like these women—so why try? Why try? I’ll tell you why. Because you won’t keep the best job of your career if you don’t, that’s why. I swear I feel like I’m in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, with the angel bunny on one shoulder exhorting exemplary behavior while the devil bunny on the other shoulder is encouraging me to get my wild on. I finally decide to tell them both to shut up and leave me alone, then flick them each off my shoulders as if there’s a bit of dandruff there. Time for my day of reckoning to begin.
I choose to walk the seven blocks to work: a sure sign that I’m in no hurry to get there. Normally the idea of trudging that far when there are taxis that can get me there quicker just doesn’t even cross my mind. But the sooner I get there, the soon I’m going to have to face the firing squad: colleagues who will be snickering behind my back, with my demotion front and center for me to contemplate. And that conniving double-crosser Barry Newman who will gloat himself into a coma, no doubt, at my very presence. We can only hope, because at least in a coma they’d be forced to replace him with another—better—food critic. Me.
The walk turns out to be downright pleasant. I love springtime in Manhattan—everything seems especially alive and vital. People are practically smiling. There’s a sense of promise in the air.
But then the promise of things to come is squeezed out by the reality of the present: the motion of my ample hips as I walk is shoving my belt right on up beneath my boobs. I don’t know why I even wear a belt—it’s not as if I have loose pants to hold up. It’s only there as a trompe l’oeil of sorts—anything that tricks the eye away from my misshapen self. I’ve become quite skillful at this over the years. I wonder if I’d devoted such time to ensuring that I not have to hide my figure, maybe it would have been time better spent. But it’s such hard time spent. I don’t know that I’ve got it in me.
Today Julio is back to his usual wave and go, no great big greeting. That’s okay. I’m not in the mood for small talk, anyway. As people climb into the elevator I feign a search for some elusive necessity in my purse; the only necessity really is to avoid eye contact. The longer I wait till this dies down, the less I’ll have to confront it.
The elevator door pings on my floor and I look both ways before getting off, hoping to avoid people. Too late.
"Abbie! We’ve missed you! Where’ve you been?" Barry, the dirty dog, accosts me with a disingenuous hug. "Look here, I brought a surprise for you, just in case you showed up this morning!" He holds out the telltale bakery bag. Even the damned bag is white !
A half dozen zucchini-chocolate chip muffins, each one the size of a boxer’s fist, from the Muffin Top. My hands-down favorite muffin shop. For a minute I forget myself and start to reach into the bag to eat one of the things. I’ve got the paper peeled and the muffin so close to my lips I can taste it through the aroma alone. It’s still warm. But then I toss it back into the bag. How could I bite on the bait that easily? Am I that predictable? I’m almost ashamed of myself. Although zucchini muffins aren’t white, and they do have vegetables in them...
I brandish a weak smile, the kind of smile that might arise when you find out your boyfriend just got engaged, to another woman. "Gee, thanks. So thoughtful of you Barry. I think I’ll wait till later."
I spin on my heels the other direction and head toward my office, marching in and turning to close the door. Until I realize that my office is not my office. It’s been commandeered by none other than Barry of the betraying muffins. He has a poster of Corks from Around the World on one wall, and autographed photographs of Kylie Minogue, an Abba tribute band, and the Phantom of the Opera on another wall. Is this guy for real?
I storm into Mortie’s office unannounced. "I lose my prestigious job and I lose
I choose to walk the seven blocks to work: a sure sign that I’m in no hurry to get there. Normally the idea of trudging that far when there are taxis that can get me there quicker just doesn’t even cross my mind. But the sooner I get there, the soon I’m going to have to face the firing squad: colleagues who will be snickering behind my back, with my demotion front and center for me to contemplate. And that conniving double-crosser Barry Newman who will gloat himself into a coma, no doubt, at my very presence. We can only hope, because at least in a coma they’d be forced to replace him with another—better—food critic. Me.
The walk turns out to be downright pleasant. I love springtime in Manhattan—everything seems especially alive and vital. People are practically smiling. There’s a sense of promise in the air.
But then the promise of things to come is squeezed out by the reality of the present: the motion of my ample hips as I walk is shoving my belt right on up beneath my boobs. I don’t know why I even wear a belt—it’s not as if I have loose pants to hold up. It’s only there as a trompe l’oeil of sorts—anything that tricks the eye away from my misshapen self. I’ve become quite skillful at this over the years. I wonder if I’d devoted such time to ensuring that I not have to hide my figure, maybe it would have been time better spent. But it’s such hard time spent. I don’t know that I’ve got it in me.
Today Julio is back to his usual wave and go, no great big greeting. That’s okay. I’m not in the mood for small talk, anyway. As people climb into the elevator I feign a search for some elusive necessity in my purse; the only necessity really is to avoid eye contact. The longer I wait till this dies down, the less I’ll have to confront it.
The elevator door pings on my floor and I look both ways before getting off, hoping to avoid people. Too late.
"Abbie! We’ve missed you! Where’ve you been?" Barry, the dirty dog, accosts me with a disingenuous hug. "Look here, I brought a surprise for you, just in case you showed up this morning!" He holds out the telltale bakery bag. Even the damned bag is white !
A half dozen zucchini-chocolate chip muffins, each one the size of a boxer’s fist, from the Muffin Top. My hands-down favorite muffin shop. For a minute I forget myself and start to reach into the bag to eat one of the things. I’ve got the paper peeled and the muffin so close to my lips I can taste it through the aroma alone. It’s still warm. But then I toss it back into the bag. How could I bite on the bait that easily? Am I that predictable? I’m almost ashamed of myself. Although zucchini muffins aren’t white, and they do have vegetables in them...
I brandish a weak smile, the kind of smile that might arise when you find out your boyfriend just got engaged, to another woman. "Gee, thanks. So thoughtful of you Barry. I think I’ll wait till later."
I spin on my heels the other direction and head toward my office, marching in and turning to close the door. Until I realize that my office is not my office. It’s been commandeered by none other than Barry of the betraying muffins. He has a poster of Corks from Around the World on one wall, and autographed photographs of Kylie Minogue, an Abba tribute band, and the Phantom of the Opera on another wall. Is this guy for real?
I storm into Mortie’s office unannounced. "I lose my prestigious job and I lose
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