Photoguyforguys: 26! That one was mine! I won him fair and square! Let me at him.
Lame2001: No can do.
I’m just closing out that instant message window when another one pops up from Tiffanybabeoliscious. This is so much fun! Now I have coworkers, I have more than one IM pal. Joanne never uses it—she thinks it’s the downfall of society.
Tiffanybabeolisdous: I heard you’ve got a date with Seth!
Lame2001: That was quick!
Tiffanybabeoliscious: Good news travels fast! Want the scoop?
Lame200l: Sure…
Tiffanybabeoliscious: Well. Seth used to date lots of girls around here, until he started going out with Evelyn Grainger in accounts payable. But he dumped her bitchy ass last month. She’s going to be sooooo jealous when she finds out!
Lame2001: Ooh!!!!!! Intrigue! Hope she won’t be upset?
Tiffanybabeoliscious: Please, don’t worry about her; she boils bunnies for breakfast. Onto more important things, he’s sooooooo cute!
Now, can things get any better than this? I feel like an office celebrity. Soon people will be whispering and pointing me out to their friends. I’m already the subject of gossip! This is so exciting. Evelyn Grainger, watch out! There’s a new girl in town!
Initial excitement out of the way, I attempt to calm myself. Be professional, Lane. Like your father always told you: “I don’t care what you do, as long as you do it with pride.”
While I’m trying out a new lifestyle, I am going to resist the urge to daydream about Seth every second until Thursday. I’ve got a whole full life! I don’t have time for daydreaming, ditto writing his name inside hearts on Post-it notes, and picturing him naked.
But don’t I sort of have to? I mean this is no regular date. This is the first in what I hope will be a series of tests to determine whether Seth is my M&M. This is serious business. I have to throw myself into this head-on. Give it my all.
It’s my job, after all.
Which is why I’m keeping a diary to record these very things. That settled I prepare myself to dream away. How could I not? It’s my job.
Day Two: you know, it’s funny, when every man you encounter has to be considered on such a serious level, it adds a lot of pressure. Do I throw myself into thinking about him or don’t I? Hmmmm … The best way to answer such a question would be to enlist the advice of a friend.
But I already know my friends would not provide the answer I’m looking for. Which is a go-ahead to think about Seth, Seth, nothing but Seth from now until Thursday.
Without friends who can provide the proper answer I will have to refer to my oldest friend in the world: my checklist—to make sure I haven’t missed any important points.
Checklist # 127 Seth
1. Reads NYTimes:
Notes: Requires additional research
2. Has job that will allow for romantic trips to exotic locales; always insists we fly first class, feeding each other sorbet with a tiny silver spoon:
Notes: Must ask Tiffany about this (but not too soon, as don’t want to appear after money, which is not important part of this checklist item).
3. Puts passion above common sense /practically:
Notes: Did help with copier, even though obviously has fear of retiring as “copy guy”, also used phrase “knight in shinning armor”. Didn’t mind asking me out even with ex-girlfriend still on premises (add “possible conspiracy “as additional checklist item?).
4. Is British (depending on nature of remainder of checklist, this can, on occasion, be fulfilled with valid British heritage documented on family tree, but British accent is most desirable):
Notes: Although does not exhibit verbal signs of United Kingdom origin, did (as mentioned above) refer to “knights”, which is surely a British sort of reference.
5. Makes me a get That Feeling:
Notes: Did enjoy rear view; if memory serves correct, also experienced three heart jumps (1) when he did sexy eye-flick thing; (2) when I received very direct e-mail regarding date; (3) when I was trying not to write his name inside hearts on Post-it notes or picture him naked.
6. Knows how to be direct, (i.e. Richard Gere in Pretty Woman):
Notes: See # 5.2 above.
7. Has roses waiting for me when I get home (even when I am working at home, he always finds way):
Notes: Technically I should wait on this item, since no chance for proof as of yet (and is a two – part question, technically requiring me to be done with this assignment and back home to prove), but am getting extremely great feelings about this and have just decided after reading article about it, never to ignore woman’s intuition. What better way to put faith in mine than an advance checkmark?
8. I am unable to pass a Victoria’s Secret without dashing inside to find some new lacy, sexy thing with all sorts of straps that go God-knows-where to surprise him with, and when I do, he never says something as ridiculous as : “You must get dressed now, we are meeting my parents in ten minutes.”
Notes: See #7 above, re: woman’s intuition.
9. He is so beautiful maybe not to everyone, but to me, that I wake up in the middle of the night and spend hours just staring at the angle of his jaws, the arc of his brow:
Notes: Although beautiful without a doubt, have learned that beauty can be fleeting and therefore will refrain from checking off until at least one month. Maybe next week. Definitely not until tomorrow night.
