by Layne Harper
What a night! Fashion tips from strippers, literally falling for a boy, and frying oysters at midnight. #MyLifeIsNeverBoring
“MK . . . MK . . .” Sandra snaps in front of my eyes to stop me from staring. I was lost in a world of piercing blue eyes, unrecognized emotions, Bella’s harsh words, and my worries over hurting Tripp.
“These oysters are awfully tasty, sweet girl.” Sandra is one of the seven post-menopausal women I work with. They’re awesome. Imagine having seven grandmotherly-type ladies you got to spend nine hours a day with, five days a week, who loved you like their own.
I shake my head to break the stare. I’m not myself today, too unsettled over my evening. “Thanks. I bought them to make a cooking video, and then Bella bailed on me. Couldn’t let them go to waste. I fried them when I got home last night.”
“Darlin’, you really have a talent. These are as tasty as mine. And I don’t pass that compliment out lightly.” I try my best to give her a big cheery smile, but I feel like a faker.
The company occupies one-eighth of the seventeenth floor in the Bank of America building. My college ex-boyfriend’s father, who owns an off-shore staffing company, works out of his house, so his quite large corner office sits empty. My ex-boyfriend, Michael, is the COO. One would think he would come in once in a while and check on his staff. Nope. We only see him at Christmas—not that I’m complaining. It’s just me and the girls in about two thousand square feet. I quit wearing makeup to work when I was twenty-three. No point in wasting expensive cosmetics on ladies who think my natural glow is fabulous.
“Want to see the newest picture of my grandbaby?” Jill asks. We all crowd around her computer as she fumbles with Facebook, trying to find the pic. About three years ago, I gave my co-workers a lesson on how to use the more popular social media websites. Now, all of them are on Facebook. It’s a double-edged sword. On one hand, they think I’m the most technically advanced chick ever and brag on my skills, but on the other hand, I’m constantly answering their questions, denying their game requests, and being tagged in how much Monday sucks memes.
Finally, she finds her daughter’s page so we are all able to ewwww and ahhhhh over the bald-headed kid. Don’t get me wrong. I love kids and want to be a mom one day, but I will never ever inflict pictures of my baby on others.
“MK, we need for you to have a baby. You could bring him or her to work with you,” Darla says. “We could turn Big Mike’s unused office into a nursery.”
“Yeah, we’d all take turns caring for her,” Jill chimes in eagerly.
I roll my eyes. “My Catholic mother would keel over if I had a baby and wasn’t married.”
“That’s so outdated,” Sandra says. “All the celebrities have a baby first and then get married. Just turn on Entertainment Tonight.”
I shake my head. “First of all, I don’t watch or read or Google celebrity gossip because I don’t care what a bunch of entitled, spoiled people are doing.” I don’t add I can just call my mom and hear about her tennis team if I want rich people gossip. “Let me put it like this—I have to find a boy first.”
That they all can agree on.
We go back to our desks. I’m the only employee with an office. It’s not because I’m the most important or anything crazy like that. My office is justified because I’m the human resources department and have to discuss things like salary with the employees.
Scanning all my social media accounts for the hundredth time today, I still don’t have a message from Aaron. I mean he did say that he wasn’t on social media, so I shouldn’t be here obsessing like this. I guess I’d just hoped he was kidding. Who’s not on social media these days? Looking up, I see the rest of my co-workers huddled around a computer. If sixty-year-old women can use social media, why can’t he?
I regret not giving him my number. Picking my cuticle, a terrible habit I partake in when I feel out of sorts, I spin my chair and look out my office window. The Mississippi River, dark grey in color, snakes its way through high river banks. A tug boat pushes a barge out to the gulf so it can navigate its way to faraway places. On days like today, I wish I could be a stowaway—just drop everything and run from my existence here. My life would be filled with new adventures. Maybe I’d be a bartender at a palapa bar in Mexico or a tour guide in Rome. I just want to be anywhere but here today living a mundane, uninspired life, hoping some stranger who I probably invented a connection with will call me so I don’t make a huge mistake and settle for the safe guy on the advice of my best friend.
