4

The Trial, the Men, and the Wardrobe

Since I’m meant to arrive at 8:30 A.M. I set my alarm for 7 A.M. Howard Stern wakes me with an intricate assessment of the size of someone's boobs. I look down at mine and wonder what he would think. On the bigger side is where I fare, and that seems to be his thing. I shake this thought from my head. Why the hell I am considering this point in the first place? It’s the first day of my new life after all.

I chalk it up to the sadist nature of waking so early in the morning. If you need an artificial device like a clock radio to get out of bed, then can it possibly be good for the natural, normal way your body functions? I should write an article about that, "Snoozers Rejoice" or "Ten Reasons Why You Should Chuck Your Alarm Clock." To regain some normalcy, I throw sweatpants over my nightgown and run down to the deli for coffee.

The guy behind the counter cracks a remark about "joining the living today," since I don't think I’ve ever been here before nine. I laugh it off but it does seem to ring true. It's been a long while since I worked in an office, and although I normally make a habit of laughing at and feeling superior to the throngs of people squishing into the subway during rush hour, tossing around cattle metaphors with abandon, today I’m proud to be one of them.

The new shoes and camel-colored coat don't hurt, either. I look very smart in a knee-length red pencil skirt and a printed Chloe top I bought on eBay for one hundred dollars. The floral chiffon top has the tiniest buds with the same brownish hue as my shoes and so the whole ensemble comes together beautifully. I mean, I look like I write for Cosmo. Normally, I am a total moron when it comes to practical dressing. I'm ready for any last-minute invitation requiring a pink taffeta tutu, but I wouldn't exactly blend in on the North Fork. Yet everything seems to work out effortlessly today. Maybe I don't have little birds and squirrels cobbling together my outfit, but this is a very Cinderella-esque moment. When I press the elevator button, the doors open immediately. At the newsstand I vacillate: should I impersonate a professional and crawl through the Times or be true to myself and indulge in a bit of New York Post gossip? I decide I've already got the job, so there's no need to go overboard, fold the Post under my arm, working-woman-like and descend underground.

When I emerge at Franklin Street the sidewalks are overflowing with suits and all manner of corporate casualties shuffling off in this direction and that all knowing exactly where to go. I’m in Tribeca. I’m completely disoriented. I have been here for parties at design shops, to review bars with velvet ropes outside, to perchance catch Ed Burns coming out of his apartment, but I've never gone by train or walked the area. And if you know anything about the "Triangle Below Canal" then you know it is a maze of a district, with street names that taxi drivers rarely know and, as if that's not enough, two Broadways, a regular old one and a Western version. It’s enough to leave even the most street savvy running circles like a tourist. I glance at my watch, worrying I’ll be late. Perhaps it would have been a better idea for me to take a trial run to the office yesterday, rather than spend hours on the phone with Joanne going over the profile of what my M&M will be like, using the Polaroids I'd won in the poker game as visuals. But, gosh, how often do you get to spend a Sunday in such a pleasant way—so pregnant with possibilities and hopes?

I don't even know east from west, north from south over here. I normally go with the "we" trick—west to your left, east to your right if I can figure out which way is north, but I can't find any points of reference. I'm straining to see the Empire State Building, but it's out of view. I think I see water in the distance, but is that the west or east side?

I’m forced to ask directions. “I do live here,” I explain, “only I never make it down this far.” The guy smiles sweetly and points the way. Imagine that on Madison Avenue.

I walk the two blocks he’d directed me along but I’m not where I’m meant to be. I remember that Tom had told me to ask where The Travelers Building is if I get lost, but I can't imagine anyone would know a building by name.

"Do you know where Greenwich Street is?" I ask a good-looking man, carrying a briefcase. No time like the present to begin my mission; I’m a bonafide workaholic.

Only it turns out his other hand is laced through the hand of the woman walking alongside him, and, taking one look at me, she tugs him away before he can answer. I turn to look for another suitable (and dateable) guy to ask. Only, my foot won’t move with me. I look down to see my heel stuck in a grate—the occasion for the human pretzel impersonation I’m attempting to Mac-Gyver my way out of.

I’m not panicking, but it seems that unlike the charming chain of events set off after this happens to Jennifer Lopez in The Wedding Planner, I’m alone in my predicament. Looking down, I see it’s not giving at all; the shoe doesn’t budge. I have never in my life stepped on one of those subway grates. I am always so careful about this. In fact, I remember moaning aloud while watching that movie, "Yeah right! Like that would happen! Nobody walks right over those in heels!"

I’m trying to keep my cool while twisting and yanking to free myself, but nothing's happening. Shit! People start to stare, and I feel my cheeks flush. This is unbelievable. How did I get from Howard Stern’s opinion of my boobs to this?

From somewhere behind, I finally hear someone ask if I need help, and inexplicably I scream. "I'm fine! I'm fine!" because I’m so busy being angry at the lack of humanitarianism in our society that I don't realize this is my only way out.

But I'm not fine, and now I have to bend down to remove my shoe and try to jiggle it free. Only once I loosen my foot from the shoe, I step down on a jagged bit of sidewalk, and my stocking snags. I lift my foot to inspect the damage and I feel the distinct tickle of nylon tearing up my calf as the run makes a warp-speed vertical climb.

"Always carry two pairs of stockings," I've advised in articles. But when you're deciding between one pair of the really nice kind that make you feel like a million bucks and two of the practical pairs that come bunched up in eggs and put together don't even make you feel like fifty cents, you somehow convince yourself that the expensive ones never run.

Okay, I'll just dash into a store and grab any old pair of stockings. That is, if I don't die here, trying to pull my shoe from the grate. Surely there's a shop around. I'm trying to delicately pull the gorgeous Jimmy Choo croc heel from the grate when all of a sudden, the shoe springs free, sending me sailing back to the ground on my butt.

I look at my shoe, ready to kiss it, really, for coming out in one piece, when I realize that it is not, in fact, in one piece at all. Well, rather I have one piece, and some subway rat is now scurrying off with the other piece—the quintessential piece, the heel, which has descended into the depths of subway hell.

It’s 8:20 a.m. and I have a heel-less shoe and a run in my stocking and may be responsible for the death of one of those subway mole people via stiletto stabbing. I am not off to the greatest of starts. The only recourse I have is a cell phone and a number for my boss.

"Hello?" he answers.

I was hoping for his voicemail. Now he's on the line I'm not sure what to say. I opt for the truth. "Mr. Reiner. Hi. It's Lane here."

"Oh. Hi, Lane. You can call me Tom, you know. Everything alright?"

"Well, actually, Tom, I've had a bit of a mishap here with a subway grate and my shoe, so I've just got to pop back home and get another pair that actually has two heels, okay? I won't be more than a half hour."

I’m pretty sure I hear a muffling, like when you put your hand over the receiver, and then a deep laugh in the background, before he says, "No problem, Lane. Do the best you can. We're still getting everything all set for you anyway."

"Thanks," I say, relieved. He hangs up before I remember to ask how to get there. I'll just have to suck up the money for a taxi.

