2

A Sign of the Times

When I wake Monday morning, still on my couch, it takes a second to figure out where I am. In my dream, I’d been shacked up in the most beautiful St. Lucian cliffside villa with a faceless, but definitely Latin, Enrique Iglesias type.

Unimaginatively typecast or not he turned out to be a fantastic lover—the sort who knows exactly what to say and how to tug at your hair and linger at the insides of your thighs until you’re positive that you’re the sexiest woman in America (my thighs were Victoria's Secret caliber in this dream).

When finally my eyes flicker open to full capacity, I look around myself in disgust. The remains of my million-calorie weekend feast, now smelling pretty badly, are strewn around the television unit, an altar to my depression. My blanket and I have long since parted, the blanket preferring a more southerly climate—the floor. Yet I’m somehow rivaling a hormonally charged adolescent boy in the sweat department. I am not sure how the glittery poster reading "Anti-fairy-tale-ism" got on my bed.

Slowly, I attempt to rise and make my way to the bathroom. The mirror lets me know, quite harshly, that I have looked better. My hair, normally ironed out to perfection has attained such volume it would give Fran Drescher a run for her Nanny residuals. My face is so pasty I fear people will break into bad Ray Parker Junior movie scores when they see me. My brows have been replaced by two fluffy caterpillars above my bloodshot eyes, below which two cases of dark luggage sag and puff.

If I told some random person on the street that I’m the one instructing them on skincare and hairstyling in magazines (okay, most people you run into haven't read Celebrity Hairstyles, but still, I'm trying to make a point here) they would swear off glossies for good. Hah! That is actually kind of funny, I muse, trying to drag a comb through my hair and failing miserably (and painfully).

You know what would be really funny? If I started writing about relationships, now that would be absolutely hysterical, I think as I brush my teeth, quickly smooth some soap around my face and neck, and shower off the effects of a lonely, unproductive stint that has run entirely too long a course.

I have to begin an article I’m writing for a woman's magazine that nobody has ever heard of. This is my only assignment for the week: to interview one famous woman about her favorite clothes. The women I interview have the most amazing wardrobes—they’d never even ask the price, just hand over a credit card if someone hasn’t already offered the garments for free. To make matters worse, I have to go and walk through their closets, which are the size of my apartment, while they whine about needing more space to squeeze in all of their Alaia originals, Jimmy Choos, and Manolo Blahniks. I rationalize, I have my health! I live in the best city in the world! Somehow, that never works.

I try to concentrate on my health and the benefits of my geographical location and remember that I promised myself today would be the day I rejoin the living as an active member of society. But as I reach and unlock my door, ready to venture out to interview Lisa McLellon, I begin to amuse myself with what Imide Edition might say when Lane Silverman, relationship columnist, is sighted home alone on a Saturday night: "Before you consider taking advice from a relationship expert, you may want to peer through the windows of five hundred and fifty-five West Thirteenth Street, where Lane Silverman, scribe responsible for 'Want Love? Go Get It!' was seen this Saturday boiling ramen noodles and trying—in futility—to master a Britney Spears dance routine—alone. Story at eight." And that’s when I trip over my Sunday Times.

"Ouch!" I scream, partially in hopes that someone (maybe the cute guy down the hall) might come scoop me up from the heap I am now lying in. Couldn't I once look forward to tripping over a paper with my story on the cover? Couldn't some kind neighbor have removed the paper so the world wouldn't know I hadn't even opened my door yesterday? I feel the physical presence of the head-shaking and deep sighs this evidence of my gross self-pity no doubt generated this morning. The hall smells of people with places to go and people to see and I want them all to know that I am now, as they say, leaving the building.

“Ouch!” I scream once more, a bit louder, to make sure they all hear.

Nobody comes and my leg starts to go tingly. I can’t bother to pick up the paper, another symbol of my failure. Just last week I hovered for twenty minutes over the "send" button. Why was I yet again pitching to a thus-far response-impaired Times editor about some trend that will go in and out of style and be featured in every other publication without even a form rejection letter in my mailbox. I imagine my peach shower gel trail masking the residual mortification in the air as I leave the building.

The woman I’m scheduled to interview is one of the most successful freelance magazine writers in New York. She contributes to all the big glossies: Vogue, Bazaar, Elle, Glamour. I met her at a press lunch for a new line of cosmetics, and she is very nice. We bonded attempting to score, a second microscopic editor-friendly portion of rosemary chicken.

When I arrive at her Upper West Side apartment I am awestruck. It’s mammoth. I get the urge to skip around like a kid in a museum. That's how big it is. I could definitely fit my apartment in here four, maybe, five times. They could probably reassemble the entire Natural History Museum dinosaur collection right in her living room. There are all sorts of antique furnishings from the fifties and sixties, like a chrome desk and a real Eames chair. I could write such beautiful words in here. The words would just flow from me, as I sit in my fur-trimmed negligee, sipping cognac from a crystal glass and admiring the wainscoting.

"So do you want to see it?" she asks.

“See what?" I’m so astounded I don't even remember why I'm here. Oh. The interview. Right. Her closet. “Sure. Let's get to it!"

"So, what's this magazine again? Her Life? I don't think I've ever heard of it before." She turns toward the staircase, the amethyst golf ball on her finger blinding me.