Next, I check NoPinkCaddy’s web traffic. My post from last night is really doing well. I seem to have hit a nerve with my followers, and I get a tingly feeling in my fingers when this happens. A lot of thirty-somethings must also be struggling with my same issues. I guess that’s why my site has been so successful. I’m not alone.
Right now, I’d love to go home and continue to spill my feelings on a keyboard instead of being confined in this tiny space, but alas there’s work to do. I have a new hire who failed his drug test so I get to be the lucky girl that tells him he doesn’t get the job because I’m assuming he smoked while out with buddies last weekend. After I’ve dashed his hopes of getting hired by us, I have a thirty-minute conversation with an employee who can’t log in to our benefits website.
At three o’clock, I decide I need a smoke break. I don’t smoke cigarettes but two of the ladies in my office do. A couple of years ago, I announced that if they got breaks to go outside on pretty days and fill their lungs with poison, I should also get a cigarette break. At the same time every day, I grab a can of Diet Coke and sit on the park bench in front of my building for fifteen minutes, doing nothing except brainstorming topics for my blog.
Today, I grab my drink and head downstairs. It was chilly when I arrived at work this morning so I put on my coat, but when I step outside, it’s warmed up. I find the perfect spot on the perfect park bench and tilt my head back so the sun’s warmth can bathe my face. This must be what heaven is all about. Blog post on what it feels like when your best friend is getting married and you don’t even have a first date . . . Post on why it’s so much more difficult to meet men when you’re in the workforce . . .
“MK?” a voice calls, knocking me off my brainstorming cloud.
I open my eyes and lift my head to see a thin androgynous person dressed all in black standing in front of me, holding an entirely too large vase of light pink roses. “Yeah. I’m MK.”
“I thought so. These are for you.” The person extends the vase at arm’s length and I take them, pretty sure that if I don’t he or she will tumble forward.
“How did you know it was me?” I ask, perplexed.
“He showed me a picture.” The delivery person looks twitchy, as if he or she is nervous.
I set the flowers on the ground next to me. “I’m sorry. I don’t have my purse with me to tip you. Where’s your shop, and I’ll run it by after work?”
“No need. It’s been taken care of,” the person replies and turns around and walks towards a black SUV parked along the sidewalk.
I shake my head and grab the card, which is camouflaged well in all of the greenery and Baby’s Breath. After yesterday, I can’t imagine these are from Tripp. He all but busted a hole in my wall trying to escape the disastrous interview. But we do have the ball this Saturday. Hmmm . . .
MK,
I’m pleased you didn’t slip into a coma during the night. This calls for a celebration. Dinner at La Petite Grocery at 7:30 tonight.
Aaron
I read the card a couple of time and stare at the flowers as if they’re something alien. If I’m honest, I never expected to see him again. Sure, I’d hoped he might message me on one of my sites, but really, I guess I hadn’t thought anything would come of it. Now, holding the note in my hand, I realize the chemistry was legitimate, and I wasn’t just inventing the attraction we seemed to share.
He likes me. And he likes me enough to send a rose garden to my job.
It has been a lo
ng, long time since I’ve been pursued by a guy. Lately, my dates have been the sons of my mom’s friends and even those stopped about six months ago. Her latest threat is the son of her tennis partner. His name is Glenn. He’s an attorney with Kratz, Johns, and Franklin. Graduated from Tulane and ready to settle down. She tried to show me his picture at mass, but I refused to look. I don’t think I realized until just this moment the reason I haven’t told her to give my number to Glenn. After turning thirty, I’ve wanted to be wooed.
My heart is beating at a faster tempo, and my face flushes. It’s not the expense or the flowers themselves—it’s that he’s pursued me. I didn’t give him my number or tell him where I worked. Finding this out took work.
He felt it, too.
Reading the card again, I notice he doesn’t give me his number so I can either go or stand him up. Wow! I’ll give him credit. Very smart guy.