I realize I’m pretty close to Century 21. Not around the corner close, but since I’m all the way downtown, it will take me less time to get down there and buy another pair of brown shoes than to go all the way back to my apartment and reconsider my whole outfit, which was built entirely around this pair of shoes.

I can't believe how crowded this shop is so early in the morning. People know how nuts it gets here and want a chance to scavenge the merchandise before everyone else. But since so many people have this same tactic in mind, it’s not very effective. I head for the shoe department and feel electricity pulsing through my veins. I spot a pair of Clergerie platforms for only seventy dollars. It should be illegal to have so many beautiful things on sale for such little money. It doesn’t seem fair that I have to buy another pair of work shoes rather than fun platform sandals that would normally cost $500. It’s like finding a buried treasure and waving it off for someone else to find. They have the most adorable crystals embroidered onto gold leafy-twisty vines around the ankle, and I recently pitched a whole round of stories about how huge this bohemian look is going to be this summer. I’ll just try them on. Across, in the full length, they are spectacular.

Maybe I can write an article about my experience buying these shoes, and then I can write them off on my taxes, and then they would really only cost—well, how much of it do you actually get back?—less anyway, much less than even the seventy dollars which is, undeniably, already an extraordinary deal. I tuck them inside the tissue, and hold onto the box tightly, because in this shop, people are eyeing what you've got, just waiting for you to put it back, under the idea that if someone else wants it, it's got to be great, right? This is the sort of mob mentality that causes catastrophic trends like those humongous jeans guys started wearing years ago, and oversize sunglasses, and anything by Gaultier.

Halfway down the aisle, a miracle happens. A miracle in chocolate crocodile. The very same pair of Jimmy Choos I just ruined is sitting right there. In a box. In. My. Size. It is a veritable miracle since they are from this season, and this makes me think that maybe, just maybe, miracles really do happen, and that the story of Hanukkah actually is true: that oil really did last for eight nights. And they’re only eighty dollars. It's a sign from God (or a whopping mistake someone should be fired for), and who am I to ignore it?

Perhaps the day will get off on a better foot now, I'm punning as I pass some adorable earrings on the way to the checkout. They're only ten dollars so I toss them onto the counter with the rest of my purchases, which, after having scanned the clothing department, fill up two hefty shopping bags. I’ll be having lots of long days at the office, and who knows what I can expect in the sartorial disaster area, after today's start? I'm preparing. If I’d prepared this well for today I wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with, right? Besides, I'll be making so much money, I'll be able to pay this credit card bill in full, no problem. The cashier swipes my card through and I cross my fingers it won't be declined.

The only problem, I realize, as the cab pulls up in front of a looming office tower with an adorable sculpture of a red umbrella outside, is that I now have two shopping bags from Century 21, which I'm not sure will make the greatest impression, especially now that I’m late. How late am I? A quick glance at my cell phone tells me it’s now ten o'clock. Not quite the half hour I implied.

I’m waiting for my change and receipt when, for the first time, I take in the scene at this building. There’s a huge courtyard in front with trellised overhanging walkways and all form of greenery; to the side benches are set up like a quaint little park. And on every inch of this property, and I do mean every single inch, there is something infinitely more wonderful than anything Mother Nature could produce. Something that would cause any living breathing woman's jaw to drop to her ankles.

And that majestic, fantastic, utterly unbelievable something is men. Men in button-down shirts in various modes of buttoned—all the way up, one open at the top, two open at the top. There are men in ties, men with no ties, men with ties tossed over their shoulders.

But wait, there's more.

There are tall men, short men, men with glasses, men without glasses. I spy men in sports coats, long overcoats, suits. Men with briefcases, backpacks, messenger bags, holding files, gripping plastic bags. Some men are alone; some are in groups. There are men standing, sitting, walking, running, bending over to pick things up.

And the best part?

There are very few women.

"Miss! Miss! Do you want your change or not?"

"Huh?" I wave my hand around to grab for the contents of his outstretched palm, unable to shift my gaze from this fantastic scene. I make my way to the curb, gripping the spoils of my shopping spree.

Picture me, if you will, standing before this massive structure, men literally oozing out all over the place (so this is where they have been all this time!), the sun shining, a gentle breeze blowing (and whipping hairs into my gooey lip gloss, of course), just beaming at the fact that my hunch was one thousand percent correct. If anything, this phenomenon is more glorious than anything I could have hoped for when I pitched the article.

I do know this place though. I have been enraptured by its booty before. But at the time, I was in deep REM sleep.

So I do what any soon-to-be-famous magazine writer, who is now one and half hours late, overflowing with inexplicable shopping bags, would do. I take note of the absolutely humungous smile that has formed on my face (and will probably necessitate a nimble surgeon’s removal), lower my sunglasses, run for a seat on the low wall that runs along one of the walkways and whip my phone out to call Joanne.

"Holy Effing Shit!" I whisper-scream into the receiver. "What? What?" she asks.

"You are not going to believe how many men there are here. One just looked at me! Oh my God, and another one is checking me out right now! This is insane. Abso-effing-lutely insane!" Now it’s not like me to curse this much. But I'm sure I don't need to make excuses to you for my effing awe-inspired cursing. Can you just imagine? Can you just effing imagine?

For a girl, who prior to this day, only had daily contact with the men on her block—the mailman, the FedEx man, a messenger, the guys at the deli, perhaps the odd delivery boy I'd scare as he attempted to shove a menu under my door—this is one utterly fantastic moment.

"Can I come meet you for lunch one day?" she asks.

"Ha!" I say, because I’m so giddy and can't think of anything else.

"You sound like you've just won the lottery."

"I think I have," I say. "Do you have a second to talk while I smoke a cigarette?"

"Sure, my boss isn't here," she says, not because her boss gets mad when she talks on the phone, but because he sits right across from her and has this annoying habit of asking "What? What did she say? What's so funny?" every time Joanne laughs, replies or says virtually anything at all into the phone.

"Holy shit."

"What? What?" she's asking, sounding, I think, a bit like her boss. "What's going on?"

"What isn't going on?" I reply. "This is incredible. And I haven't even gone inside yet."

"Why not? It's pretty late, isn't it?"

"Well, I had a little incident with my heel and a subway grate this morning." I'm talking kind of loudly now, because I'm sort of hoping some guy will overhear my conversation and find me wildly amusing and sexy. One does, I'm guessing from the way his eyes rest on me as he walks past, and the way his head turns to look back at me after.