"Actually it's called For Her," I say, blinking away the violet blob that won't seem to disappear from view. Defending the magazine, and my pride, which is shrinking faster than an overstock of Marc Jacobs army jackets at a Barney’s warehouse sale, I go on with the spiel I have memorized. "It's actually a really fantastic magazine. It's very new, which is why you’re probably not familiar with it, but it has the most fabulous photography, and every time I read it, it just gets better and better. It’s really going to be very successful,"

“Well, that’s great. It must be nice to work for such a cute little magazine like that." She doesn't mean that as badly as it came out. I know she doesn't, because as I said, she’s very nice. She’s just looking for something nice to say about it, but there isn't really much that's nice to say. She's trying.

We're walking through her bedroom, which is right out of the pages of Elle Decor. Really, it is—January 2001 issue—and I’m admiring the caramel suede pillows and the modular end tables, when I turn to see it. It’s breathtaking. And I don't mean that in a figurative way. I mean, when I reach the entryway of her closet, I literally cannot breathe.

And apparently I’m turning blue, because Lisa says, "Honey, are you turning blue?"

I try to get the word “no” out, but instead, a throaty, dry sound emerges from deep down, and I’m incapable of coming out with anything else.

"Sevilla, can you fetch me a glass of water for Ms. Lane, please?" she screams down the stairs to the kitchen, where her housekeeper has been polishing silver statues since I arrived. I never think to polish my silver statues, but, of course, mine are from Target. And they aren't actually silver. And the one time I did accidentally spray a bit of Windex on the one "silver" bookend I have, I actually rubbed off some of the "silver."

Sevilla, that's pronounced Sa-vee-ya, appears so fast—holding an elegant cylindrical glass, probably from ABC Carpet and Home, filled to the rim with water—that I think she may have gone through a time warp to get here. I take a big sip as Lisa regards me with her head cocked and a sweet smile on her face, which seems to say, "I've been there."

I swear to God, even the water tastes better here than mine does, and it's ever so faintly infused with peach, like my bath gel, I note, quickly find the coincidence interesting and as quickly realize it may not actually be. Before I know it, I’m back to breathing like a normal person. But, thinking about what’s just happened, I feel less like a normal person than I ever have.

"Are you alright now?" Lisa asks.

"I'm fine,” I say, standing and brushing myself off. "Thank you."

"I remember the first time I had to write an article about some rich woman's wardrobe. I was so nervous that I tore the sleeve off of Polly Mellen's boucle Chanel suit. Right at the shoulder." She shakes her head, and with the wisdom and security of success says, "Don't worry about it at all."

And, with that I feel more at ease. Lisa McLellon was once like me. And now, she has all this. My jealousy gives way to faith. I can do this, too, I find myself thinking. I just know I can.

The interview goes remarkably well. I ask all the right questions. That means my questions get her engaged and speaking in an animated tone about all sorts of topics you could never have planned to inquire into. Lisa is impressed with my fashion knowledge. At a football field's distance, I can spot an Alai'a sheath, a Gucci blazer. I know the year each was made. She takes me lovingly through the contents of her closet, which is fitted with a moving rack system, pointing out a Chloe blouse she is eternally devoted to, because she got her first Vogue assignment when she was wearing it, a Prada blossom-printed A-line dress she wore the first time she went to Paris for the fashion shows, and tons of other pieces that, together, really weave together the history of her fascinating life. At this moment, I love my job. I could just stand here all day and hear stories about Kate Moss and Andre Leon Talley and parties at Le Cirque. And the best thing about Lisa is that she doesn't forget for a second where she came from. Lisa worked her way all the way up from an assistant to the assistant of the assistant editor at Vanity Fair, fetching coffees and undergarments for her superiors. And look where she is now.

Three hours later, I really don't want to leave. So when we’re through with her closet and all of the "sportif,” "dress," "vixen," and “everyday" shoes are back in their pristine Lucite boxes—a mosaic of Swarovski crystals, buckskin, crocodile, and satin—and all the garments are resting for their next outing on satin hangers, I am delighted when she asks. "Do you have a few minutes to drink a cappuccino with me? The weather is so nice, and I would love to sit on the veranda for a bit."

"I would I love to," I say. When we’ve both lit cigarettes and Sevilla appears, again in seconds flat, with our steaming cappuccinos, I realize that I really need to ask some practical advice of Lisa. You don't get opportunities like this every day. So, I venture, “Lisa would you mind if I asked you a professional question?"

"Sure, shoot."

She is really so sweet, and that gives me hope that there are many good people in this world, and then I feel bad again for having envied her wardrobe. I try to push that away, but when I realize this is not going to happen, I accept that I can be both jealous and thankful at the same time. So, I continue, "Well, I always read your articles, they’re all so great, by the way, and I have to ask, where do you get your ideas?"

A yellow bird alights on the iron scrollwork separating us from Fifth Avenue. Lisa takes no notice, and I think feathered friends stopping over for a visit must be an everyday sort of thing in this world. She takes a long, silent sip, her pinky pointing out gracefully, and says, "A lot of people ask me that. And I always say that all you really have to do is keep your eyes and ears open. The ideas are all around you. And then, what you have to do is ask questions about those things. For instance, I broke the heel of my favorite pair of Manolos when I was literally jetting off to Spain that evening. And so I had to get them fixed, because they go with that—"

"Alai'a dress," I finish her sentence. I can't help myself.

“Yes, that's the one." She flashes her extremely white teeth. "And I'm sure you can tell why I needed to pack that dress. So, I researched the best place to go for same-day repairs, and then asked about what types of things they can fix and which ones they can't, and so on. And then I pitched a story about that. They used it in Vogue.”