10. If we ever do argue, it is always with bitter rage, arms flailing, and tears burning in front of a fountain in Central Park or by the tree in Rockefeller Center, or somewhere equally cinematic. But, then, without fail, we make amends—always meeting in the middle between his home and mine (this is perfectly in sync as we both have the urge for reconciliation at the same moment); and come together in the most passionate lovemaking we’ve ever experienced (once we’ve gotten inside, of course), and thank God that we have found each other. After, we spend the night laughing uncontrollably at the littlest things, like the way he says parents with the same A sound as in apple, while I pronounce it like “air,” and coming to revolutionary realizations about things—like how amazing it is that people now only drink bottled water, when before they’d never thought twice about drinking from a tap:
Notes: Again, probably best to wait on this one until actual argument ensues; judging from past experience, this means at least until second date.
11. Witty statements are always on the tip of his tongue:
Notes: So far, so good. But with today’s myriad sources for pickup artistry (e.g. Maxim, Stuff, Men’s Health), men can fizzle out on the wit front after initial encounter: This item subject to change.
12. His teaches me things I never even know I had to learn:
Notes: Reference copier incident.
Friends till the end, my checklist and I part ways for the moment, one of us slipped into my attache case, the other turning back to my journal.
With all this possibility, how could anything go wrong? Still, haven’t things gone horrifyingly wrong before with equally promising checklists? The question of the hour (and I really haven’t much longer to figure out the answer) is: How do you recognize your M&M?
The next couple of moments are occupied with vacillations between doubts that Prince Charming actually exists, and doubts about my ability to recognize him should he ever surface. Each side of the equation has its horrors.
If there is no such thing as Prince Charming, then who will I wind up with? A not-smart-enough, not-funny-enough, but sweet and thoughtful guy, who I’m not really in love with, but eventually stay with so long there’s no turning back? Or if I don’t settle, will I become the proverbial bird woman (I know it’s really cats but I prefer birds), doomed to a long life of loneliness and excrement cleanup? And, on the other hand, if he does reveal himself to me, what if I’m too stupid to recognize him? What if he’s drunk and says something inappropriate like, “Nice rack,” to which I wave him off, and, defeated, he rejoins his friends, ne
ver to speak with me again? What if this has already happened? This is a horrifying thought.
And the thing about horrifying thoughts—after you have just broken up with a perfectly decent man, who is smart, has a great job, supported your career, thought of sweet things to present you with on dates and holidays, and has told you on more than one occasion that he is never happier than when he is with you—is that they lead to more horrifying thoughts.
What exactly was wrong with James? My friends had nothing but rave reviews. They thought him witty, funny, and a perfect match for me.
I try to work out where it went sour. I’d always fancied myself so fortunate when I’d see him with his family—they dote on him so! And when we were with his friends I couldn’t help thinking that since they were so wonderful, it could only support the fact that he, too, was wonderful. The few times we went for romantic dinners, I’d look around the room and feel lucky to be with him (former checklist item; now proven to be misleading). Or was it that I felt lucky to be with someone?
I’m about to close out my journal document when I have another insightful thought about the men of the Traveler’s Building that lifts my spirits:
They are everywhere (eating, running, walking, typing, talking). I was right about that part at least. All you have to do is jam a paper in the copier, try balancing three coffees on a tray, drop a pen, and they come running. And as you know from my earlier ranting, this is certainly new to me. I am not normally the woman like in those Impulse commercials. There are no men I’ve ever met before who suddenly bring me flowers.
But now the initial question has been answered, now that I’ve proven that placing yourself in a male-dense setting increases the possibility of meeting men, does this necessarily mean I’ll find The One for me? I guess the next frightening question is this: Does increasing the odds increase the likelihood that you’ll meet that one soul mate?
Six
Mr. Right Now
During an inspired moment on Wednesday, I once again I attack my Diary of a Working Girl. My mood has been buoyed by a trip to the building’s lobby shop, during which my telephone number was requested by three—yes, three—different men, one of whom carried my bag all the way to the entrance to my floor. I make a note to start researching Guinness World Records. This cannot be an ordinary occurrence. It’s been a long day of typing memos, faxes, and letters, and stealing the odd moment in between to pitch an occasional story idea, answer e-mails and voicemails, check my voice mail at home, and of course, to check out the men around me. I’m beat, but as I begin typing, my fingers tingle at the prospect of some creative work.
I think that every single girl should have the option to visit a financial institution at least once per week. I have taken this on as my anthem, replacing my old (pathetic and so never before revealed) one: That every single girl should be able to have a camera tune into them on a Sunday when they are trying to while away the day alone, so that it can be broadcast into homes across America and everyone can feel sorry for them, like in the movies.
Despite the fact that I might be falling in love with Seth, I am making a concerted effort to keep an open mind to other possibilities. For instance, when allowing that other boy to carry my bag (containing exactly one small coffee), I tried not to compare him to Seth, even though Seth clearly has a more romantic way about him, a nicer butt, and more confident demeanor.