Now, lest you think this could only happen to the most gorgeous women in the world, let me give you a bit of a clearer picture of me. I confess I have been called a pretty girl. That is to say, in this world—the normal world, or rather, the one outside of the beauty and fashion businesses. And if you're not familiar, "the industry," as we insiders refer to it, is a microcosm in the universe where everyone has access to the best beauty services in the entire world: the hair color gurus; the biweekly blowout (daily in many instances); the BaByliss flatiron (bye-bye frizz); Paula Dorf makeup; lessons on how to use the Paula Dorf makeup (it's all about contouring); the designer clothes (free!); the trainers; the wires to shut your jaw up when you need to drop twenty pounds, after which the Zone will deliver healthy meals to your home every day for maintenance; the eyebrow artistes; and then, of course, the breast enhancements; the Ursule Beaugeste pocketbooks; the Chanel shades; BOTOX; endermologie; microdermabrasion; airbrushed self-tanner; laser hair removal; and on and on and on. It’s not difficult to spend your whole day hopping from one expert to another—and when you’re getting paid for it, there isn’t much reason not to. Besides, all these places offer Internet connections, power points to plug in your laptop, and to some people, probably someone to type the bloody things up for them. And although I have access to some of those things—enough to make my friends jealous—there are many more women who have many more of those things (and, let's face it, longer legs and smaller noses, tighter abs, skinnier arms). And so this puts me on the bottom end of the spectrum of their "fabulous, daahling" kingdom. In a room full of them, I wouldn’t even rate a glance. I won’t even say how many times I’ve been given a hard time by a clipboard-manned door.

Press lunches at Barneys can bring on such raging attacks of insecurity that I can't even bring myself to go. Those that serve cocktails allow me to at least take the edge off enough to speak to the goddesses whom I need to mingle with in order to succeed in my career.

But in this world of sensible shoes and power suits, where sworn-by beauty lines "Remede" and "Decleor" are laughed off as exotic appetizers, and answered with "No, thanks, I'm allergic to fish," I’m a standout. I can tell from the way these men are looking at me that this is not just in my head. I feel taller, as if my legs are long, willowy branches gracefully swaying from my torso. My hair is long and smooth and doubtless reflecting sunrays in the majestic manner of Guinevere riding through Camelot on a white horse. People have always said I have great cheekbones (little do they know this is simply a makeup trick), and when I remember this, I suck my cheeks in to maximize the effect. I glance at my nails—slightly square shaped, and finished in a barely-there polish—and even those seem alluring. I have never felt more desirable in my life.

I mumble something into the receiver about Century 21 and shopping bags, and Joanne asks me to clarify, but all I say is, "I'm just about done gloating. Nothing left to say here. There are men to meet!" With a laugh, Joanne hangs up. She must be thrilled I'm not complaining for once.

I figured I would simply ride up in an elevator and find myself seated at a desk in no time. This was a serious oversimplification on my part—not unlike the train of thought that had me believing I’d find my way to work this morning. I realize my first problem when I look ahead and everyone is flashing ID cards at the security guard.

"Hi," I say when it's my turn.

"Hi," he says back. In my state of mind, merely saying that word feels sexy. The idea of all of this security feels sexy. This entire place is one elaborate aphrodisiac.

"I don't have an ID card. It's my first day," I say, blushing; given my state of mind, I worry my words sound X-rated somehow.

"Okay, any picture ID will do,” he says, pointing to the opposite wall, “just go to that desk and they'll call your boss and get you a card."

I'm fumbling through my handbag and trying to balance the shopping bags when suddenly I feel the whole load lighten up.

"Can I help you with these?" Someone speaks out from the Sea of Man behind me, grabbing for the shopping bag handles, which have dug red marks into my hand.

"Sure," I say, overzealously. Everything smacks of surrealism. If I read this scenario in a book I’d be mumbling to myself about how unrealistic and ridiculous it sounds, but the truth is the lobby is even more unbelievable than the exterior. There are so many men that my eye doesn't know where to look. The marble, swirling imperially here, there, and everywhere, is exquisite. I am an elegant Audrey Hepburn or Plum Sykes (beautiful, fashionable Vogue writer) in someplace like the Plaza Hotel. And my spontaneous rise to fabulousness is enhanced in a bit of a shallow (but human, really) moment, as I realize that the women passing to and fro, scarce as they are, have really put in minimal effort. They're wearing messy ponytails and clunky flats! I see bare lips everywhere. Not one contoured cheek, not a single slim white suit with black shell, no trace of a freshly blown-out head of hair. Instead it’s shapeless suits and utilitarian tights. Look, I’m into women’s lib as much as the next girl, but if any single girls I know saw all these men around they’d certainly make an effort. These women don’t know how good they have it!  

"First day, really?" the bag-carrier is asking as he follows me through the metal detector and on toward the check-in desk. Now that is a desk with a fantastic view. I can barely concentrate on keeping a conversation going with this chivalrous young man in one of those blue shirts they apparently hand out with MBAs. There goes another, and another; blond hair, and brown hair, and freckles, oh my!

"I'm Tim," he says, extending his hand while a John Cusack look-alike and a shorter Mel Gibson walk by.

"Lane." I reach for his hand with a new appreciation of the phrase "kid in a candy store."

"May I help you, Miss?" asks the security woman in an unfortunate polyester top and frizzy bob. I want to help her, spearhead a mega-makeover, and then I catch myself. Who am I?

Behind her hangs an enormous American flag and I swell with patriotism: I am an American, a New Yorker, a useful member of society, a businesswoman among businessmen. And at this moment, I can't think of a better thing to be.

"Well, you're busy here I see. I'll catch you around." Tim gingerly rests the bags in a semicircle around me, rejoins his friend, and I hear the distinct clap of a high five. I’m flattered.

This is going to be a piece of cake. I can probably finish the article in a week and then it will be smooth sailing through lunchtime rendezvous and supply-closet nookie the rest of the time. I can put my feet up and enjoy the view for the final month and three weeks. Maybe I won't even quit. Maybe I'll stay here until I grow old and gray. Maybe it's not really that I'm meant to be a writer, but that I just didn't know any other life before.

The poorly dressed attendant calls Tom Reiner and instructs me to wait by the side of the counter. I could stand here watching this fantastically erotic bustle for the rest of my life and feel I have indubitably lived.

I feel a tickle on my foot and look down to see someone’s knocked over one of my bags. I'm reaching over to pick up my fashionable mess when the panic returns: I have no way of hiding (or explaining) the spoils of a conspicuous shopping spree that has caused me to be an hour and a half (now an hour and forty-five minutes) late.

I flirt with the idea of layering each and every garment on my body and tucking each of the wedges into a coat pocket. I’m just picking up my new pink Cosabella low-rider thong, fearing (and hoping a little) this may cause a man pileup, and smiling wickedly as I decide whether to ball them up to hide inside my purse, when someone calls my name. It's none other than Mr. Thomas Reiner.

I don't meet his eyes at first. I’m a little mortified at myself and at his tie—this time covered in spinning globes rimmed with double motion lines and raised blue stitching for the watery bits. I rise to a standing position and shift my gaze to meet his. We complement each other at the same time:

''Nice tie," I say.

"Nice color for you," he says, indicating the underwear. Despite the fact that you are probably holding your hand up to cover your face right now (and if you are on public transportation, yes, everyone thinks you are crazy), this is actually a good thing because Tom happens to be the sort of guy who flushes at the sight of his new assistant's underpants.

And so, despite the fact that there are doubtless a number of questions looming, he decides to push them aside and instead excuses himself from the situation by saying, "I'm running out for a meeting. I've left some instructions with John Tansford from my department and I think he can keep you all covered up (megablush) while I'm out." Coming from someone else's mouth this might sound snippy. "And I hope you're as good at your job as you apparently are at bargain-hunting. Ask the receptionist to buzz John for you. When I get back I’ll take you on a tour and to the glamorous...” he waves his hand loftily, “cafeteria—for lunch."