“I see. Okay. So, I just have to really think about every single thing that is going on around me. Real-life stuff." I’m thinking this is horrible, common-sense sort of advice that will not help me in the least, nor anyone else who hasn't the connections that Lisa does, and I don't feel so bad about the wardrobe envy anymore. Don't I do this already? Hadn't I just pitched a story about hair color after I had my color done? And hadn't it been rejected? “That’s great advice. Thanks so much," I offer anyway, since she’s such a great connection and has been so nice. I can't very well say, "Thanks for nothing."

To maintain my sanity, I reiterate to myself that her success with this strategy, and my failure with it, has to do with connections—both wealth and lack of, respectively. She has them, and I don't. That's my problem. It can really be the only answer. This last discourse leaves me feeling hopeless and almost entirely wipes out the ray of hope that had been with me during my stay here.

"Just keep your eyes open for the signs," Lisa reminds me as Sevilla begins her pedicure with a hot soak right there on the veranda. She picks up the Times by way of ending the meeting—again, this isn't rude, this is just Lisa—and after a second, lifts her face to the sun and says as I turn to go, "That is what takes time, my dear, knowing what to look for."

Back at my apartment I unlock the door, and scoop up the Times with my two spare fingers. It seems amazing that both Lisa McLellon and myself have possession of even the same newspaper. My balancing act with the paper works fine until it is not working fine, which is to say until the Times falls to the floor, sections spilling out all over. "Shit," I say, resuming my solo hallway act of curses and exclamations. Again this does nothing to rouse cute neighbors or even not-so-cute neighbors.

Inside my apartment, I turn my negativity toward the printed pages. But, still whirling from Lisa's wardrobe, I’m operating in a heightened state of discovery and taking note of each and every detail with the sort of wonder an infant would bring to a torn scrap of gift wrap. I glance through the topics in the Sunday Styles section, clucking my tongue at my stupidity for the various stories I’d missed dreaming up, and the paper's stupidity for having chosen other articles so close to mine without offering me a chance. After ten minutes of this, I pile the rest of the useless sections on top. The last is the Business section. I have never opened this section in my life. I can’t imagine the mind-numbing articles inside of it.

Glancing at the cover, however, a picture of Oscar de la Renta jumps out at me. In the business section? I can't believe it. Style in the business pages? I am drawn into a long story about how Oscar's company is faring these days, and when I get to the end of the first page, I turn to page sixteen, as instructed. At the end of the story I glance at the next page, which is filled with boxed job listings. I suddenly feel bad for people who have to look for jobs like this. The little ads seem so boring. Assist head of accounts department in collecting debt, Word and Excel a plus. Managing Director Mergers and Acquisitions seeks diligent assistant to organize, type correspondence, and maintain schedule. How mundane. How could anyone wake up, day after day to type correspondence and maintain schedules? Fifty thousand dollars starting? Maybe it's not that bad. You could get a whole new wardrobe of cute pants suits and ruffly blouses with cuffs that stick out from the sleeves. Brooches. Heels. Sophisticated strands of beads, twisted twice about your neck. A camel-colored overcoat tied at a nipped waist, an unused-but-integral-to-the-look-buckle dangling from a perfect knot. I have always wanted one of those. I picture myself in a smart getup, beneath my camel-colored overcoat, an oversize Gucci tote I could never afford swinging light as air at my shoulder, walking into a glittering skyscraper with one of those clip-on badges that everyone wears these days, amongst throngs of suited men. Wait. Suited men. What I'm saying here is: men. In suits. Hundreds of them.

Why has this never occurred to me before? Of course! I never meet those sorts of motivated businessmen, because I’ve never worked with them. In my industry the only sort of men I socialize with have an acute awareness of the percentage of cashmere used in a cashmere-cotton blend. What I mean to say is they are all gay. And while that may do wonders for my wardrobe, and would give me a fantastic sounding board if I actually had a love life, it does nothing to help me to get a love life.

Between the realization that I’m so far out of Lisa McLellon's league that the fact we share even the same planet resonates oddly, and the sort of shoulda-been obvious all-along discovery that I never meet men because I don't work on Wall Street, I’m almost in tears. "Where are the signs Sevilla?" I ask aloud in Lisa-speak just because, well, just because. I wonder where I can go from here as I scrutinize the contents of my desk for inspiration.

Sevilla may actually have been channeled in a sort of cross-town momentary opening in the universe because just then the new e-mail jingle sounds.

It's Page Six. Yay! I love Page Six. Some famous person who looks too perfect, apparently is too perfect, which is to say, partially plastic, and her boyfriend, upon finding out, is suing her for misrepresentation, as he fell in love with her on the sole principle that her boobs were, in fact, real. I wonder if, like me, the dumped star indulged in a feast of fried foods and chocolate. While she may be skinnier, I get a shallow rise out of the knowledge that my boobs are real. When that rise begins to dip, I click on the fashion link so I can kick myself over more overlooked story ideas that were staring me in the face.

Big belts are back. I knew that! Basket bags are in for spring. I just visited the accessories show at the Javitz Center! I saw all of those. I'd even inquired about purchasing one. Oh, well. As Joanne would say, you can’t cry over spilled milk. I go for my horoscope—the Post has the best horoscopes.

