Slightly Suburban. Wendy Markham

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СКАЧАТЬ and wat at Mesob with his friend Mitch, who willingly ditched plans with his latest girlfriend to go in my place.

      No surprise there. These days, Mitch is a fixture in our lives. Much ado about that later. For now, suffice to say that one of my favorite vintage SNL skits—“The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave”—is now playing itself out almost nightly in my living room, starring Mitch in the title role. And it’s not the least bit amusing in real life.

      Anyway, when I spoke to Jack between the movie and the restaurant reservation, he told me to meet him and Mitch downtown for drinks whenever I finish resolving the Client crisis here. I don’t really feel like going now, though—especially with the perennial third wheel on board for the duration of the evening. I’d just as soon head home, take a long, hot shower and fall asleep in front of a good bad movie.

      But Jack is counting on me so off I go, this time sans lipstick. The luscious raspberry wore off hours ago, along with that TGIF glow.

      Before the elevator, I make a pit stop in the ladies’ room, where I find Lane Washburn, who works in the bullpen, emerging from a stall. She’s just changed out of her size zero business suit, and it drapes about the same from its wire hanger as the sparkly, clingy black size zero cocktail dress does from her protruding collarbones. Really, I mean that in the most loving way.

      How do I know she’s a size zero?

      Because the last time I checked, Saks wasn’t selling negative sizes. If they were, I’d peg her for a –2.

      “Ooh, you’re all fancy! Where are you going, Lane?”

      “Out for drinks with my boyfriend.” She leans into the mirror to put on bright red lipstick. “How about you? No plans for tonight?”

      “Going out for drinks with my husband,” I return, and see her give me the once-over.

      In that? she’s thinking, not in the most loving way.

      I am thus obligated to lie, “I was going to run home and change first, but I got hung up on some Client stuff. Now I’m three hours late.”

      Instant sympathetic understanding in her big blue eyes. “That stinks. So now you have to go like that?”

      Um, I really was always going to go like this. Is it that bad?

      I look down at my brown heeled pumps, topaz Ann Taylor pencil skirt that’s rumpled across my thighs, white blouse and the chestnut cashmere cardigan sweater that I used to love because Jack gave it to me for Christmas and said it’s the exact shade of my hair and eyes.

      I’m sure I’ll probably love it again when I pull it out of my closet wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic next fall. But by March, I’m always sick of my heavy winter clothes—even cashmere—and anxious to start shedding them for pastel sleeveless silk and cotton pieces. Which is still a long way off.

      Anyway, I look fine for drinks with Jack and Mitch.

      Still, I open another button on my blouse to make the outfit less prim. Which exposes most of my right boob. Oops.

      Buttoning up again, I tell Lane, “That’s the thing about living in the city. It’s not like you can just run home before you go someplace after work.”

      “Where do you live?”

      “Upper East Side. How about you?”

      “East Fifty-fourth at Second Avenue.”

      Ah, practically around the corner. If I lived that close, I’d run home to change.

      I watch Lane put her lipstick into a black cosmetics bag, then zip that, along with her clothes, into a matching black garment bag hanging on a stall door. Wow, she’s organized.

      I guess I could have had the foresight to bring a nice dressy outfit to work, like she did.

      However, I was too bleary-eyed and stressed this morning from getting less than five hours’ sleep after being stuck at the office till midnight last night.

      You know, since I moved into the Creative Department, my life is not my own. It’s really starting to make me wonder…

      Okay, it’s not starting to make me wonder.

      It’s continuing to make me wonder:

      Is this how I really want to spend my life? (Or at least, the career portion of my life, which lately seems to encompass everything else anyway.)

      At which point, I wonder, do I finish wondering and start deciding…and doing?

      Something else to wonder: if I did bring makeup and a change of clothes to work, would I have to carry them in a quart-size Ziploc and a Handle-Tie Hefty?

      The answer to that, at least, is clear: absolutely. The beautiful matching luggage set Jack and I bought for our Tahitian honeymoon was lost a few months ago by the airline somewhere between New York and Buffalo when we flew up to spend Christmas with my family.

      Lane, who probably spent Christmas skiing in Switzerland, tosses her auburn hair. “Well, have fun tonight, Tracey! See you Monday!”

      She swings out of the ladies’ room in her fabulous, sexy little number.

      The number being 0, you’ll recall. In lieu of –2.

      I look at myself in the full-length mirror next to the hand dryer.

      I’m usually a 6 or 8, though I’m a 4 at Ann Taylor, which is my favorite place to shop. Did I mention I’m a size 4 there?

      If there’s anything I’ve learned these last few years, it’s that everything is relative.

      Because, you know, back in my size 12–14 days, I would have been envious of someone like size 6–8 me.

      You know, this is utterly exhausting. Am I ever going to be satisfied with who I am?

      I keep thinking maybe I would be…if I lived somewhere else. But here in If You Can Make It There, You’ll Make It Anywhere, the competition is fierce. Everywhere you turn, someone is more attractive, more successful, more respected, thinner, happier, just plain old better. And everyone is richer.

      Here in Manhattan, Status Quo is a curse. There is tremendous pressure to achieve greatness—on a personal, professional, spiritual and, yes, global level.

      I’m telling you, all this striving can really exhaust a girl.

      Lifting the sweater, I tuck the blouse in more tightly and twist the waistband of the skirt, which has shifted slightly so that the side seams aren’t lined up with my hips. It’s a little big on me, even without my trusty Spanx, which I opted not to put on this morning.

      The silver lining in having to work these long hours is that I rarely have time to overeat anymore—and sometimes, to eat at all. Not only have I managed to keep off the fifty pounds I lost over six years ago, but I actually weigh a few pounds less than I did on my wedding day.

      So why am I not satisfied?

      With my weight?

      With my СКАЧАТЬ