I follow his image as it disappears through the doors, and I’m already wondering if John Tansford will be my M&M, or the guy who carried my bags, or the one who winked at me, or the one with the dimples.... How does anyone get any work done here?

I stand and wait, guessing which one will be the enchanting, single and scrumptious John Tansford.

"Ms. Silverman?" asks the tallest, skinniest man I’ve ever met. It’s a miracle he can stand up without tipping over. Looking down, I see this is in no small part thanks to his colossal feet. He looks less like a man and more like a boy, albeit a very tall one, all big-eyed and rosy-cheeked. When I stand (all of five feet four inches-despite how willowy and long I imagined my legs a moment ago) he makes a conscious effort to hunch over, as if apologizing for his height. Despite this sentiment, he maintains direct eye contact with the floor. It isn't difficult to see winch side of the sexy/nice line John makes his home on.

"Yes. John, is it?" I ask, extending my hand, which he takes with a grip so light I can barely feel it.

"Yes, John Tansford. Nice to meet you. I hear you had some problems getting here this morning," he says, his face scrunching at Mr. Floor as I gather my bags, "Can I get those for you?" he offers.

No matter what people say about the cutthroat world of business, I have to say, if this were an editorial office, there would be no way I would have gotten through my first day walking in with the spoils of a shopping spree an hour and forty-five minutes late. My firing papers would have been filed before I even arrived. And while they had me filling them out, someone would have taken my Clergerie platforms as part of the money I owed them for wasting their time. But here I am being escorted with my own personal porter to the ID station as though I’m Julia Roberts at the end of that Pretty Woman shopping spree and makeover sequence.

Everything is so organized and professional here. Your ID card is processed immediately. That is, after showing five forms of identification, and going through a thorough security check that runs just shy of inquiring how many sexual partners you've had, the last time you've gone to the bathroom, and how often you fight with your mother.

Unfortunately, it’s not the clip-on I’d imagined, and when I ask the ID man if there’s a possibility he could order one for me, he thinks I’m joking and goes into hysterics.

"That's a good one. 'Can you order one for me?' Ha!" He ribs John, who flashes me a reticent glance, but looks away before I can be sure whether that was a smile I saw accompanying it.

Clip or not, my picture is remarkably great, no small feat for someone who’s been told her license looks like a “before” photo from a makeover shoot.

We make our way up twenty-six flights and then, inexplicably, into the stairwell to descend one. I’m in no position to question anyone’s behavior so I keep quiet. The hallway gives way to an open-format office strewn with cubicles with unfashionably colored cloth walls in maroons and grays, which in any other spot would probably seem depressing. But here, just as a slicked-back ponytail and toned-down makeup can actually highlight a boisterous ensemble on the runway, the drab colors just make the men seem to pop even more. Glass encased offices line the border of the floor. As we make our way past some of them, I note once again, that women are sparse. I do catch the random "Happy Birthday, Tiffany!" sign here, and the telltale candy dish there, but the tokens of female life are few. And those women I see are in suits or androgynous pants and tops. But even that isn't enough to stop me from feeling like part of one, big happy family. These are my people. I am drunk with being part of something big, and excited to take note of every detail for my article.

My cubicle is right outside Tom's office and next to John's cubicle. Although it does have those dreary maroon walls, I’m sure I can work some magic and transform it into an adorable respite. It's got plenty of space for me to hang things on and lots of great storage bins and work surfaces. I wish I could come to a space like this to do my regular job. With all these people working, and the distance from my bed, I'm sure I'd get so much more work done. It's buzzing with telephones ringing, people shuffling to the water-cooler, typing away, and drawers opening and closing. It's like a real office in here. So inspiring! So lively! So, well, filled with men! Now, I know I sound like a little kid who's never seen the big working world before, but that's exactly how I feel, since I’ve been holed up in my apartment for so long. I don't think I realized how far removed from society I’d been.

Tom has left a beautiful arrangement of lilies and orchids on my desk with a little card that reads, “We’re so glad to have you.” I couldn't be more pleased, and feel a bit amused by the fact that Tom has omitted the exclamation point here, where most likely any other human being would place one. Reading it as a straight sentence, without the lilt at the end that an exclamation point would require, does make one take the statement more seriously. You know, I think Tom might have something there. No wonder he’s a Managing Director of Mergers and Whatever-that-other-thing-is.

"Shall I leave you to settle in for a bit? Tom’s left all sorts of notes here for you about filling out your paperwork and meeting with HR about benefits and all that. I’ll be right over the wall if you need me." He knocks on our dividing line and raises his eyebrows in wait of my response. If the fidgeting and crimson cheeks serve as any indication, it looks like he just might faint if I require his presence a moment longer.

"Sounds grea—" I go to lift my voice, as if there’s an exclamation point, but stop myself, clear my throat, and repeat, in a monotone, professional way, "Sounds great." John nods and disappears behind the maroon wall. I think I hear a sigh of relief from the other side.

My computer appears to be brand new. I take off my coat and hang it on the side of my mock doorway. It's so beautiful, it will make a nice first impression to passersby. My new chair has a comfy, high back, and, I note, as I lean back into it, a fantastic rocking option—a nice change to the cheap, uncomfortable chair I use at home. Funny that; I feel very much at home.

One mountain of paperwork and the most boring meeting of my life later, I'm fidgeting with my computer, which doesn't allow much fidgeting before a dialogue box prompts me to enter a password. Passwords remind me of voicemail and voicemail gets me wondering if there are people leaving me messages at home, left and right, offering me assignments for the first time in my life. I get a sinking feeling, realizing that I’m not there to answer the calls. I dial my voicemail number.

While I'm waiting for the call to go through, I scream to John over the wall, "How do I get a computer password?"

I can barely hear John's response over a voice shouting in my ear, "Lane!"

I takes me a second to realize the voice is coming through the phone "Oh Swen! Sorry, again,” I whisper.

"No worries, my sweet. I'm just in from the steam room.” Swen—otherworldly, fantastical Swen. "So how's the new job going?"

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you." Lowering my voice, and cupping my hand over the receiver, I whisper, "There are like, a million, trillion men here." Again, I avoid silly exclamations.

He asks. "What are you wearing?" I briefly wonder if I am feeding a fantasy he has scheduled after high tea, but describe the whole outfit and croc-shoe debacle anyway (sometimes the mileage you get out of a great story is worth the hassle of surviving the experience), when that hideous globe tie appears before me once again.

"I see you're settling in nicely." Tom says.

“I’ll get that off to you right away,” I say into the receiver. Swen says, “Ooh, I like the sound of that.” I try not to cringe as I hang up the phone. Tom glances with a bit of a rosy cheek to where I've propped his little note from the flowers atop my computer monitor.

“Thanks for the flowers. That was awfully sweet of you. How'd your meeting go?" To seem professional I add, "Are there any notes you'll need me to transcribe?"

"Well, if you haven't any more shopping to do this afternoon, that would be a great help," he says and hands me a couple of scrawled-on sheets of yellow legal paper.

