Year of the Chick (26 page)

“Isn’t it funny how things work out?”

I smiled. “Yeah I guess so. They’re already insanely busy planning her engagement reception. It’s happening in January, and from the sounds of it it’s going to be a big one. Like two hundred people at least, just for an engagement!”

“Well that might be good…you could start to stay out later and they wouldn’t even realize.” I noticed a flicker of mischief in Laura’s smile.

I laughed. “You are a horrible white-girl influence.” She had a point though. My parents had barely batted an eye at my after-work excursions.

When the waiter arrived with our drinks, Laura looked a bit alarmed. “Oh no!” she whispered, as he hurriedly walked away. “I know you wanted hot chocolate, but you forgot to say ‘no whipped cream!’“

I examined the swirly mountain atop my drink, with flecks of chocolate shavings as the final accessory. “Well actually,” I said, “I think I can swing it...and I think I will love it.” I smiled and cradled the cup like a newborn baby (a newborn cup-shaped baby with a frothy head).

“Well now I am officially jealous.” She stared at her cider and sneered. “So my next question...have you forgotten about ‘you know who’ yet?”

I stirred the whipped cream and tried not to flinch at the thought of him. “Well A: it’s only been five weeks. And B: I’m pretty sure I’m thinking about him NOW since you brought him up!”

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “But you know what I mean. Is he still on your Facebook?”

I rolled my eyes. “He sure is. And he seems to be having a blast. At least if you go by the beautiful pictures from the beach he just posted. The beach…at sunset.” I sighed. “It’s so much nicer at that time, since that’s when all the people put their clothes back on.” I continued to over-stir my drink.

“Any girls in those pictures?”

I shook my head. “Nothing beyond the usual suspects. I just wish he’d do something really jerky. Like post a picture of himself sucking face with a model, along with a caption of ‘Ha, ha, ha, Romi!’“ Laura laughed as I went on. “I just wanna stop caring. Hopefully he’ll commit a heinous crime and I’ll hear all about it.” I took a big sip of hot chocolate. It was so damn rich that my body instantly calmed.

“But you’re doing so much better now!” she exclaimed. “You’ve gotten over him like ninety percent by now, right?”

“It sure doesn’t feel that way.” Suddenly my chin started quivering.
Oh god, not now. I’ve been two whole weeks without tears!

“Oh no, you’re getting upset. Let’s change the subject!”

But it was too late for that. The “sad little girl train” had already left the station.

“You know what the worst part is?” I looked at her with eyes full of sorrow. “I actually feel like I’ve gotten progressively stupid.”

“You’re not stupid at all! Every experience makes you wiser.” She quickly nodded as if to convince me.

Sorry dude, not buying it.

“How am I wiser?” I whined. “With the ‘latte guy’ at least I had actually met him! We spent some time together, so at least there was a basis for getting my heart broken. But this time...I fell for someone I never even met. And according to him I imagined it all!” I slammed my fist on the table, and the cutlery bounced with a shock.

 
“I promise you you’re not stupid.” She pointed to my drink. “Now finish that amazing hot chocolate before it gets cold!”

I ignored her and continued on my path of self-destruction. “Imagine if I told anyone this story. If I told someone that AFTER being crushed by a long-distance dude, I let myself get crushed by an Internet-dude next. Do you think they would believe I finished high school?”

Laura frowned and furrowed her eyebrows intensely. “I do NOT accept this sadness,” she said. “You act like it’s the end of everything!”

“Isn’t it? The ‘year of the chick’…what a bust.”

For some inconceivable reason, my admission of failure was a happy occasion for Laura. Or it must’ve been...why was she smiling?

“I change my mind,” she stated. “You did NOT finish high school, because you’re totally blind to the awesome position you’re in!”

Laura seemed to have lost it, but my “chin quiver” was stabilized, so I decided to listen for more.