With Saturn in your house, you are on the verge of a new opportunity. You have to think very carefully about the opportunity, as things will be happening rather quickly and a mistake can be detrimental at this time. But, if you don't take the offer right away, you won’t get a second chance. Finally, remember that the silence will be broken.

Why are horoscopes always so nonspecific? How will I know which opportunities are the right ones if I have to figure it out so impulsively? They should really give you a little more of a hint, like those starting with the letter B are safe; but whatever you do, stay away from anything beginning with the letter T.

Shifting back to idea mode I feel I must be on to something with such a celestial reading, and I get a tingle at being the lucky one whose horoscope outlines something fantastic to come. For that moment everything feels pregnant with possibility. But then that second is over and all I see is a somewhat unhygienic desk, littered with countless coffee cups, crumbs forming quite a collection between computer keys and God knows where else, and enough unsorted paper to make me feel some personal responsibility for destroying our planet's forests.

Messy desks, how to keep them in order? Cigarette smoking, why is it so addictive? Computers, why is it so difficult to keep up with the payments? "Dumb. Dumb. Dumber." I say to the pencil balancing between my upper lip and nose. And then I pick up the job market section of the paper, now sitting on my desk. Jobs. Hmmm. Jobs. What's new and cool with jobs? Er, no. With both hands, I tear the section open to the job listings and clear my throat with the abruptness of an important business sort. Changing careers? No hook. Making ends meet in a bad economy? Obviously I don't know the first thing about that. I put the paper down. It drapes the entire width of my desk, covering my computer, mugs, the sacrificed trees, as if they never even existed—a living metaphor of the fact that I have gotten nowhere. The phone rings.

"Hello?" I say, happy for the distraction. Even if it were a telephone salesman, I would have found the time to be friendly today.

"What's up?"

It's Joanne. My best friend! I’m back to loving her.

"Hi!" I squeak into the receiver.

"What the hell are you so excited about?" she asks.

I must sound like I haven't had human contact for months. This feels like an accurate description, even though I have just gotten home and had that somewhat magical contact with Sevilla since.

"Oh, I just missed you." It's amazing how much you take your friends for granted when you are one half of a couple. Weeks, even months can go by, and you barely see them at all. And, both of you say things like, "It's so great that we are such close friends that we don't even need to see each other." Then as soon as you are boyfriendless you begin grilling them for not spending time with you and you try to deny it, but you resent them for being happy when you're not. It is convenient though, because since she’s done it to you when the tables were turned, you can take your frustration out on your best friend, as if the sole reason you’re sitting home on a Saturday night is because she’s too wrapped up in her life. And since she’s been in your shoes before, she won’t give you a hard time. And if she does, you’ll be sure to remind her.

So, after she tells me all about her romantic Saturday dinner, I berate her out of jealousy; explaining that I am not interested in the way Pete "did this thing with his tongue where he curled it up and . . ." She apologizes for over sharing. I begin to feel a bit better again. With that out of the way, I begin complaining about a lack of cash flow. And a lack of boyfriends. And human interaction. I’m on complain control. A car has cruise control, and I have complain control. The switch is flipped and the stuff just comes out; I’m merely a conductor. I can’t stand the sound of my own voice and hope for her sake Joanne has moved the receiver from her ear. I glance at the job listings again. I bounce the idea of getting a corporate job off of Joanne.

"I think it's a great idea. You can get out of the house and stop calling me every eight seconds. Maybe you can meet some other people. Maybe even some men, so you could stop complaining about how there are no men in your industry."

I think about what she says. Perhaps it's a bit self-motivated, but she definitely shares the same view I do, if I’m honest with myself for half a second and realize I’m not making ends meet as a writer. She says something else about "writing an article about that," but I’m too distracted by visions of corporate life to listen. You see, I'd thought about supplementing my income with jobs before, but it always seemed like a bad investment if I think about the time I’m not going to be able to spend trying to get writing jobs that will pay a lot more than Duane Reade could. That and the little humungous feeling that having a plastic strip punched with my name on a Duane Reade tag would have the distinct odor of failure. But this corporate thing, this is a different thing altogether.

In this industry, talent does not necessarily equal success. What equals success is talent plus connections. You can pitch stories until the cows come home, but the person on the receiving end has five girlfriends who are freelance writers calling and asking for assignments. And they are the ones getting the assignments. I don't need to explain this to Joanne, because I have, probably about five million times before on complain control. I’ve wanted to be a writer ever since I could shimmy a pencil around on paper. My mother still tells people the story about when my third grade teacher asked what I wanted to be when I grew up and I said, "Judy Blume."

All of a sudden, I’m not listening to Joanne anymore. She’s actually been listening to me, instead of her normal “mmm-hmmms,” offering me all manner of friendly advice and tender caring for a change (I’m not sure where the words "Sound Factory" and "Webster Hall" fit in but I'm new to this Joanne talking, me ignoring thing), and I'm barely listening. The world is on its head. Lisa's words come back to me: "The ideas are all around you." And it hits me, like one of those stunning rays of sunlight through the clouds. I suddenly know exactly how Benjamin Franklin felt when he discovered electricity. Clear as day, I see a printout of my name, taped to a front-row seat at fashion week and my driver, who will be named Smithers (what else?). My breakup, the Times falling open to reveal the job listings, Joanne "breaking the silence," and even the pile of bills on my desk—they are suddenly revealing themselves as signs.

I now have the groundbreaking idea that will make my career.