Now I’m the one with the pink cheeks.

"I've got you a password already. It's really a lot of trouble for nothing, and I figured I'd save you the hassle. It’s—” He lowers his voice to a whisper, “Faulkner.”

I type in the notes quickly, calling Tom every once and again to ask what "MD" (managing director) and "IBD" (Investment Banking Division) stand for, and embarrassingly, once to ask what "TR" is—"Um, that's, ummm, me," he replies, being careful of my feelings. I roll back in my chair to peek at him through the plates of clear glass that serve as his office wall, and twirl my finger at my ear. “Duh,” I say.

He smiles and says. "I gotta go, there's some strange girl staring at me through my window."

When I grab the sheets off the printer I take in my new department. There are about one hundred people in my surrounding area, and I’m already picturing all of us out at happy hour, complaining that "numbers are down," or whatever it is these people complain about. There’s a bunch of boisterous guys a few desks down who keep walking around to hand each other papers and files—and more than once, I’ve noticed them whispering and pointing in my direction. I’m intrigued.

I bring the papers to Tom, and he gives them a once-over, nodding his head approvingly. "You do nice work," he says.

"Thank you," I say, feeling a wave of pride from a job well-done. I'm a kitten who's mastered the litter box.

"You ready for your tour?" he asks.

God am I ever. I get to go around once again—taking it all in, top to bottom—all those strong legs, backs, arms, "Let me just grab my notebook," I say, not wanting to miss anything I can possibly use for my article.

Now Tom has professional reasons for showing me the building, but I have my own reasons for touring it, so taking it all in is not the easiest thing in the world. First we go around our floor.

"This entire floor is investments. And most of it is Mergers and Acquisitions. The guys in the cubicles are the number crunchers. You know, the guys who play with the figures to see what companies would look like combined, to find out who's in trouble, who can afford to acquire another company. There are about one hundred and fifty of those guys on this floor. They’re called analysts, and they’re assigned to different projects that the managing directors and vice presidents are working on."

I’m trying to get this info down, and note, in code, which ones are cute and which ones have checked me out, and which cologne it is that’s wafting up into my nasal passages and causing heat to emanate from my neck.

He continues. "Now there are lots of managing directors. That's MDs. No, not the medical type. About ten right now, and they’re all working on different projects in various sectors of the marketplace. So, over here," he says, waving over a section midway down this corridor of open-front offices, "the trafficking segment of our department makes sure that nobody’s contacting the same companies to suggest different deals. Otherwise we would all look like we don't know what the hell is going on."

I’ve always found it boring when men talk about the world of finance, when I've met them in bars or at parties, but Tom, talking this way in his element (even with that awful tie) seems so regal and important.

"So what kind of deals do you put together?" I ask, and surprisingly, find, I’m actually interested in hearing the answer.

"Well, it can be anything. Say Barneys is doing really well and looking to grow their remainders and discounting business, and Daffy's is not doing so well. We'll have the analysts put together a prospectus of what a Barneys/Daffy's company would look like and present it to them."

Barneys and Daffy's? That sounds like a deal I could really get excited about. But Barneys would never want to be associated with a bargain-basement store like Daffy's that throws around the term “designer” until it’s been robbed of all meaning. Come on. Anyone knows that. It's like Vogue merging with Family Circle. That conference room would be left a tattered battlefield strewn with tufts of perfectly flattened blond hair and torn strings of outsize Chanel faux-pearls on the one side, and Lycra and polyester blends on the other side of the enemy line.

When I mention this, Tom smiles and says, "Excellent point."

The whole floor is coming to life before my eyes, as I imagine the important negotiations, intimidation tactics, and fiscal something or others in progress.

Tom opens a door that leads to a stairwell and explains the mysterious path John led me through earlier. "Since we’re on twenty-five, and the elevators are divided into two towers—one to twenty-five and twenty-six to thirty-nine—the fastest way to get to our floor from the lobby is to take the express straight up to twenty-six, rather than stopping on every floor all the way up to twenty-five. Same when you go down."

I follow him up the one flight, smiling at the two women chatting here (my coworkers); they go quiet when they notice Tom, and I remark to myself that he must be pretty important.

"Now, the first thing everyone learns in this building is that there are no arrows above the elevators to indicate whether they’re going up or down. Instead, the red light means up, white down."

"Why? Wouldn't it be easier just to have arrows?" I ask.

He shrugs. "That's just the way it is. Feel free to draft a letter of concern to the management office, but I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"Tom, nice to see you," says an older man in the elevator.

"Jim," Tom says and nods. "This is my new assistant Lane." He introduces me, and Jim sticks his hairy hand in my direction.

I shake it. "Nice to meet you," I say.

"A pleasure," he says, smiling.

And before we get to our destination—the conference floor on thirty—the elevator stops to let in one bespectacled man, a couple of casually dressed guys in jeans and tees, one skinny, and two blond men who could be twins. Wow. Wow. Wow.

"Tom, which—" I want to clarify once again which is down and which is up.

He stops me and says, "Red, up."

I smile. "Thanks." I’m taking notes and Tom screws up his face, probably wondering what the heck I could possibly be writing down, and considering that if it’s the elevator instructions then perhaps he hasn't made the best choice in hiring me. Of course, this is exactly what I'm writing down, because my mind is so cluttered with all the men that I'm sure I won't remember, and so I cup my hand over my paper, like someone afraid a classmate is cheating off their exam. I shake my head and further shade my notes when he tries to peek over. Tom finds this amusing.

The conference floor is exactly what it sounds like—a floor lined with identically bland conference rooms, each with its own unspectacular piece of corporate art. Outside each room are tables of food, soda cans, bottled water, and appropriate amounts of garnish, for those meeting inside. Those rooms that have meetings in session are marked with signs indicating which potential mergers or acquisitions are being discussed: "Verizon and Time Warner;" "Macy’s and Marshall’s;" "Starbucks and Tealuxe."

Tom adopts a hushed tone to indicate we need to be quiet. "So this is where it all happens. When we have meetings I'll need you to come in and take down the minutes. It's not too bad—at least you'll get a free lunch."

I haven't eaten yet and I spy a cookie that looks fantastic, but resist the urge to grab for it. This isn't so hard to do, as there are so many men standing around and walking past that the last thing I want to do is stuff my face like a pig. (Another article idea? "The Man Diet.") Now where have I seen that guy before?

I catch a smidge of conversation. "With the resources we had three years ago . . . " It trails off as the three men walk into one of the rooms.

We follow a square route around until we once again reach the glass doors that lead to the elevators, and Tom says, "Okay, here's your test. We're going down to the first floor. Let's see if you can get into the right elevator. Lane."

Right. I mean, okay, so I asked once, but obviously it's not that hard. What kind of moron does he think I am anyway? So here I am, all pissed that my boss thinks I can't figure out something as simple as a white light indicating a descending elevator, when the doors of an elevator with a red light open and a breathtakingly handsome man is revealed. I can't help myself from walking right through the doors.

"Lane, that's not us," Tom says, saving me just as the door is about to close me inside. The handsome one smiles, and I can’t help but return the sentiment, feeling that even if I piddle on the floor men here will adore me.