Of course, I’m going to go. I mean, why wouldn’t I? I know the restaurant he’s chosen well. Their food is fantastic, and I have a sneaking suspicion the company will be better.
Picking up the heavy vase, I carry it upstairs to my office so all the ladies can enjoy my roses. I also send a picture of the flowers to my Twitter followers.
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
Flowers from the guy I fell for last night and a first date. #30IsLookingUp
The rest of my work day is wasted. All I can think about is the brief time last night I spent with a mysterious man named Aaron. No last name. Wears a fedora and scratches in a notebook. Aaron. I try to pinpoint what it is about him specifically I’m attracted to. Yes, he’s good-looking, but I’ve dated handsome guys before. His touch is callused but gentle. I like that, but it’s not a reason I should waste a day thinking about him. In the end, I decide there’s something about him. Maybe it’s the way he talks or how he was so ready to apologize when he made me feel uncomfortable. I don’t know, but I’m counting down the minutes until I see him again.
Chapter Three
First-date anxiety . . . Am I smart enough to make conversation with a cute stranger? He’s only seen me in dark bar lighting, so will he still find me attractive in brighter lights? Will I still think he’s hot? Probably. I can’t imagine lighting making that much of a difference. High cheekbones are high cheekbones. Is my dress okay? Is my makeup too heavy or light? Hair up or down? Ugh.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. My sister, who got married at twenty-two, doesn’t have to worry about these things. My brother-in-law loves her, morning breath, matted hair, baggy T-shirt, and all. I envy her life. (Married women, don’t send me hate mail. I know there are a whole new set of worries when you move in with someone.)
But it would be so nice for just once not to worry about my appearance or conversation skills. To just be MK The Real Deal Landry.
“What are you wearing?” Bella asks as she lounges on my bed.
I’m shaving my legs in the footed tub and trying to properly pamper myself to prepare for the evening. “Who knows? You’re welcome to find me something fabulous.”
In reality, I’m too nervous to think about clothing. I’ve played the scenarios over and over again and brainstormed questions to ask. What if I’m a fool? What if I shove my foot in my mouth and say something so outlandish that I lose this opportunity to explore whatever chemistry I think we have? What if . . .
“Fabulous is my closet, but let’s see what I can do.”
She’s so cheeky.
Hangers slide on the metal bar as I run the razor up my leg. My stomach is in knots. My worries have turned into obsessing, and I’m so unfocused I nick my ankle. “Damn,” I scold myself as I reach for a square of toilet paper and hold it against my leg to stop the bleeding.
After a couple of minutes, she says, “I think you should wear the turquoise dress.”
“It’s hooker short,” I reply as I rip off all the edges around my makeshift Band-Aid. “I only bought it to wear to Shelly King’s wedding to make Kevin Reeves jealous for breaking up with me after only two weeks of dating.”
“What’s wrong with hooker length?”
I’m no longer interested in one-night stands and meaningless relationships. I’m ready for a guy who wants to have sex with me for the rest of my life, not just a couple of weeks.
“I’m not a hooker.” I let the water out of the tub and wrap a towel around my torso. When I walk into the room, she has another dress lying on the bed. I haven’t worn it in ages. It’s a thrift store find. Vintage. I spied it in my favorite store, Blue Bird, and it spoke to me. It said I should buy it because I was meant to give it new life.
“I’ve never seen you wear this.” She holds up the ivory dress with tiny pearls attached in strings covering it. Even though it’s beaded, it’s simple. Not fancy enough for a cocktail dress, but too much to wear out with friends. “With your dark hair and olive skin, you’ll look fab.”
A dress who needed a new life deserves to be worn by a girl who is looking for something different. Digging through my chest of drawers, I find my nude strapless bra and matching thong. Bella hands me the dress and I slip into the bathroom to change. I only have a mirror above my sink so I have to walk back into the bedroom to see how it looks.
Bella approves. “It was made for you,” she squeals.
When I look in the full-length mirror mounted on my closet door, I agree. The previous owner must have been of similar build because no one would believe I didn’t have this dress tailored to fit. It skims my average-sized chest, not making my breasts appear to be something they aren’t but accentuating the positives. It nips in at my waist and lies perfectly over my behind. It’s not too short but reveals enough of my legs that I’m pleased.