The story is (drum roll, please) . . . switching careers to find love.

I’ll do the research by getting a job in a big corporation, where I’ll meet a wonderful, suited M&M, make some money, get insurance (maybe even dental!), and everything will be sublime. It's perfect. It's so Never Been Kissed meets Working Girl. I can do anything! Thank you Lisa. Thank you New York Times. Thank you God!

"Hello? Are you there?" she asks, after I've been quiet for a while.

I fill Joanne in on my revelation, and when I'm through I take a deep breath, waiting for her to tell me how Einstein-like I have become in the past twenty-four hours.

"Uh, Lane, why does that sound so familiar?"

I'm not sure what she's talking about, but really I can't shake the feeling I have about this article idea. I feel positive, driven, in a way I haven't in a long, long time.

Joanne breaks the silence again. “But you do realize there's a chance you won't meet anyone?"

Why shouldn't I meet someone with all of those men around? It doesn't even make sense. Joanne is not in this industry, so she doesn't really understand how if you work hard enough, stories always have a way of working out, so I don't put too much stock in this response.

"Honey, all I'm saying is don't put all your eggs in one basket."

Don't count your chickens before they hatch. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Joanne is a vast source of wisdom, if you could ever decipher what it is she's trying to say.

"Listen, people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones," I say.

"Well, people in glass houses want to know if you’re free for a drink tonight. I'd say you're in need of one. Morgan Bar, around seven?"

We always go to the Morgan Bar, located m the Morgan Hotel, on the notion (my notion, really) that we’ll meet some romantic European businessmen staying there. I spend hours dressing just so, worrying over the brown eye shadow or the nude shade. It never really matters what I wear or how I look, since we just wind up talking to each other; observing the New York City don’t-ever-show-your-interested rule, nobody speaks to us except for the waiter—but, of course, he has to. Joanne’s being practically married doesn’t help matters; from that vantage point she gets to look at the whole dating thing as an amusing joke instead of a terribly real one, and takes this as an opportunity to say unattractive things very loudly, things that could turn away even the most aggressive pickup artist. "Did I tell you about that awful yeast infection I had last week?" This is her idea of humor.

We agree to meet at seven, and I get started calling around with my story idea. Normally you write in. As a pitching journalist, you are on the bottom of the list of people editors want to speak with—right above the publicists, but not the ones offering free samples. But since I am desperate to start on this project, I steel myself to start calling editors directly. They already have me on file from all of the stories they have rejected in the past. I start with Mark Clam. “Sorry, we're actually concentrating more on writers who will do anything anyone asks them to, like ride a horse naked down Fifth Avenue or marry and divorce three men in a month—and even for that we're booked with stories until . . . until (paper rifling) February 2010. Why don't you try back then?” Vogue. “Love is so last season, daahling. It's all about bittersweet right now. But, of course, your name would have to be instantly recognizable to our readers in order to be considered anyway. You're not the one from that movie with Corey Feldman are you?” Women’s Day. “We'll get back to you in a few months and if you could somehow work that into a cookie recipe and get a really good celebrity to come and bake it with you . . . No, you know what? We already did that one.” Us Weekly. “I have just one question for you. Do pictures of J. Lo or Ben fit into this story anywhere?”

It's all feeling pretty hopeless until I get the Cosmo features editor on the phone. In an uncomfortable split-second decision, I decide to use Lisa's name to get in the door and hopefully prevent another railroading rejection. It doesn’t sit right with me, but I know she wouldn't mind. She's such a smart businesswoman, she'd probably be shocked I haven't used it before.

"Oh, a friend of Lisa's, eh?” The Cosmo editor sighs. “Okay, you’ve got fifteen seconds to describe your idea, start-innng—now!" I barrel my way through the pitch, feeling with every word that maybe the idea wasn't as great as I thought and that I must be the stupidest person on earth and why, oh why, does anybody let me speak, ever, and when I’m through I’m already apologizing when Karen says, "Maybe. Hmmm, maybe. We'll have to think about it."

Although no maybe responses have, as yet, morphed into assignments for me, I have also never as of yet been known as a friend of Lisa McLellon's. It’s just this sort of positive thinking that keeps me from stapling my fingers to the desk after a number of definite and abrasive "no's” minus any thank-yous, excuses, or similar pleasantries—and, in one case, the addition of a "how did you get this number?"—from Bazaar, Shape, Glamour, and Mademoiselle. I decide to take a break and start calling after some of those jobs in the paper.

The first place asks that I fax over a resume. This means I have to get my resume in order. Shit. I forgot about this; writers don’t have to worry about resumes, just what they’ve written, which I’ve always considered rather lucky, because composing a resume is possibly the most irritating task one can perform. Since you merely alter everything to reflect what the perspective employer is after anyway, I don't see the point. It’s basically a page of lies and everyone knows it. They should just do away with the resume altogether. I begin thinking about things I'd rather be doing. Shopping. Getting ready for a date. With a good-looking exec in a pinstripe suit. Kissing me in the taxi en route to Daniel, his fingers dancing along my camel-colored coat lapel. Placing his hand on my back as he leads me to our table. Revealing a tiny turquoise box over a warm chocolate torte with crème fraiche.

Suddenly, I’m inspired to get a jump-start on the article. These romantic imaginings should not be wasted. I minimize the window with my resume on it. So far, I've changed the font, played with several type sizes for my name and address, and decided to write out the word "apartment" rather than use the abbreviation.