"Sorry," I croak.

"Rite of passage," he assures me.

Enter proper elevator; join ridiculous number of men; exchange looks; get the feeling Tom may be silently laughing at my probably now obvious point-of-view; doors open.

"And this is where you came in," he reminds me, as we pass a lobby shop selling magazines (maybe something I've written is in there?), Snapples, candy, greeting cards, and chewing gum. "And this is the coffee shop," he indicates with an outstretched hand. It is an adorable little station below a sign that reads JAVA CITY with lines of (what else?) men waiting, to the sounds of frothing, for cappuccinos and lattes. I have never in my life found a coffee shop so exhilarating. "And behind there is the cafeteria. But first I want to show you where it all happens." We make our way toward the mysterious "it" down an escalator and around a corridor lined with a long table and some vending machines—a great spot for an intimate lunch for two?

Now, before I divulge the scene on the trading floor, I need to tell you what Tom later tells me, when we get to know each other a little better, that these guys sit here all day long staring at computer screens and listening to these thingies called "squawk boxes," and their lives are all about gambling and taking risks. So they get all antsy sitting there, with all that pent-up excitement and energy, and when women—even more scarce here than elsewhere in this fantastical place—walk the aisles, there tends to be a bit of “hubbub.” I know. Who says, hubbub?

First of all, it’s screaming loud in here. Stock quotes run on tickers along large LCD screens. There must be thousands of computers—and each one is fitted with its very own man. "This is one of the largest trading floors on Wall Street," Tom, says. "There are millions of dollars’ worth of computers in here. And here's where it gets interesting—there are strict rules about the investment side and the trading guys here sharing information. That is to say, they cannot under any circumstances. We like to say there are 'firewalls' between both sides. So picture a wall that neither side can cross. And don’t ever forget it."

This sounds so mysterious and Gordon Gecko-esque, I can barely contain my excitement. Espionage, intrigue—it’s all so sexy. All the guys working here are dressed really casually, and next to Tom, they seem so . . . young, I guess is the word. As we're walking out, and Tom’s winding down the tour, heading me to the cafeteria for lunch, he asks, "Well, what do you think?"

For the first time today I make a slip. It comes out before I even process it. And this is probably because I feel like I’ve just had sex for about two hours. I’m flushed, having trouble breathing, and not really on planet earth yet.

"There are so many men!" I say, exclamations and all. As soon as it's out, I cup my hand over my mouth. What if I’ve blown my cover?

"Yeah. That's what they all say," Tom says. I’m learning it’s his style to take everything in stride. "After a while you won't even notice them anymore."

Sure. Right.

"So," he resumes his mock-professional tone. "This is the cafeteria."

Men. Men. Men.

"And more men," he says.

My breath catches in my throat.

He raises his eyebrows to suggest a joke.

"And you take a box."

I breathe largely with the conversation shift. He hands me a flattened cardboard box and shows me how to tug it open with my fingers. "And this is the salad bar.” He grabs a bowl and passes another in my direction to see if I, too, would like a salad.

I accept.

"And this is the lettuce. And this is the tomato, and these are the carrots, and this is the celery, and this is the green pepper," he introduces each one to me as we make our way down the line and he chooses the various ingredients.

As I pile on bits from the different bowls, I find it funny that someone as important as Tom does something as trivial as eat lunch.

"And I skip the dressing, because I'm trying to eat right," he says. I consider following his lead, but practicality has never been my forte, so I opt for extra Italian and shrug my shoulders as he shakes his head and clucks his tongue in disapproval.

He adds a hot pretzel to his box and we head to the register. "Allow me," he says, as the cashier weighs the salads and tallies up the total.

"You know," I say, "if you're trying to stay in shape, a hot pretzel is probably the worst thing you can eat."

"Why's that?" he asks.

"Carbs, carbs, carbs—they are the enemy," I inform him, shaking my head. "So can I have a little piece?" I ask, never capable of resisting a simple carbohydrate.

“Nope,” he says.

"Why not?" I ask.

"Well, I don't want to be responsible for you eating a microscopic pretzel bite, so you can come back in two weeks and blame an extra ounce on me."

"I would never." I’m Betty Boop, lashes working overtime.

"Oh, I've heard that one before." he says, holding the pretzel out of my reach.

"Fine, be like that." I do my best to feign indifference, focusing on my exciting heap of salad bar selections instead.

"Fine, I will," he says, unwavering, "Mmmmm," he murmurs, closing his eyes as he bites into the pretzel. "You would not believe how good this tastes."

"I hope you get fat," I retort.

"I'm sure you do," he says.

So, you see, my welcome at the Mergers and Whatchamacallit department at Salomon Smith Barney was really very sweet. By five o'clock, I'm pretty much settled into what I like to call my "cubey." Every time I do, Tom says. "It's a cubi-cle, Lane." I can tell he enjoys it.

I already have a nickname, something I've wanted for years now, really ever since I shed the last one. It was a horrible college moniker: Lame, which was attained for obvious reasons, but which, for similarly obvious reasons, did not suit my fancy when used during introductions.

Tom christened me Ab Fab over lunch as I told him about my magazine writing. He said it didn’t have so much to do with the fact that the characters on the show are, "Obnoxious, spoiled women." He insisted it was more "the whole fashion world thing, and the fact that it’s just a combination of words that really suits you."

I could see why Tom would have been an English major. He really does delight in words.

Everyone in the cubicles around me seems to pile out between five and six, which I guess is because they come in so early. And when it starts clearing out, Tom tells me that I can leave for the day if I wish. But since he’s staying, and I’m feeling really good all-around (and partially because I can't bring myself to go back to the real world just yet for fear I will find the whole day was a mere dream), I opt to stay and write about my day's experiences.

I’ve decided at the end of each day I’ll write down everything that's happened, so at least I'm staying in practice and I'll have a chance to dissect every encounter I have, every single professional arm, leg, butt, face, neck, and ear to see if any M&Ms have crossed my path undetected. Also, maybe I'll stumble upon some other themes over the next couple of months that I can use for other articles.

I can't help but notice again that in this traditional workspace, actually doing work comes much easier. Which is much more than I can say for my own office at home, which normally inspires me to run to the deli for coffee and human interaction. Appearing studious to the men around me also makes me feel quite desirable (odd, true).

I begin the fourth page of my work journal, probably the longest thing I've written in ... ever, which I’ve entitled on yet another crisp, gold leaf page, Diary of a Working Girl when John raps on my cubey wall.

"I'm heading home. You're really making me look bad here," he says, smiling, and then, perhaps realizing he’d abandoned his nervous default, catches himself and looks down as if attempting to decipher some Beautiful Mind-type code woven into the carpet.

"Well, Tom's still here, too," I plead, rejoicing in the fact that my studious act is working.

"Yeah, but that's because he doesn't want to go home to his evil girlfriend," John says, still decoding the carpet, but warming up, adding a silly “woooh," to act spooked.

"Really? An evil girlfriend? But he seems like such a nice guy." The kind of nice guy who’s sensitive to carbohydrate consequences; the sort of nice guy who has spinning globes on his tie. This is the last person you'd expect to have an evil girlfriend.

