My best friend called me to see how my first day of work went. (She of course wanted to taunt me.) “Did you make your mark on the corporate world?” she said.
“I threw up,” I said. “I got a migraine. From the fluorescent lights.”
Silence. Then she started to laugh so hard, she was practically choking.
“Only you,” she finally said. “Only you.”
If nothing else, I do provide high entertainment value. The problem, as I’ve mentioned before, is that I’m a writer and we’re prone to some strange compulsions. For example, there’s a marked tendency to do and say things I don’t necessarily believe – but I do and say them anyway because they make a better story. (Or snappier dialogue.)
I recently instituted a new policy: When a guy asks for my phone number, I, um, well, okay, I admit it – I use my Dead Ex-Husband’s last name. I never used it when we were married, but it occurred to me it could now provide handy protective cover. I mean, who wants some strange man having the upper hand from the very first date? All he has to do is Google me, and I’m at a distinct disadvantage. (Not to mention, he’ll make the all-too-common mistake of confusing me with my writing.)
I mentioned this to my friend. “You know what really scared me about that, though?” I said. “I realized something about myself: It isn’t even the Google thing, although that does bother me.
“It’s that if a guy knows who I am, I can’t write about him.”
“You know, you are a really sick person.”
“I know.”
I am truly going to hell. I just know it.
