“You need some kind of stability in your life, and let’s face it you’re not some twenty-two year old who can land a sugar daddy for a husband.”
That’s what my twenty-six year old co-worker, Brit, said to me after I told her about hot subway guy. Brit fit the stereotypical publicist mold: skinny, whiny, and spoke with a severe affectation despite being from the middle of New Jersey.
Brit was the type of girl who would do a handstand in the shower and tell people she owned a bidet.
However, this is why she will probably be promoted over me.
“I don’t know why you’d call this guy. You don’t know anything about him.” She was right. I didn’t. Hell, I couldn’t even call him by his name, Justin. I only referred to him as hot subway guy. So lame.
“You don’t understand though, he’s so cute. And he was interested in me,” I explained. “Do you know the last time a straight man, with the exception of one with an affinity for syringes, was interested in me?”
“But he rode the subway,” she argued.
“I ride the subway,” I shot back.
“Which is exactly my point, you get what you attract. It’s the law of attraction,” she informed me.
“Um, okay. First I’d like to congratulate you for actually finishing a book. So, good job. But something tells me that The Secret doesn’t discriminate against subway riders.”
She completely ignored my comment and went on, “Wouldn’t you rather date someone that took a cab or better yet used a car service?” She then got really excited. I’m talking orgasmic excited like on those Dannon Yogurt commercials. “Or even had their own car?!?” She squealed.
“No. If he’s taking the subway it proves to me he’s incredibly intelligent, instead of wasting his time and money in traffic.”
“Whatever,” she said with the obligatory eye roll. “Besides, do you really think you should be focused on a guy at this point? I’m not saying that the ship has sailed, but it’s harder and harder to see dry land from your vantage point.”
Why do you hate me God?
She continued with the dreaded, “Don’t you think it’s time to get focused with your life?”
“You’re right,” I said breezily. “I had a job before this and I did pretty well.”
“Didn’t you used to work in retail?” she sneered. I nodded.
“That wasn’t a job. No one ever chooses to work in retail. It’s like penance for your past life sins.”
If that was the case then,
I must have killed a basket of puppies in a past life to deserve this misery.
I did work in retail for a spell before getting into publicity, but really it was pretty much the same gig–sucking up to people, that in any other circumstance, you’d rather eat broken glass than speak to.
“Maybe Mr. G (our boss) has some friends he can introduce you to?”
“One can always hope for miracles,” I said.
Fortunately, Brit’s cell phone rang and I no longer had to continue with this round of questioning. If I wanted to be tortured about the deplorable state that was my life I’d call my mother.
Instead of picking up the phone and calling him, I taped hot subway guy’s card to my computer. In keeping with Brit’s “secret” theme, I told myself I was creating my own version of a vision board.
The rest of the day I sent out pitch letters and worked on a press release, but my heart wasn’t in it. I’m definitely going through something, but I’m too old for a quarter-life crisis and feel far too young to be considered going through a midlife crisis.
I went home and called the boys to see if they wanted to watch my newest obsession, Tabatha’s Salon Takeover, with me on TiVo. This woman is incredible and so inspiring. She doesn’t take any bullshit, knows what she wants, and looks fabulous.
The boys all had something to do, so it was only me and my best friend Grey. By the time I finished my second Martini, I was screaming at the TV.
I woke up this morning and was horrified to find six messages in my inbox. Apparently in my woozy state I had emailed a slew of publicist acquaintances, not even friends, asking if they had contact information for Tabatha. I also wrote in the email that:
My life was in desperate need of one of “Tabatha’s Takeovers.”
I’d like to think there’s some greater lesson in all of this, but I can’t think of one except for the obvious: don’t drink and email.