"I've gone out with them a couple of times; one day I'll tell you about the ‘spaghetti incident.'"

Just as I'm wondering how far off "one day” will be if I haven’t even caught John's eye color after a full day with him, he surprises me.

"But you didn't hear any of this from me," he says, catching my eye for a quick second. Yay! They're blue, by the way. He turns to make sure Tom's door is still closed, which it is. John shrugs his shoulders and bids me, "Sayonara," and I swear, ducks his head to stop it from hitting the ceiling as he walks down the corridor.

Back to my journal, I record this bit of info, and realize as I'm writing it, that this news about Tom is very surprising.

And isn’t the “Spaghetti Incident” the name of a really bad Guns ‘n’ Roses CD? I wonder if she reprimanded him over a stain...hmmm... or maybe a slurp. Maybe Tom ordered the spaghetti and the girlfriend wanted that but refused to order the same thing and so she screamed at him until he switched to the penne.

Realizing this train of thought probably won’t prove useful to my article, or future articles (although I am growing fond of the title 'spaghetti incident' and wondering if it could make for a cool fashion shoot; mod, with weathered seventies furniture and strands of spaghetti hanging off the side of a laminate table, from steel counters, olive green colanders, orange floral printed bowls...), I move on to more important issues.

I am absolutely in love with my department. I am in love with the fact that I have a department. I am in love with the fact that I will soon hopefully be able to say things like, “I’m having drinks with the department.” Day One and already I’ve got a rapport with a very sweet man named John, and I am making it my personal goal to have him open up to me. You NEVER get such fun chit-chat with the FedEx or UPS guys –NEVER. And there is the very intriguing issue of the ‘spaghetti incident’. Only last week I...I...

I can't stop thinking what that incident might be! I know better though; I’m not going to waste time and energy writing about it.

But wait. Maybe the girlfriend sent back her spaghetti because it wasn’t good, only it was good and she just didn’t want to eat the carbs―only wanted to smell them and see what it felt like to order them, savor the sounds of the syllables―spa-ghe-tti—as they rolled from her tongue. That could be why he was so sensitive about the pretzel.

Why, Ms. Lane Silverman, are you wasting the pages of your diary with such thoughts about pasta and its involvement with a woman you don't even know?!!!!? You will not, cannot get so off-track with this project on your first day. Now where were you?

Just last week, I thought I was moving on by using my overdraft account to shop for practical meals for one (a single chicken breast, a lamb chop he never liked, muesli—it’s supposed to be healthy), when the reality of my miserable, lonely existence came up and whacked me in the face. I was waiting on line for some diet cheese when it happened.

He was testing a cube fresh mozzarella from a platter; she was reminding him of that special report they’d watched about how unsanitary those tasting platters are–unwashed hands grabbing, flies, no refrigeration. I know it doesn’t sound very lovey–dovey, but it was the intimacy that grabbed me. The fact they’d watched the special report together, that she cared enough to warn him against eating from the tray, that he smiled and shook his head like he knew her ways and loved them, no matter how nagging. I looked down at my basket of meals for one and realized there were tears running down the bag that held my single orange, over my small container of milk, on my paper bag of four mushrooms—all tiny portions because anything bigger would spoil in the refrigerator opened and closed by only one pair of hands. I realized that if any of the items in my basket were harmful to my health, I had no one to warn me. I might have been buying the makings of my final meal. I only hoped that someone would notice if I died by the papers piled outside my door.

Today, however, the world is filled with possibility. Papers could never pile outside my door. I have somewhere to be! Things to do! People to see...

This seems a great start to an article draft, and I wouldn't want to jinx myself by making predictions, so I close the diary for the day, promising to edit out the maudlin bits later when I’m in love and can finally have that laugh about them everyone’s always promising me.

I have already become familiar with the e-mail system here. Sure, it's the same one I use at home, but it’s still a good thing. And with the help of an Information Technology guy straight out of central casting, I’ve learned how to check my home e-mail account. I pull this account up now to see if anything new has come in.

There is one message, from an address that ends in nypost.com! I’m sure it’s a rejection to the article I pitched last week about the temp agency horrors. I click to open it.

Dear Lane,

I am delighted, after having rejected your submissions a record fifty times, to inform that you have finally hit the nail on the head. The piece you sent in about temp agencies is perfect. We would like to offer you seventy-five dollars to print it in this Friday's paper. Please e-mail me a list of your sources for our fact-checker.

Best,

Brian Allen

This absolutely, positively cannot be. I’m speechless. That is, until I scream "Yay!" and jump up and down in my maroon cubicle. I’m considering dancing around with my pink panties atop my head when Tom emerges from his office, bobbing his head up and down to the rhythm of my jumping.

"I got the feeling you liked it here, but this joy is unprecedented in Smith Barney history."

It is so nice to have someone to share good news with, rather than dancing around your apartment telling yourself "Congratulations!"—even if I can’t put my panties on top of my head.

"Looks like we have a star reporter in our midst," Tom says after my Post briefing, patting me on the back, and demanding we share a mini bottle of Pommerey champagne he's been keeping in his office for a special occasion. "That’s an order," he says. "Don't tell human resources," he adds over his shoulder, placing his pointer across his mouth. "It's against the rules to drink on the job."

It's warm, which doesn't do much to help champagne, but it's sweet enough, and by the time we finish it, I am a bit light-headed. It feds good to be sitting in an office, overlooking the water, the Statue of Liberty, and hanging out after work like this. The champagne loosens my lips, and I tell Tom about how boring his ad in the Times looked and how I'd first come across it, stopping short at the reason I finally followed through with calling. I decide to offer a bit of advice.

"You should make the ads witty and lively, so that people will be enticed to call," I say.

And at first he looks as if he's going to crack up, but then, his face turns serious, and he says, "You know Ab Fab, that's not such a bad idea."

When, an hour later, Tom's phone rings, I take a moment to get acquainted with his desk. It's nice and tidy—the way I always wish mine could be—with few decorative objects to clutter things. In fact, there’s just the one—a frame I can only see the back of from where I'm sitting.

Can this be the evil girlfriend of the spaghetti incident fame? When curiosity gets the better of me I stand as if to take in the view at the window behind his desk.

He rolls his eyes at the person on the other end and makes that duck quack gesture with his fingers as if the caller is yapping on. When he turns around and starts to jot down some notes, I'm pretty sure I'll have a second to safely check out the photograph.

It's all I can do to stop myself from sprinting to the phone to call Joanne and scream, "OH MY GOD." The photo of the evil girlfriend is so far from anything you'd expect to see within ten miles of Tom that I do a double take, hoping when I look again it will be completely different.

The photo is unmistakably a Glamour Shot, the sort they're always trying to sell at shopping malls. She's got a hazy soap-opera glow about her eyes and a feather boa floating around her neck. The sparkly cowboy hat tragically elevates the thing into another realm.