She took a deep breath. “I’ve been keeping up with your blog, and I know you never wrote about ‘him,’ but your posts are getting funnier and funnier. It’s like you don’t even believe in fairytales anymore.”

“I don’t. I mean that damn Cinderella getting everything she ever wanted? I wish I could meet her and say ‘Hey Cind, I found your glass slipper! Now please bend over while I shove it up your ass!’” I shook my head in disgust.

“Okayyy. But also,” she began, “maybe next year you’ll get around to writing that book you always talk about, you know beyond just the brainstorm. So tell me again: how does this seem like the end of things? Hmm?” She smiled with an air of victory.

Bitch needs to get off her happy pills.

“You know what the funny thing is? When we first started talking about writing, and he asked me if I wanted a happy ending for my novel, I practically squealed when I said yes. And now…I’m not entirely sure that I won’t kill off the heroine.” I sighed. “I’m not entirely sure if I even want to write it anymore.”

“Romes, shut your face!” she cried. “You’ve come so far on this writing thing, and a lot of it’s because of him! At least be grateful.”

I sneered.

“Okay, forget the writing,” she quickly said. “But remember, you thought this year would end by being forced into arranged marriage doom. Instead it’s like a new beginning! So no more ‘pity party’ Romes, or I will put on my coat and march right out of here.”

I smiled, but I really had no idea how another twelve months would bring me closer to love, when the first twelve months of trying hadn’t even caught a glimpse of it. But at least I wasn’t getting any closer to arranged marriage hell.

Fine, I’ll take it as the consolation prize.

“Okay, your pep talk worked,” I said. “I won’t jump off a bridge.”

“And you also won’t sit at home every night watching rom-com DVDs.”

“Trust me, I am well aware of how those cutesy little movies spread their poison. Or maybe I poisoned myself, but dammit I’m very impressionable! Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan are more destructive than crack cocaine.” I shuddered.

“Yeah…but I still kind of loved him in ‘You’ve Got Mail.’“

“But he isn’t real! There is no knight in shining armour outside of movies!” I cried. “And you know what I realize now? At a certain point, you have to be your OWN knight in shining armour. It might mean pumping iron, growing a beard, and ruining your manicure, but is it worse than kissing a flat-screen version of a nineties Tom Hanks?”

“You kissed the screen?” she said, seeming suddenly embarrassed for me.

I frowned. “Shut up. What I mean is, I get it now. James was never going to save me from my life. As soon as I started to think that he was gone. I guess I needed to learn that lesson for myself.” I finished the tepid hot chocolate in one long sip.

“Now it really DOES sound like you’re over him.”

I nodded my head. “Yeah, sure.”

The only thing I’m over is this topic.

“By the way, how’s Dave?” I asked. “Are you guys all in love and stuff?”

Laura started blushing as soon as I mentioned “love.”

“So when are you two getting married, hmm? Or is it still a little too early for that? ‘Cause you know me, always jumping the gun.”

We both started laughing and I had to admit, it was maybe a little bit funny.

My horrific failure in the art of Internet seduction…

***

Writing a blog post at six a.m. was not the sort of thing I’d ever thought I’d end up doing. But how could I deny cerebral-programming? My brain was simply used to the six a.m. rush; that feeling of checking e-mails, re-reading e-mails and writing e-mails back. It had been two months since the end of all “that,” yet still I felt the urge.

So I continued to feed the habit, only this time I was writing for myself…

---------------------------------

Ask me to paint you a picture of Hell, and you won’t see any fiery pits or a muscular red-skinned Devil; instead I’ll draw you a grid of the “House Wares” section.

The small appliances…the miles of cutlery…the (gulp) dishes; these are my triggers for self-mutilation.

According to the chicks on television though (who are the obvious benchmarks for realism), buying crap for your house is supposed to be fun. Not only is it supposed to be fun, but it’s supposed to be addictive.
 