I’m so sure I will be able to use this dreamy stuff in my Working-Girl-Finds-Love article that I type in the bits I’ve thought up rather than worry over my resume. I read it over, remarking that I like the use of "thoughtful kisser" and "elegant inappropriateness." I am more “excited" about this project than ever, so much so that I am actually a bit embarrassed when my bell rings.

It's a messenger with a press release and, I note with joy, a tiny shopping bag of beauty product samples. This is the best part of my job. I get lots of presents. I read over the release and smell each of the beautifully packaged bath and body products (This is so great, since I'm just running out of body lotion). I press myself to think of an article idea from this faintly fig-scented collection.

But, there are so many bath and body lines already. What’s different about this one? Fig is yesterday's news. Where’s the story? I scan the ingredients to see if there’s anything new that may be of interest. But the list is printed in French. And, though I took French for eleven years, I have never learned any chemistry words, and so this is no help to me. After cursing my $120,000 education, which I am still (not) paying for, I smooth the lotion on to see if perhaps it feels any different from other lotions. Nothing. It’s rather soft and creamy, but aren’t they all? Maybe I can write about the fact that it’s from France. But isn't everything these days? Mon Dieu.

I toss the press release on the now three-foot-high pile of releases that I have never used for story ideas, but refuse to throw away on the principle that I will one day think of something to do with them.

I need to finish my resume. It's really done. Well not done done. But all I really have to do is spruce it up. It's not that big a deal, I think, my fingers hovering over the keys. But, then my stomach makes a sound, and I realize I haven't eaten yet today. You can’t work on an empty stomach! Everyone knows that. You'll miss details. Forget the little things. What was I thinking? Not eating—really!

After indulging in a meal of carbohydrates in each and every form that can best be described as escapist, I get back to my desk.

My “home office” is piled high with papers, folders, computer components, note-books, magazines, and an extraordinary number of pens bearing the brand name of everything from "Ralph Lauren" to "Galderma Labs"—most of which do not work. There are neat little officey things like Post-it notes printed with, "Dr. Gesta is always available for interviews; remember him for lipo, microdermabrasion, and breast augmentation!" I’ve got stamps in a cute tin with the words, "Remember to write to Maybelline when you're researching a beauty story!" and a calculator, which insists that “Covergirl is the leading cosmetics brand in the world. Numbers don't lie!" It’s right next to my paperclip pyramid on a magnetic block that’s been engraved to say, "We'll help you bring it all together with makeup artists and hairstylists from across the globe—Global Public Relations."

My apartment is so small that this stuff is jammed up against my bed, which means I have a lumpy footrest, but also results in office products findings in some unwelcome areas.

I ignore the mess and tell myself I will get right back to the resume as soon as I check my phone messages. But first I notice a little envelope icon on my computer screen, announcing a new e-mail message. I love that. There's always a chance it will be some big magazine saying, "We absolutely love the story idea you’ve sent in. You are a complete genius. We hope it will not be too inappropriate for us to offer you four dollars a word to write sixteen hundred words on the topic." But it never is.

It's just another press release. "We would like to tell you all about Kim Holbrook, the Hair Color guru from France who is coming to America to open her very first stateside salon. We hope you will join us for cocktails and a free blow-dry to celebrate." Sure. I would love a free blow-dry. And maybe, instead of thinking of a bigger story idea I’ll just pitch it as a small bit, announcing that the Hair Color guru from France is coming to the Big Apple. Let's see. I whip out my notebook and jot down some notes. "French Hair Color Guru Dyes the Big Apple Red, Blonde, and Brunette...Even Gives a Head of Shimmering Highlights." That sounds clever. I'll send it to the usual Nobody’s-Ever-Heard-of-Them publications I write for, and then maybe a couple of bigger ones.

I get started. Boy, I’m a work machine today. I ignore the possibility that perhaps I’m just motivated by the fact that I have no desire to finish my resume and take computer tests at a job placement agency.

It's 4 P.M. by the time I’ve put together three packages pitching the idea to some of the big-name glossies, along with copies of articles I've written for the no-namers, and my list of assignments, which is quite long, despite the fact that all of the publications are so unimportant. In the wake of yet another day of fruitless effort I wonder if perhaps I’m not meant to be a writer. Staggering to consider that out of the millions of people who want to do this for a living I think I will make it.

I head downstairs to mail the packages.

I’m just unlocking my door, chewing on the most delicious warm chocolate croissant, when I hear my phone ring. I try to say "hello," but with the croissant jammed in my mouth it's more like, "reh-ro."

"Is this Lane Silverman?" the voice asks. Oh, no. Which bill am I late on now? I look at the unopened pile on my desk and realize this call could be about any of them.

"Who's calling?" I say in the bitchy voice I reserve for bill collectors. I can't believe they have the audacity to call me m the middle of my workday. Don't they know how busy I am? I mean really. How am I supposed to get anything done?

"This is Karen, from Cosmopolitan. Is this a bad tune?"

Oops. Okay, don't panic. Cosmopolitan has just called me.