In a gag reflex, I choke on a sip of champagne. Tom turns around and I quickly transfer my gaze from the photo and before it's too late, mouth to him that I'm heading home. As he waves me through, pointing at the phone and sticking his tongue out like he's sorry to be interrupting fun with work, I think how amazing it is that his job is so demanding, yet he handles himself in such a light, pleasant manner. I'm considering this as I pack my bag up, shut my computer down, and make the journey up the stairwell to twenty-six to take the express clown.

Red or white? Despite the fact that this makes me the perfect candidate for the Most Scatterbrained Girl in the World Award, I can’t remember. I flip through my little notebook, and while I can't locate the information in question, I can clearly see that I chronicled Tom's entire introduction to the salad bar.

And this is the lettuce; and here is the tomato.

I hadn't even realized I wrote that down. I wonder what he'd say now that I can't remember how the stupid elevator works again. Ha! I bet he would really be laughing about that.

I take a chance—I’ve got a fifty-fifty shot, right? I find myself sailing up towards the higher floors, and instead of feeling frustrated, I laugh because I can already see joking around about this tomorrow. Human interaction—it’s a real revelation.

Finally, I make my way down, through the turnstile and past the security guards, and when I'm outside I can't help but wonder if the whole experience was just a dream. I fear that when I come back tomorrow I'll happen upon an empty lot, rather than a tower of wonder where dreams come true.

When I return that evening to my tiny apartment I feel like I haven't been there in ages. I think the separation did us both good; I find a new appreciation for my sofa as I sink into it, working a pair of chopsticks through a warm takeout tin of steamed chicken and mixed vegetables. I must eat better now that being attractive is part of my job. As I watch sitcom reruns, I have a new understanding of the characters; I get all of the corporate jokes—nine-to-five living and all that.

It has only been one day but so much has happened already. A new phase of my life is beginning. I feel it all around me, like those magical childhood moments when you just knew the slowly heating popcorn was about to start popping madly.

Rather than go right to sleep—I’m too excited for this—I have a revelation. I decide to input the relevant information from the pile of press releases on my floor into my computer, and then I throw the actual papers in a garbage bag. I’d been inputting lots of corporate information into databases at work all day, and I don't see why the same system wouldn't work here. It gets rid of the mess, that's for sure. I don't finish the whole pile, but I take a substantial bite from it, and then drag the huge bag down to the basement to recycle. On the way back up I press seven rather than five and visit with Chris before turning in.

"How's my little Mary Tyler Moore?" he asks, taking in my outfit. I’m still wearing the (second pair of) croc heels and he stares at them, asking, "Choos?"

"Yes," I say, almost ashamed, as I’m so used to being broke and questioned about indulgent purchases that seem to wind up in my possession anyway. But then I remember I’m actually making money—good money—now.

Unlike the freelance gigs, where you have to call and call and put all of your pride aside, make your personal life public (“I have to pay my rent, I need to eat, I blew all my money like a complete moron on this wool Mayle dress with the most adorable antique lace because the forgotten feel of actual cash in my hands brought on such insanity I couldn't think straight, etc.”) just so they can act as if they’re really doing you a huge favor by promising to mail a check that's already five months late. It’s a nice change to know at the end of two weeks a check for a set amount of money is on the way and will continue to be on the way—for a little while, anyhow.

Chris knows all of this and so, like the mom you wished for your whole life, he smiles, and says, "Well, I guess you've earned them now, haven't you, you little corporate diva?"

It feels funny to switch gears with someone from the other world—the fashion one, rather than the corporate one—which is funny, since it’s been my world for so long. There is such a different M.O.: the words, the manner of speech. In the fashion language, "divine," "genius, and "bisoux" are required vocabulary. And don't get me started on the double kisses. I can never remember a second one is on the way and run a high rate of accidental kisses on the lips when people swing around to plant the bonus no-actual-contact kiss on the opposite cheek.

I had become desensitized to the Planet Double Bisoux after so many years of being smack in the middle, or rather, trying to get smack in the middle of it.

But now the difference is striking. Still, Chris, despite walking the walk (hand out. palm down; thin up. lids down), and talking the talk ("That sportif collection by Dolce was brilliant"), is the sweetest man alive. He can play the role when necessary, but it’s apparent his heart’s not in it, which is why I love him.

"I know this sounds crazy, but you seem like an entirely different woman. At the risk of sounding like Sheryl Crow, I really think this change has done you good. Twirl for me darling, you must twirl."

The champagne, as little as I drank, still holds its grip (probably because for the first time in a while, food without a coating of fat has made up my entire daily intake), and so, it doesn't take much coaxing for me to swivel my hips as I make my rotation and move on to an unprompted catwalk jaunt across the room.

Later, as I curl up in bed, after tackling two hundred sit-ups I might add, I’m happier than I’ve been in months. I’m delighted Chris noticed a change because I was beginning to think I was crazy to feel so different in just one day. At first, I thought the happiness factor was on account of the barrage of men and the possibility that any of them could be The One (for both professional and personal reasons), but, when I consider everything, it dawns on me what the biggest change has been.

After hundreds of rejections I am actually being praised.: It’s refreshing for once not to have dragged myself out of bed to spend hours coming up with never-to-be-used article ideas; running off copies of my published articles from magazines nobody's ever heard of, hoping I would magically come upon one I'd written for Vogue or Elle; composing pitch letters (this time funny, this time serious, this time mentioning a cousin's friend's sister's ex-boyfriend the editor had once met at a cocktail party) to make myself look bigger and better than my roundup of experience allows me to, only to be appeased with "Yes, we've received your packet. We'll call if we need anything Thank you."—non-answers I have to hound down with any number of humiliating phone calls.

And. it's not just the Cosmo article. It's Tom and Chris, and even the Post. And I know it sounds funny, but even the fact that I’m good at typing up notes, organizing files (who knew?), and answering the telephone in a pleasing manner feels great when somebody recognizes it.

When the word "no" becomes so familiar to you, though you become numb, it takes a toll. All that energy and pride you have when you first start out, that gets peeled away because you get used to the negativity and the sense of failure. And maybe, after years of dealing with such acidic stuff, you come to enjoy the expectation of rejection, even if it's just for the I-knew-it value. Petty conversations with peers in the same boat, complaining about so-and-so who got an assignment at a big magazine just because she was friends with the editor ("I mean, did you see that intro? And was this even edited?") become so enjoyable that entire friendships are built around them. You can spend a whole day lying in a pile of the terrible-but-connected writer's published articles, discussing her unacceptable abuse of commas, counting each and every infraction as if it will somehow get you closer to your goal.

But that's a bad place to be—and it hadn't even occurred to me before. Despite the fact that I feel in my bones that I do have talent (which has been difficult to continue telling myself), I have allowed all those no's to peel away at me until almost nothing was left. Sometimes, I wake in the middle of the night, positive I will no longer be able to string a sentence together. I'll sit on the side of my tub for hours paralyzed with fear that I won't even be capable of writing the story I've just pitched, should they—by some miracle—decide to assign it to me.

As if that's not scary enough, the negativity spills over into everything I do. I never believe a date will or a party will be enjoyable—it's always a shock when something is.

Go figure: all that from a mini bottle of warm champagne, a bunch of flowers, and a pat on the back.