Page 2 of Man Flu

Chapter One

Monday Morning. Need I say more?

365 Days Post Divorce

AS A LITTLE GIRL, I was told to study hard, get good grades, go to college, get a decent job, find a nice man, and have a family. My dad told me it would make for the perfect life, and I would be set up for success.

Like a good daughter, I listened. I did everything he said to do, but there were some things he forgot to mention, like the moments that grow in between those life goals and then sprout into the form of ugly weeds—the ones that don’t tear out of the ground without some plant killer. Except plant killer won’t work on an ex-husband, or would it …?

“Good morning, boss-lady,” Brielle sings as she follows me down the row of cubicles and into my office.

My office. Alan, the old-fashioned kind of businessman, and my company’s CEO, shockingly offered me a promotion to the Director of Marketing position earlier this year after I laboriously trudged through the Manager title, levels one through five, even though there are only supposed to be three levels. In any case, it made me feel like I could check off the box next to “successful career.”

“Good morning, Brielle, how was your weekend?” I sometimes live vicariously through Brielle’s weekends because she’s in her mid-twenties and living it up. She has very different goals in life, which makes me wonder if my dad might have been wrong about the certain path that would lead me to success and happiness.

Ever since I got my first Cosmo magazine in the mail when I was fifteen, I’ve had a thing for the publishing industry and dreamt of snagging a job in New York City, working for one of the big, women’s magazines. I imagined a tall, glass building and lots of high-class people walking around all day. I might have watched too many movies in the nineties and got my hopes up too high because some of the choices I made in my twenties got in the way of my dream. I couldn’t give it up completely, though, so I settled for a smaller magazine here in the suburbs of Massachusetts. I mean, I’ve got my own office, so it’s something.

It’s also pink, like baby-girl pink. It was a joke—a high five by a couple of my male co-workers, for being upgraded to an office. I love jokes … if they’re executed properly. However, I’ve been finding it difficult to work for a woman’s magazine while being one of only two women in my department.

“My weekend was fab. First, on Friday night, Adam and I went to Via and met up with some friends. We totally closed down three different bars that night. I don’t even know how it was possible, but clearly, it was.” She sweeps her hair to the side, and I can’t help but watch as each strand falls perfectly back into place. “I was wiped out on Saturday, so I slept until abouuuuut, I don’t know … elevenish? I got manis and pedis with the girls, then had lunch with my old college roomie.” She takes a breather because she’s been talking for a minute straight, but I know she isn’t done. “You know, it’s seriously getting dark out way too early. I can’t deal. Anyway, Adam and I hit up Boston for the night and spent the night at a mod hotel, which was super chic. You should totally check it out sometime. We went to bed wicked early for some reason,” she said with a wink, “but I just couldn’t make it past three that night. I must be starting to break down in age. Gosh, I don’t know how you function in your thirties.” I’ve learned to ignore Brielle’s lack of a filter. It’s great for honesty, no so much for modesty.

“Wow, that sounds like a busy weekend,” I tell her. “Are things better with Adam, now?” Her six-month relationship has been on the rocks, and I guess this weekend was supposed to be a make-it-or-break-it situation.

“Eh, we didn’t really have a chance to talk too much.” I’d ask how that’s possible, but I know how it’s possible. I just really don’t care to hear it. I preferred other activities besides talking at one time … back when.

“Understandable,” I tell her.

“Sunday was pretty much just a lot of ‘non-talking,’ if you know what I mean.” She winks and jiggles her eyebrows.

I got it. You have more sex than a red-light district, and I’m dried up like a prune. I hope that state of being isn’t a permanent feature, like the whole saying: If you don’t use it, you lose it.

“I got what you’re putting out there,” I tell her with a mom-ish wink. “I’m glad you had a good weekend.”

“No problemo,” she chirps while scanning through her phone. “So, you have a ten o’clock appointment with the new temp, a three o’clock sales meeting, and a date with Dickle at seven.” She covers her mouth and pulls in a sharp breath before continuing. “I can be at your house by six-thirty to take care of Cora if you want?”

Brielle is my spirit animal, and I think I might love her, but— “Cancel my date. I’m not ready to meet Dickle anymore.”

“Oh?” she questions in her high-pitched I need to know more tone. “What happened to your bet? I thought you kind of had a thing for him … and his Dickle?” she snorts. It’s been a year of talking to this guy, and she still can’t say his name without laughing.

“I just can’t. That last date I went on, you know, with Sergio—the one I met on that stupid Tinder thing? Maybe I forgot to tell you last week, but it was going okay until it was time to—” I make a nice hand gesture to my mouth. “You know? Anyway, he was super hairy, and he wasn’t shaved or trimmed down there at all …”

She places her hands up and closes her eyes. “Say no more. I did warn you about Tinder. It’s either a hit or miss.”

“I got a pube stuck in between my two front teeth, Brielle. This is life, at ‘my age.’”

“I said, say no more,” she enunciates more clearly. I know she doesn’t enjoy hearing about my sometimes disappointing thirty-three-year-old life, but it’s real, and she should know what might be in her future if she doesn’t make the right decisions. I’m trying to be a good mentor. “On that note, I think I have some work to do.” Brielle slides her phone into her back pocket and turns to leave.

“Hey, real quick …” I pause to take a sip of the hot coffee as I watch my inbox pop open with a bunch of “Welcome to a big fat case of Monday” emails. “Sorry.” I refocus my attention on her question-filled eyes. “How’s the call list going for the event next week?”

“Ummm—good,” she says, switching her focus to the window behind me. Yup, whatever she’s about to say is a lie. She’s been my assistant for two years, and I know the meaning of all of her body language. “I’m about halfway through.” She takes a moment to look down at her manicure and proceeds to bite her bottom lip. Lie, lie, lie.

“You know, I gave you that list two weeks ago, right?” This is the part I hate about having an office. I don’t want to boss her around, but she isn’t always on her “A” game with the admin duties, which is kind of important, since she’s an admin.

“I do, but some of our vendors like to chat. It’s all a part of marketing. Hannah?”

“Right. Okay, let me know when the temp arrives.” She quickly pivots away from my desk as her long, blonde hair flips over her shoulder like one of those Suave commercials, leaving me to watch her jog out of my office in her four-inch, leopard print Manolo Blahnik heels, kind of like a Barbie on her toes. I’d kill for her hair, clothes, body … I want to be her. I know I sound crazy, but her life just looks so easy.

I dig into my emails and get two cranky notes in when my phone dings with a notification from Dickle15.