I had done was about career survival strategies in a recession. Ouch. I would thank the Big Cheese and depart, aloof as a 1940's movie queen, my dignity intact.

So, for Black Monday I dressed accordingly: a designer black velvet mock turtleneck, black faux croc belt, strappy black heels and shimmery pink silk pants. O.K., I wore evening clothes, but glamour was paramount. When it was time to meet with the Big Cheese, I sauntered into a conference room where I had conducted dozens of interviews, straightened a million crooked ties, powdered a million sweaty brows. (Lesson learned early on: A sweaty subject can destroy an interesting story. Always carry powder.) I sat at the head of a long conference table between a man from Atlanta whom I'd never seen before and the Big Cheese, whose first words were, ''Wow, great pants.'' I was off to a fabulous start.

It didn't last. ''The company has decided to reorganize,'' she said. ''And unfortunately your position is being eliminated.''

The official ax man from Atlanta began his spiel. He was surprisingly nervous, even shaking a bit. Perhaps it was because I was one of the first to go, a dubious distinction. I regarded his bland corporate suit with icy cool, visualizing Katharine Hepburn sparring with Cary Grant in ''The Philadelphia Story.'' She also wore great pants in that movie, I thought. Soon I'd have plenty of time to watch it -- over and over. ''We're offering you a special severance package,'' the ax man intoned, thanking me for my years of service.

Service. I drifted back to the horrendous year when I worked the overnight shift -- 1 a.m. to 9 a.m. -- and this while pregnant. Hey, let me tell you two about service, I nearly shouted. But I held my tongue, assuming the graceful nonchalance of Audrey Hepburn in ''Breakfast at Tiffany's.'' Simply do not ask me what this is all about, parce que je ne sais pas, mes chers. I should have worn my Holly Golightly shades.

''We want you to know this is not related to your performance here,'' the Big Cheese said sympathetically.

Remain indifferent, remote, I reminded myself, Greta Garbo in ''Anna Christie.'' ''Gif me a visky, ginger ale on the side. And don't be stingy, baby.'' I pondered appropriately seedy establishments to drown my sorrows in that evening. I'd wear a beret.

Just then, the ax man delivered the unkindest cut of all: ''Now, I'll be escorting you to your desk. We need you out of the building in an hour.''

He torpedoed my carefully crafted facade. I was so stunned that I actually thought for a moment that he was joking. ''Escort me out?'' I gasped. ''Are you (here I swallowed a potent curse word) kidding me? I've worked my butt off here for five years and you're going to escort me out?''

''I'm sorry, this is standard procedure in these situations,'' he said.

Something clicked in my head. No matter how splendid or confident I tried to be, to him I was merely a factor of production and on the spreadsheet my marginal cost had apparently exceeded my marginal revenue. That's when I got mad, really mad. Under the stretch velvet beat the heart of a street fighter, the 10th of 11 children from an Irish brood where loyalty is life. I had been loyal for five years -- and now was being made to feel like a criminal.

''You think I'm going to take something? You think I spent five years here and I'm going to take something?'' I shouted, sounding not unlike Robert DeNiro in ''Taxi Driver.'' ''I'm going back to my desk, I'm getting my kids' pictures and drawings, I'm going to give the stories I shot last week to another producer -- and I'm going to go home when I'm finished. And you are not coming with me!'' My speech was followed by the mother of all style faux pas: tears of fury. The ax man grew alarmed. He and the Big Cheese stepped outside to consult. They returned quickly.

''O.K., you have until the end of the day,'' she said, not unkindly.

''And he is not following me, right?'' I replied, gesturing to the ax man.

''Right,'' he muttered.

Everyone I spoke to who was fired after I was had until the end of the day to clear out. I don't know if this generosity was related to my tantrum, but I felt like Sally Field in ''Norma Rae.'' My exit wasn't as stylish as I had planned, but more substantive than I'd expected. I'd won a tiny battle and that was more satisfying. A tinge of regret -- perhaps I should have worn denim.

Published in The New York Times