And frankly, let’s call a spade a spade. It makes me jealous.
Insanely jealous.
Because, I’m going to be honest with you, the rom-com life I planned on living when I made the move to the city was not the kind of Nancy Meyers dream I was looking for. Sure, I might have the apartment aesthetic with the cozy, slipcovered furniture and herbs in the windowsill, but the falling in love with myself, not so much.
My neighbor next door to me keeps pointing out that I walk as if I have a lopsided leg. She’s on the younger side of eighty and holds a broom as a cane, so I don’t think she cares much about what others think of her, hence telling me I walk weird.
I also caught a reflection of myself in the Trader Joe’s window a week or so ago, and guess what? I looked like a crazybag lady who feeds pigeons because they’re the only beings that will give her the time of day.
It was horrifying.
And worst of all, I woke myself up in the middle of the night precisely three days ago because I suffocated myself with morning breath. Yeah, popped those eyes right open as I gasped for air, only to realize the stench *whispers* was me.
So falling in love, not so much.
“What about you, Scarlett?”
I’m knocked out of my thoughts as I look up and all eyes are on me.
Did Ellison just call me Scarlett?
“Uh…” I drag out. “It’s Scottie actually.”
“Oh, my apologies,” she says, pressing her hand to her chest. “I don’t know why I said Scarlett. I know it’s Scottie.”
Bet she wouldn’t call Brad Bueford. Or Chad Charles.
No, just the lopsided single pigeon lady with dragon breath.
“So, what do you plan on doing this weekend?” she asks, a smile on her lips.
I glance around the table, beards and puffy vests all staring back at me, waiting for an answer, probably expecting me to talk about the yoga class in the park that I say I’m going to but actually just watch as I eat a chocolate croissant.
They’ll humor me, but none of them will ask me what class. No, they’ll just move on, and after the meeting, I’ll skulk back to my office and sit in front of a computer to correct all their copy for every single social media post and article.
Maybe not this time though.
Maybe, just maybe, I could fit in.
Ellison’s here, this is my chance to impress her,and maybeshe’ll notice me if I actually have something to connect with her on.
Maybe she’ll find me so arousing that she’ll consider me for a possible promotion to, let’s say, the magazine,Golf Galaxy. Now wouldn’t that be a dream? Instead of working with all these social media munchers, I could do more print work, which could give me experience to work at other magazines, like the mecca of all glossy print,Better Homes and Gardens.
And then instead of just living the Nancy Meyers aesthetic, I could write about it too.
I couldn’t think of anything more fulfilling than that.
Then it’s settled.
We’ve made an executive decision.
It’s time to fit in.
Smiling at my audience, I cross one leg over the other and say, “Hitting up some antique stores with the husband this weekend.”
The moment the wordhusbandpasses over my tongue and right out of my mouth, I realize the grave mistake I’ve made, because the shock that registers across every single face in the room is not the kind of shock you want to see.
“Your husband?” Ellison asks. “I guess I wasn’t aware that you were married.”
