by Theresa Alan
“Your ring is so cute,” she told me. “It really complements your hand.” What did she mean by cute? Did it complement my hand because it was small like my hand? Did she think my ring was dinky and therefore Greg didn’t really love me? Cute was a very poor adjective to apply to a wedding ring.
“Where are you going to hold the reception?” she asked.
“We haven’t made final plans yet, but we were thinking about going to the Broker Inn.”
“Oh, two of my friends got married there. It’s a nice place.”
Was she insinuating that I was unimaginative? That my wedding would be unoriginal?
“Do you know what kind of food you’re serving?”
“Maybe Chicken Kiev. We’re not sure if we’re going to have a sit-down dinner or a buffet.”
“We had a sit-down dinner. People could choose swordfish or prime rib. I think having a choice is nice, don’t you?”
“Sure. Yeah.” My guests would be lucky if they got chicken nuggets and Spaghettios, but I didn’t say this. I didn’t like where this conversation was going, so I excused myself to return to the safe comfort of my deluge of work.
It was wonderful to be bringing home a paycheck, but my discontent lingered. I woke up early most mornings—four, five o’clock—and then lay in bed worrying about being too tired to do a good job at work, my eyes stinging from lack of sleep. What if I was so tired I made mistakes and got fired? I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t fail again. I wanted to be out of debt. I wanted the wedding to be over. I wanted a new car so I could stop stressing out about the next time my car was going to conk out on me. My debt was approaching a number so abstract that it was almost easier not to worry about it now than when it had been merely unmanageable rather than unthinkable, which it was quickly becoming.
I would start my diet on January first. Sure it was cliché, but it was a convenient time for new beginnings. I’d had good intentions of dieting, but my new job was insane, and by the time I got home from work, my hunger was raging out of control. I would put a frozen pizza in the oven, binge on whatever snack food was in the house during the eleven minutes it took to cook, then stuff the pizza down so fast I barely bothered to breathe or chew. Then I would sit on the couch, a moaning, distended ball of flab, unable to move because of my considerable girth.
If I started my diet right after the holidays, I could still lose the weight by the wedding. I could lose a pound a week, times four weeks a month, times seven months was twenty-eight pounds. At the end I could starve a little. My goal had been forty pounds, but thirty-five would work.
I couldn’t wait to join a health club. I’d work out for two hours at a time, five days a week, and I’d be svelte in no time.
My hopes that Greg would do more housework once I got a job were not realized. He wasn’t home much, but he’d use a few dishes every day and leave the counter a mess. I would say, as nicely as I could, “Are you going to clean those dishes?” He always said he’d get to it. And he would. But the mess lingered until every last dish—including the Tupper ware we used in lieu of bowls and plates—had piled up in the sink so I had nothing to eat out of and no cooking pans.
All week I longed for the weekend, but when Saturday finally came, instead of luxuriating in my time off, I spent the morning cleaning, then I went out for several hours casing reception halls. When I came home, Greg had a few of his buddies over. There were beer cans everywhere, dishes (unsoaked, of course) filled the sink and spilled over across the counter. All the food I’d bought had been eaten, so I needed to go to the grocery store again, and the floor I’d mopped was sticky with beer and a variety of mysterious crud. I went into my bedroom and cried. I could hear parts of their conversation, including the word premenstrual uttered more than once. My worst fear was being realized: I was becoming the kind of housewifely woman who was the butt of jokes in sitcoms.
One afternoon Eleanore stopped by my office and asked, “What do you think?”
“Of what?”
“I got my hair cut and the color touched up.”
I saw no difference whatsoever, but said, “Looks great.”
“It’s so funny; as I’ve gotten older, I’ve watched all my friends’ hair get lighter and lighter. They cover their gray with blond, but they used to have brown hair. Every year their hair gets lighter. I was always a blonde, so it’s not that big a change for me.”
She patted her hair a few more times and was on her way.
I was soon feeling better about the comfortable routine of working as an editor. I would never have exciting work anecdotes to share. (Hi, hon. What a day. Somebody actually spelled “letter” “leter,” can you believe it?) I would never have exciting adventures like Tom’s tales of being a paramedic, but after the hell of teaching, dull routine wasn’t so bad. I enjoyed feeling as though I was improving a manuscript, making things clearer for the reader. I liked getting paid to read, even boring marketing reports. I loved looking up an odd-looking word in the dictionary and having my suspicions confirmed—it was being used as a noun when it should be an adjective. Scandal!
But somehow, I still wasn’t happy. Not like I’d thought I would be. Now that I had a job, I couldn’t fantasize about all the interesting, challenging, high-paying jobs that I could get. My reality was hopelessly dull.
AVERY
Often, Sometimes, Never
Ben didn’t call.
I hadn’t exactly wanted him to, but some part of me expected he would. A week had gone by, and he still hadn’t called. The more time that passed, the more he grew in my imagination into a Prince Charming-caliber guy—dashing and witty and wise. I tried to remind myself that he wasn’t particularly good-looking or interesting or kind, but it’s difficult to reason with your imagination.