Whether it’s the crazed, twitchy-eyed woman stocking up at the “Sale of the Year,” or the chicks on the sitcoms swapping their wedding gifts (and purchasing ten more items along the way), women love their house-related products.

So why don’t I love them too? It’s yet another reason why I strongly suspect that I’m twenty-percent “man” (I’ll reveal the rest of the clues another time)…

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In my writing haze I eventually realized these teeth weren’t going to brush themselves. So I hit “Save” mid-post and made a date with my terrible work ethic.

Next stop: blogging at the office…

***

“Are you going to the Christmas gala?” Eleanor looked at me with pleading eyes.

I frowned as I peeled back the lid from my yogurt. “It’s my third Christmas working here, and I’ve never once forked out the cash for these fancy galas,” I said. “Like why should I have to PAY for our office Christmas party? I prefer our casual parties better. Getting drunk at a bar with the cool people. Let’s stick with that.”

“But it’s fun!” exclaimed Amy. “You get to be all dressed up and there’s tons of wine.”

“There’s also tons of boring old executives with their husbands or wives.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s so awkward. And besides, you expect me to go without a date? It would be like high school prom all over again.”

Eleanor tried to hide her smile. “But maybe you wouldn’t be dateless…”

Excuse me?

I eyed her cautiously. “Go on.”

“Remember Arjun?” she asked.

I immediately blushed at the sound of his name. “You mean the guy who probably thinks I’m a psycho? He saw me scream at you that night. Don’t you remember?” I shuddered as the memory consumed me.

“He doesn’t think you’re crazy, I swear! I told him you were drunk that night because I forced you to have lots of shots. I blamed it on me. See? I AM a good friend.” She smiled with satisfaction.

“I know you are,” I replied sweetly. “But I’ve only talked to this guy for two minutes. I can’t take him as my date to a gala. That’s too forward!”

“No it’s totally cool. I told him it’s like a big ‘group’ thing,” she said, while picking out the grungy-looking lettuce from her salad. “I’ll be taking Arjun’s friend, and a couple of his other friends are going with some girls in Accounting. Which means Arjun would be more like your guest for a big group party!”

Maybe it wasn’t such a crazy concept. And my parents wouldn’t mind a work-related Christmas party. “But I don’t even have a dress,” I pointed out. “And it’s not like I can stay out super-late.”

“Don’t worry, we can go shopping for a dress next week.And Arjun is Indian remember? I’m sure he’ll be cool with your curfew. Must be home before midnight, just like Cinderella!”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t even mention that stupid bitch. I don’t wanna hear another thing about Prince Charming, or magic slippers, or any of that happy ending garbage.” I was suddenly ready to start up a street fight with anyone.
Intense.

Eleanor looked a little frightened. “Okayyy Romes, sensitive topic. Got it.”

“When is this damn thing anyway?” I asked between spoonfuls of yogurt.

Amy consulted her Gala promotional flyer. “Saturday December 20th!”

“You carry your Gala invite folded up in your purse? You’re such a loser.” I chuckled.

Amy wasn’t fazed. “I love dressing up.”

“Okay then,” I said. “Sign me up for a ticket El. And one for my ‘guest’ as well.”

“Awesome! And I’m also giving him your number. You guys need to talk on the phone before you spend a whole evening together.”

My heart rate suddenly quickened. “I’m not so sure about that. Isn’t that a little too fast?”

“Too fast?” Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Romes, I think the Internet has skewed your sense of reality. And for the last time: this is NOT an arranged marriage set-up!”

She rose from her chair and put her arm around my shoulder. “Just relax okay? A little fun won’t kill you.”

A little fun, a nice dress, and a date to the magic ball.
Move over Cinderella...

Chapter Twenty-Two

I took a long sip of my tea, as a blanket of snowflakes fell down fast, obscuring my view of the street.

Sitting and staring out the window seemed like the best thing to do. There was always work of course, but me and work and Mondays rarely ever mixed.