I head back to the office fully prepared to spend my afternoon devising a plan of attack. Once safely back in my cubicle, I G-chat my best friend Ally to share the details of my lunch. She quickly reminds me of all Ryan’s flaws. Although she’s never actually met him, she’s endured my rambling drunken nights enough to know. He’s not tall enough, has slightly, okay maybe a bit more than slightly, large ears, descends from north of the Mason/Dixon, utterly lacks any sort of fashion sense, and has always been a little too bookworm-ish (or possibly geeky) for my tastes. I quickly defend him, reminding her of my maturation and my vow to overlook minor aesthetic flaws in future boyfriends. My last bona fide “hot” fashion conscious boyfriend turned out to be a major jerk who wanted to monitor every morsel of food that crossed my lips and track every mile I ran. Not only did we have work out dates, we also spent Sundays putting together meal plans for the week. That didn’t end so well for him because I would give up my left hand before I’ll give up wings and beer.
As all good friends do, Ally gave in and committed to working on Operation Ryan and Rachel. After all, she had masterminded more than a few hookups over the last eight years, and stroking her ego always works. Ally and I bounce ideas off each other for a good two hours before my afternoon staff meeting. I float down the hall to our conference room with my mind in another world. My boss’ booming voice snatches me back to reality. He’s asking me to put together another proposal for next week, and I suddenly realize the one I was working on this morning is far from finished. I sulk back to my desk, committed to finishing the proposal before I leave. Several hours later, I’m putting the finishing touches on a mediocre (at best) proposal with promises of editing it tomorrow.
At 8:00 p.m., I finally walk through the door of my condo. I quickly microwave a Lean Pocket and persuade myself to go down to the gym before crashing on the couch with a glass of red wine and Gossip Girl. Sometimes negative self-talk is the only way I can motivate my lazy self to go to the gym. While I know all the experts say it’s destructive, there’s nothing like reminding myself of that old saying from Daria, maybe: “The greasy fry, it cannot lie –it’s truth is written on your thigh.” Yeah, admit it, you watched the show, too. As for me, a few too many fries, glasses of wine and burritos are written on my thighs, my ass, and my muffin top.
As I’m pounding out three fast miles on the treadmill, a sense of worry comes over me. What if Ryan and Megan are serious? What if he really got over me this time? What if he’s only into blondes now? Does he think Megan is smarter and more successful than me? She is a doctor, too, after all.