After getting rejected by Ben, it was comforting to find Art’s e-mail waiting for me when I arrived at the office Monday morning. The one good thing about Jen’s chronic lateness was that I had a few peaceful minutes to myself when I got to the office. I loved leisurely sipping my coffee and reading my e-mail before the rest of my day crashed down around me in an endless tumult of unrealistic deadlines.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
My mother was in town this weekend. It was fun to show her around. We went to the art museum and to a Broncos game. Mostly we ate too much. She’s a neat lady. Very funny, very smart. She has finally started dating again. I gave Mom advice on dating and following her heart. It was cool being the one giving advice. She’s spent so much time helping me and giving me advice, it was nice to return the favor. It’s nice that our relationship has evolved into an adult friendship.
I was crazy busy with work, but taking a fifteen-minute break to write to Art actually helped me be more productive. After I wrote him, I could attack work with a new energy.
I needed that energy for the Expert Appliance account. Everyone in the company was on edge. Jen and I had finished the first round of reports on ovens, but the deadline for getting the second round on washers and dryers was completely unfeasible, and even more so because Jen put in, at most, an hour of work a day.
Ordinarily, I didn’t mind that she came in late and took two-hour lunches and spent most of the day gossiping with coworkers. But now that I was working my butt off nine and ten hours a day and still falling behind, and Jen wasn’t even attempting to do her share, there were times her lack of a work ethic was rather irritating.
I didn’t like it when I let work stress me out like this. It wasn’t worth it. But I really needed to prove myself to have a shot at Sharon’s job. I knew I could do it. I couldn’t let another promotion pass me by. I was smart enough and hard working enough, I just needed to get my name and face out there in front of the big-wigs who made decisions.
“How are the Expert reports coming?” came Sharon’s shrill, accusing voice from the doorway. “You know we have to get the first round of the washer and dryer reports to the editors by Wednesday.”
What I wanted to say was that I knew very well when the deadline was and it wasn’t necessary for her to remind me every single day, but just because Sharon had pulled this arbitrary, utterly unrealistic deadline out of the air without regard for how long it would actually take to complete didn’t make it in any way achievable. Instead, I said nothing and just nodded.
She looked at me suspiciously, as if she had every expectation that I would fail. “Thanks,” she said in her faux voice that she ended all of her conversations with to make it clear she was done with you.
There was no way we were going to meet the deadline. Sharon’s crystal ball had determined that the teleresearchers could each get twenty-two calls done a day when in fact they were getting about fifteen at best. I wasn’t given the budget to give them any rewards for reaching Sharon’s goal, nor could I let them work longer hours because my budget didn’t include letting them work overtime. Plus, Jen hadn’t begun working on her part of the first set of reports, so I’d been doing both our jobs for us when I didn’t have enough time in the day to do my own job.
There was no one I could complain to about Jen not doing her share of the work. For one thing, Jen was my friend and I didn’t want to get her in trouble; for another thing, there was no way I could bring it to a manager’s attention without looking petty.
Even though I knew the teleresearchers were doing the best they could, I walked to their cubicle area as if my presence could spur them to higher numbers.
I listened to Teresa Sanchez as she finished up a survey:
“Do you look in Consumer Reports before purchasing a major appliance (A) Often (B) Sometimes, or (C) Never?
“Okay, my last question: Is there anything you can think of that would improve your laundry process?”
“Yeah, we all hate folding!” she laughed encouragingly. “Thanks so much for your help!” Teresa hung up the phone and groaned.
“Hi, Teresa, how’s it going? Learning anything exciting about consumers’ desires for innovations in laundry?” I asked.
“Yes, everyone would like a machine that folded their clothes. If I hear that suggestion one more time, I’m going to scream.”
“I’ll let Expert know about that,” I joked. The other members of the team were getting busy signals, wrong numbers, and answering machines, so I was able to pull them all aside for an impromptu meeting.
“Listen, you guys are doing a great job, but we’re just not pulling in the numbers we need. I technically don’t have the budget to do this, but you guys are working so hard, I want to reward whichever one of you can pull in the highest numbers. We absolutely need to get the project finished by the sixteenth.” If I couldn’t convince Sharon to give a reward, I’d just pay them myself. I was desperate.
“Avery, it’s nice of you to offer a bonus, but we’re doing the best we can and we just can’t get that many calls. The deadline is unrealistic,” Teresa said.
Teresa was a talented young woman who could do so much better than phone surveys. She didn’t have the money to go to college, and her appearance didn’t exactly scream, “I am future management material!” She hairsprayed her bangs into a pouffy sphere that looked like the extended cranium of a Cro-Magnon. She wore a lot of dark eyeliner and lined her lips in a shade much darker than her already dark lipstick. Her nails were always painted an airhorn-siren-loud color.
I liked her. I didn’t want her to think of me as the unreasonable tyrant boss. I wanted to scream, No kidding! It’s not my deadline! I’m not the bad guy. Instead I just said, “I know it’s tough, but I know you guys can do it. I appreciate your hard work.”