“What do you think?” she asks.
I nod and smile as I do a little twirl. “I think it’s perfect.” In my head, I add and for more reasons than just the obvious.
She chooses a pair of nude heels. If I’d had any time to shop, I would have liked something different, funkier, but beggars can’t be choosers. They slide on easily, and I stand before the mirror looking at the girl I’ve thrown together in about an hour.
I clean up nicely. My hair falls in soft curls over my left shoulder. Bending down, I remove the bit of toilet paper, pleased the nick has quit bleeding.
“Take off the necklace.” Bella points at my chest.
I still have on my lucky shark tooth necklace, and I agree. It doesn’t match the dress at all, but I hate removing it. Compromising, I put it in my purse.
“So tell me more about the guy,” She says as I walk into the bathroom to attempt to put on makeup.
“His name is Aaron. That’s really about all I know.” And I felt something like I’ve never felt before with a guy. I was peaceful and happy, and I didn’t want my alarm to go off on my phone telling me it was time to leave.
“No last name?” She takes the mascara wand out of my hand. “Sit on the toilet.”
I do as I’m told as she takes over making me presentable. “No. We only visited a short while before my ten o’clock alarm went off.”
“You and your timer,” she muses. “Close your eyes.”
What would have happened if my alarm hadn’t sounded? I’ll never know.
She applies my makeup like a professional. “Cute?”
“Yes. Very. He’s hot, like bad boy hot, but his features could be called pretty.” I squirm a bit when she applies eyeliner. My heart beat faster, and I liked his smile. His V between his eyebrows said he was concerned about me.
I can’t tell this to Bella. She’d make fun of me.
“Stay still,” she admonishes. “The picture you sent of the flowers made it look like he bought out the florist.”
And they showed he felt something enough to track down a total stranger to ask her out in a really old-fashioned way. “He might have. There were a lot of them. Let’s just say I’m being cautiously optimistic that tonight will go well.”
She applies nude gloss. “Smack your lips,”
Bella instructs. “Have you thought anymore about focusing on NoPinkCaddy full-time?”
I swallow. “I have. It’s bringing in enough monthly income. It would be a pay cut, but I could still afford to live.”
She grabs a tissue and dabs at something on my eyelid. “Nyall and I both think you should. You’re too talented to continue to stay in a dead-end job you hate. You know we’ll help you financially if you need it.”
“Ahh . . . Bella, that’s so sweet. Thank you. But you have a wedding coming up. I’ve been toying with the idea for a month. Let me worry about it after the ball.” I open my eyes and stare into my best friend’s. “You know as soon as I can pay you, I’ll hire you. We can do it together.”
“Baby girl, NPC is your dream, not mine. I’m just happy I get to help.” She examines my face and hair from all angles and decides I’m ready. “Stand up.” She inspects my dress.
Turning around, I ask Bella, “First-date awesome?”
“Perfect,” she confirms with a confident nod. My always-thinking best friend grabs the video camera and conducts an interview for my YouTube channel and blog.
I stand against the raw brick wall in my apartment. It contrasts nicely with my feminine dress. The red light turns to green and Bella points.
“Hey guys! It’s MK. Guess what? I have a first date with a boy, and neither my mom nor any other family member set us up. Crazy! I know.”
I go on and recount how I met Aaron and the flowers that were delivered to work. When I share how I didn’t tell him where I worked, and he found me anyway, a warning bell goes off in my head. The florist had said Aaron showed him my picture.
I keep talking and end with my signature line of reminding everyone to check out www.NoPinkCaddy.com, and then wait for the light to go back to red.
When Bella rests the camera on my kitchen island, I share my concerns.
“Stop it, MK. Quit finding something wrong with the situation. He probably got your picture off of your blog. You’re meeting him at a very public restaurant. Don’t shut yourself off to a potentially really nice guy because you’re creeped out he visited your very public site.”