When I was smiling like a schoolgirl today in the cafeteria with Tom, and he asked what was so damn amusing, I resisted the urge to gush about my upcoming date. Instead, I said “Oh, I’m just thinking how happy I am here!”
And he said, “You really must have needed to get out of your apartment badly, Ab Fab.”
Since possibility was in the air and I couldn’t stop thinking about how great it would be when Seth and I are going out on double dates and business dinners with Tom and his girlfriend, I brought her up.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been with your girlfriend?” I asked. I was already picturing the four of us dressed in white, watching a polo match.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I do mind you asking, but three years, if you must know,” he said.
“So, how’d you meet?”
“I wasn’t aware I was lunching with the Spanish Inquisition. But if you can’t live without knowing, I’ll tell you. I get this strange feeling that if I don’t, you’ll just keep asking until I do.” Tom smiled at me and I felt like we were really getting comfortable with each other. “So here goes. We were introduced by our parents, who’d met on vacation and apparently had nothing better to talk about than their unfortunately single children. My mother pushed and pushed until I said I’d go out with this fantastic daughter—Whitney—and so, finally I did. She’s a real estate broker. She’s from Westchester. And that’s all you’re getting. Happy?”
I thought it was rather strange, him being so snippy about her, and not once saying something endearing like, “She has the most amazing sense of humor,” or “You’d really like her.” I always hoped that would be the sort of thing a guy would say about me when I wasn’t around. But I chalked it up to the fact that some people just don’t like to discuss their private lives, and went back to imagining what mine would soon be like.
After work, Joanne and I are at Due South, the pub across from the Traveler’s Building. We’re seated at the long oak bar. I sip my Miller Light from its delightfully frosty pint glass when Joanne asks about Seth, who I’m still set to go out with tomorrow. We’re at this bar because Joanne is suddenly very interested in my male-rich environment and wanted to see for herself what I’ve been gushing about. According to Tiffany, some of the guys from work spill over here, so I thought it would give Joanne a nice sampling. But there aren’t that many people here. What could they possibly be doing? Working?
I start telling her how great it will be when Seth and I start double-dating with other work couples when she shoves a palm in my face.
“Oh no. You are not doing this again. Not when you’ve got so much riding on this assignment.” She shakes her head, taking a sip of her cosmo and grabs for her box of Parliaments.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not doing anything! I’m just preparing for my date, the same way I would for any research meeting or interview. I’m working overtime, if you must know the truth—picking out my outfit, taking it to the dry cleaner, scheduling manicures and pedicures. I’ve left no stone unturned. It’s a lot of work, Joanne.” I don’t even believe what I’m saying.
“Are you out of your mind? You know exactly what I’m talking about. You did the same thing with James, and you’ve done it with every other guy you’ve ever gone out with. You build it up so much in your mind that the only thing you can get after that is disappointment. Just take things as they come. Do you think Pete and I sit around gazing into each other’s eyes all night when I get home from work?” There’s a lot of hand waving and eyebrow scrunching coming from her end.
Still, I’m not going to admit I had pictured this very thing many late nights alone in my bed. I’m guessing that would be the improper response by the way her face is turning green.
“No, Lane, we don’t. I get home. He asks why I didn’t feed the cat before I left. I ask him why his wet towel is still lying on the floor from yesterday and then we fight about what we’re going to eat for dinner. And we love each other. That’s life Lane. Not this fantasy world you’re living in.”
Why is it that any time you’re getting the tiniest opportunity to be optimistic someone has to come in and ruin it with talk of this “real world” we’re all supposed to be living in? When I’m miserable and I call Joanne up to cry, she unfailingly keeps putting the phone down to say things like, “I love you, too, honey,” and “Oh, babe, can you rub my back for a minute?” But now I’m looking for her to support my positive outlook, she tears it to shreds and stamps all over it. I don’t know what to say.
“Is everything okay with you guys?” I try, decidin
g I’d rather not get into an argument at this particular moment.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” she says and finishes the second half of her cosmo in one sip.
I’m not so sure, but I know better than to push her. Instead, I try to support her by bringing her spirits up and whooping at her fantastic victory over the cosmo when, out of corner of my eye I see one Mr. Tom Reiner. And next to him wearing the scowl of the century, is the girl from the picture on his desk, Glamour Shot hairdo and all.
I turn in my seat to face the bar so he won’t see how shocked I am at what this woman looks like in person.
I’ve got my hand over my face and Joanne asks, “What? What? You look like you’ve just watched a credit card company repossess your entire wardrobe.”
It’s too late. I can’t hide. He’s seen me. And the hostess is taking him to a table, which requires him to cross right past me. I hope I can seem supportive and complimentary, but I’ve just never been good at hiding things.
Diary of a Working Girl Page 11