Trying to be as nice as possible to make up for the not-so-nice opening, I defer to mortifyingly spineless ass-kisser mode. "No. not at all. How can I help you? I just want to tell you I’ve been reading Cosmo ever since we got off the phone and I absolutely love it so—"

"Listen, I’m really busy and I don't have time to chat but I've just gotten back from one hell of an editorial meeting—we had to pull a huge story on women who enjoy having sex with relatives called 'Kissing Cousins' because our biggest advertiser thinks the story’s too racy and has threatened to pull their ad pages—no ad pages, no money, no magazine—so do you think you could have the story ready by May fifteenth for the August issue?" She says that all in one long sentence; no stops or pauses and so it takes me a moment to realize that she wants me to write the story.

This is the story that I knew was somehow different, would somehow alter my life forever. The one my horoscope said would come, that I would have to decide upon immediately and, of course, correctly. And now that I’ve thought this through in the apparently contagious manner with which Karen has just presented it to me—no stops, no pauses—I realize the worst part of the whole thing. The day she wants the story is May fifteenth, which wouldn't be too bad if today were December fifteenth or January fifteenth or even February fifteenth, for that matter. But it is not. It is now March fifteenth and that is just two months from May fifteenth. That is just sixty-one days. In the past, this hasn't proven nearly enough time to find my misplaced lacy black tank top, much less the man I’ll love forever, and have two kids with before a lifetime of flying kites on the beach and posing in front of a mantel for holiday cards. May fifteenth. I haven't even gotten my resume ready yet. I’d have to get a job, find a man-target, and make him fall in love with me in just two months. Even without the deadline, on this end of things, the idea seems slightly ridiculous.

Oh. My. God.

But, it's Cosmo. And they really want me. And, if I'm honest with myself for just about two seconds, I will realize that if I don't have the energy to pitch this story to anyone else right now I am never going to have the energy to pitch this story again ever, and then it will just end up with the pile of other stagnant ideas I've had and tossed after massive rejection over the last couple of years.

"Hello? Are you still there?" Since it has only been a second since I spoke I figure she must be talking to someone in her office. I wait for her to finish, but she doesn't say anything else.

"Hello? Lane?" Lane, that's me—the one who has the pressure upon her to make the right decision immediately or suffer the consequences. The one whose shaking hand has landed croissant crumbs in a formation that, if looked at in the right way and slid around just a teensy bit, could look exactly like a heart (if with one hump up top, rather than two) and who, without time to be choosy, decides this "heart" will serve just perfectly as The Sign.

"Yes. Yes. I'm here. I'll do it. How many words?"

"Three thousand. We want it to be a cover story. We can pay you two dollars and fifty cents a word."

Two dollars and fifty cents a word times three thousand words is... a boatload more than I’ve ever made before! "I'll do it. Corporate world, here I come."

"Great. We're so excited about it. I'm here for support if you need me. We're actually all here for you. You've picked a topic that hits home for everyone here. This industry is impossible for meeting men. All those parties, all those drinks. The gift bags are great, but you can't very well cuddle up with one of those, can ya?" And then, as if she realizes she’s showing too much emotion, she clears her throat and continues. "We're rooting for you, Lane. But, remember, you have to meet somebody. No pressure. But that's the story."

The first thing I do is consult my calculator. I do it again. This cannot be right. For one story—$7,500! I can pay off all of those bills, plus have some money to buy some new shoes and smart outfits. It’ll be great. And, I'm going to get paid an actual salary from the job I get, too. Cha-ching! I can't believe this!

I can't believe this. I have to get a job. I have to meet a man. Not just any man. I have to meet The One. The One who, after twenty-six years, has still not shown his face. But now I only have two months in which to find not only his face, but the whole shebang. What have I gotten myself into?

It's 5 P.M. Too late to send in my resume today. I'll finish it up tomorrow first thing, bright and early. A vision of myself, rising at the cock's crow, facing the day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed races through my mind's eye. Then the girl in the image barks, "Who are you kidding with this?" So, I settle on first thing, whether or not it's bright and early.

My schedule for the following day all straightened out, I shift my energies to the present, where I have to take a shower and get ready to meet Joanne, so I can tell her how freaked out I am, have her advise me on why I should be happy, choose to ignore her, and continue freaking out.

When I wobble into my apartment that evening, filled to the brim with the power of three cosmos, I call my voicemail. Actually, first I call some guy named Swen, whose number is quite similar to the voicemail number.

"Late night again?" Swen asks. He recognizes me by the same question I always ask. "Why isn't this working?" I never really listen. I just press the numbers, and then wait for the messages, until Swen says, "You've got the wrong number again honey." I always picture Swen in a smoking jacket, all patience and fluidity, running his fingers through his shoulder-length blond hair, by a crackling fire after a long day on the slopes, though obviously there are no slopes in Manhattan.

"Yeah, sorry," I say. And that's when I usually hang up. Except for when either Swen or I are feeling chatty. And. tonight both of us seem up for some company.

"How are things, lovely?" he asks.

"Swen, if you really want to know. I've made a real mess of things today." I explain the whole story to him—the article, the fact that I’m doomed if history repeats itself and there’s nobody to claim the title of The One. I tell him about the resume I put together and the fact that it’s teeming with what some may construe as lies. Swen proves a good listener, which is to say, he doesn't simply fit the "ahas" and "rights" into the proper pauses, but actually takes it all in and produces an opinion.

"If you believe in your heart that you can do it, then you can,” he says. “You can do anything. It sounds to me like you have a warm, trusting heart, and that you just might be one of the last of a dying breed that believes in true love. And that is a fantastic place to be. And now, you'll just have more of a reason to trust that heart of yours. Research this project the way you would research any article. And you'll be prepared." Like a horoscope, he sounds wise, but without specifics. Before he hangs up he says, "And if you’re really in a pinch finding Mr. Right, I'm right here for you, darling."