I walked back to my office. The teleresearchers hated me. I hated me. I sounded like such a corporate bullshitter. I had no power to reward them and no power to change the deadline. All I could do was incur the hatred of the teleresearchers and fail miserably in front of my boss.
As soon as I got back to my office, the phone rang. “Avery, this is Jack Webb from Expert Appliance. I wondered how the research was coming.”
“Good to hear from you, Jack. Everything is on schedule. We should have all the interviews complete within the next two weeks.”
“Super. Have you found anything interesting yet?”
“It’s really too early to say.” So far Expert Appliance had spent fifty thousand dollars to learn that people wanted reasonably priced appliances that wouldn’t break down. “I’ll let you know!”
“The questionnaire seems to be working okay?”
“No problems. In fact, it seems to be working out really well.”
Jack kept me on the phone for twenty more minutes, talking about how much he was looking forward to the results of the project and unrelated ramblings on projects he was working on. I took deep breaths and tried not to think of how much work I could be doing.
Jen finally strolled in to the office.
“It’s nine o’clock, Jen. In case you haven’t noticed, we have a huge project we’re way behind on,” I said.
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that I got in at seven this morning. I’ve been doing your job as well as mine and Jen, I can’t do it anymore.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been up at the crack of dawn slaving away. I’m only going through the most difficult thing I’ve ever experienced. In case you forgot, the man I planned to marry viciously dumped me, leaving me with nothing but the credit card debt he got me into.”
“Jen, I know you’re going through a hard time . . .”
“Yeah, I can see you’re just bursting with concern.” Jen slammed her briefcase down.
“I’m sorry.”
“Gosh, I’d love to discuss this, but I have too much work to do to waste time talking.” She turned to her computer.
I started to protest, but I didn’t know what to say.
Jen did work hard in the next few hours, but the tension was so awkward, I wished I hadn’t said anything, just to have her cracking jokes again.
After a while, I got so absorbed in my work I forgot about the tension between us. There were times when I could spend hours designing and reworking a graph, slightly changing the hue of each color, contrasting a pewter blue against a shade of violet against a rich pale yellow. The world was a kaleidoscope of colors and possibilities, a palette of shades to choose from.
I didn’t look at the clock until I realized I was starving. It was 1:30 and I hadn’t eaten anything but a banana all day.
“I’m going to eat some lunch. Want anything?”
“Some of us have too much work to do to take lunch breaks.”
“Fine,” I sighed.
In the kitchen, I pulled my salad out of the fridge and brought it to the table where Les was sitting. He looked uncharacteristically unhappy. He was staring out the window, his sandwich untouched on the table.
I didn’t know Les very well. Our acquaintance was limited to polite how-are-you-doings exchanged in the hallway, and a few times we’d chatted about things like Boulder’s weather and what movies we’d seen recently while he got my ailing computer working. Even though I didn’t know much about him, I liked him. Les had a good spirit. Even when he was obviously stressed and frustrated, he just smiled and acted as though helping me was the only thing he had to do all day. When something went wrong with my computer, he didn’t blame a coworker’s incompetence or declare management’s technology purchases cheap like Tom always did. He just fixed the problem. After working with Sharon and Jen for so long, I’d really grown to appreciate people who did their job well.
“Les? Is everything okay?” I asked.
Les turned and smiled wanly. “Everything’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I guess I just wish there were more hours in a day.”
“No kidding. Yesterday I worked till seven, stopped at the grocery store, made some dinner, and it was suddenly nine o’clock and it was all I could do to walk across the room and fall into bed. It’s like, gosh, what an exciting life
I lead.”
“Exactly. I just can’t seem to get everything done that I need to. I worked all weekend—twelve hours Saturday, twelve hours Sunday—and I only finished a third of what I’d hoped to. I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to work this weekend.”
“So don’t.”
“I have to; it has to get done.” Les gazed out the window again, looking very tired.
I started on my salad. In all the silence, the crunch of my cucumbers and carrots seemed to echo more loudly than usual.
Finally Les broke the quiet. “I had this idea that when I moved to Colorado I’d get a less stressful job and go hiking every weekend and get back in shape and have a life,” he said. “Read a book every now and then, maybe get a girlfriend. Instead I’m just as stressed about work as ever. I’ve hiked exactly once. I haven’t read so much as the advertising on a cereal box let alone a book, and I did meet someone, but she won’t give me the time of day.”
“Have you asked her out?”
“No, no. It’s just a crush. It’s silly really.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She’s beautiful and fun and amazing.”
“Les, any woman would be lucky to find you.” He really did seem smart and funny and kind. But because he was overweight and rather plain, there was no sexual tension, so I didn’t feel that awkward, expectant hopefulness I felt when I was attracted to someone and hoped they felt that way about me.
“You know,” I continued, “I love hiking and I rarely work weekends, so I have no excuse for not hiking more often. Would you like to go hiking with me on Saturday? I mean if you don’t have to work.”