Sure, me and every other girl who dials his number rather than voicemail late at night. I shake the image from my mind. It's nice to have him on hand for a fantasy or two.

As if sensing my hesitation, he adds, "Don't forget I'll always be your M&M.”

Just how many times have I called him?

After I hang up with Swen, I try the voicemail again. This time I listen carefully. When I hear, "Please enter your password," I key in the numbers. "You have six new messages," the automaton says on the other end. Six? That is amazing. Perhaps wind of my success has gotten out and now everyone wants me to write for them. I'll probably be sent directly to Paris and Milan to cover the fashion shows. I'll have to get a vanity case and Evian Mist to travel with on the plane. By summer Anna Wintour will be emailing me, before anyone else, that gray is the new black. If I'm that busy, maybe I won't have to do the Cosmo piece after all.

Message one: "Lane, pick up, it's Mom." Maybe I will have to do the Cosmo piece after all. Two: "La-aaane, c'mon. Just pick up the phone." She never quite comprehends the fact that voicemail, unlike an answering machine, does not allow you to hear the person as they leave a message. Three: "Lane I'm getting worried about you. It's bad enough that I have to worry about my daughter being all alone in the world. You who never thinks any man is good enough for her. I wish I could sleep soundly knowing that you are with James. I hope you're happy because my heart is palpitating. I might wind up in the hospital. Pick up." I smile. No matter how manipulative and over-the-top, it’s still nice to know somebody is worrying about you. Four: "Lane, I've called all of the police precincts in your area to find out if you are okay. Call your mother!" And six: "Lane, the hospitals haven't heard anything from you either. Call me!"

I don't even consider a phone call. This is what my mother does. She'll have forgotten all about it in the morning if she hasn’t already. She hasn't really called the police or hospitals. She just says that for effect. This is her way of convincing me to get back together with James, and accept the fact that he is a good, decent man—the perfect type for marrying. She wants me to settle down already, instead of filling my head with "unrealistic fantasies named after chocolate candies." I'm just ready to skip past message six, which, if history serves as any sort of indication, will probably have to do with the fire department, when Joanne's voice comes on.

"Lane, I'm on my way home, and I just want to make sure that you know—before you stay up all night worrying about this whole thing—that you can do this. You will do this. Just have confidence in yourself. I'm not saying the whole predicament isn't a bit ridiculous—because it is—but I think it will do you good to get out among the living again and see that you are a fabulous, worthy woman. Now go to sleep."

How very un-Joanne. But, how very needed and appreciated. If I ever felt the urge to use that awful expression, now's the time—Grrrl power!

Despite Joanne's fabulous advice, I’m not ready to go to sleep. I haven't seen Chris in way too long, and the last few times I have, I've been horribly selfish, only thinking of myself and my problems. A visit is in order. I grab my keys and head up to his apartment. He doesn't sleep, which serves as a thoroughly awful condition for him, but a wonderful condition for me, should I wake up in the middle of the night, unable to get back to dreamland.

“Come in," he screams when I knock at the door. He knows it's me, because I’m the only one who comes to his door in the middle of the night.

"Hey," I say and we swap double air-kisses—not so much because we are fabulous, but because we are both part of the fabulous world and love/hate it together. I drop into my spot on his cozy chair-and-a-half and slip off my shoes. "What's shakin’ bacon?" he asks. "Oh this and that," I say.

"And which this are we upset about now?" He looks up from the photos he's looking through on his table.

"Actually, none at all."

He turns from the table and walks over to me. "Lane, am I sensing that you are happy?"

You know what? I am. And although it’s somewhat to do with the possibility of meeting a man, it's much more to do with a sense of purpose. I have a big responsibility, and an opportunity to prove myself, and I feel something I haven't felt in a while—great. "Would you look at that? I am happy."

"Well, I'm uncorking the bubbly. It’s definitely cause to celebrate," he says. Chris keeps these fabulous champagne flutes in his apartment, which he only uses on the most special occasions, and he pulls two down from the rack above his sink now.

"The special flutes?" I ask.

"My darling, I’m so glad to have you back."

It's amazing how you take your friends for granted when you become wrapped up in your own issues. But, when you get out of that horrible stage and into life again, for some reason, they’re still there and willing to forget how insufferable you’ve been.

I tell Chris the whole story and if it's possible, he’s more excited about it than I am. And, unlike Joanne, Chris has been to the Traveler's Building and has seen the throngs of men walking around. Eventually it becomes less strange to talk about them the way I do of lipsticks I’m rounding up for a beauty article.

"You, my dear, are going to have a blast," he assures me.

The rest of the evening is spent in a thoroughly enjoyable fashion—playing poker with a currency of Polaroid shots of bare-chested male models Chris will be shooting next week.

“I’ll raise you one Tyson."

“I’ll see your Tyson and raise you a Marcus and a Scott."

You might not understand the value of one over the other, but believe me, we do. It only takes eyes, and we have been playing this game for so long that we don't ever dispute the worth. During fashion week, when others are taking pictures of the clothes to remember looks they'd liked when order or article-writing time rolls around, Chris and I snap faces, asses and, if visible, bare chests that we'd like to order.

“You beat me with Tyson’s thighs again. Unbelievable,” I say. “I guess you can’t win them all.”