“Uh, no. No, my friend doesn’t want to be named.” Because she is a he, that’s why. You can’t put a Mann in a Solo piece. I realize I’m skating the line here. But hell. It was a cute piece. Playing Pretty, Pretty Princess sure beats wallowing in self-pity, and shouldn’t we all, no matter our age, respect our inner princess?
“Okay?” Arial says, backing down. “Just needed to ask? The copyeditors will be on me about that. Oh, and I’ve got good news for you. If theLet’s Talk!segment goes well, my boss says we might have a full-time staff position for you.”
“For me?” Full time. Benefits. Being able to see a medical professional outside of a drugstore quick clinic. “Really?”
I glance down at Larry. This could mean all the good kibble. Forever.
“Yes! They are so excited about you? They’re talking about you being our singles correspondent?”
My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“Just… reporting on the single life? Maybe we could call it ‘Yas, Single Queen’?”
“Oh. Wow.” Being a singles correspondent would mean I’d need to stay single. Maybe forever. I think of Jack. “I’ll think about it?”
“Okay. I’ll try to be in the studio tomorrow? It’s so exciting!” And Arial hangs up.
So, I want to do something good in the world. But what is that? Solo February? Is that even a good thing? Women empowerment, yes, and all those ladies that keep posting comments sure seem fired up. That is a good thing, right? So why do I keep thinking about Jack? Why do I keep thinking that while I can be a great version of myself without him, that I don’t want to be without him?
And then there’s the morning show. Tomorrow.
I should tell Jack I’ll be on. But… I don’t. There never seems to be the right time to bring up the fact that I’ll be on a morning talk show pontificating on why men suck. I fear Jack might take it personally. Or worse, that he’ll vow to watch theshow, and then I’ll feel all self-conscious about talking about the power of being single. So I don’t lie to Jack. I just don’t tell him. Is this bad? Probably.
All I know is that I’ve always wanted to write something important, and I don’t know that thisisimportant, but I do know that I’ve had more readers for this than anything else I’ve ever written. And that has to mean something.
I’d rather just neatly compartmentalize mySolo Februarywork diary and my personal life, and never the twain shall meet. It’s kind of like when I binge on cookie dough ice cream at midnight when I’m trying to diet, handily leaving it off my calorie-counting app. I’m pretty good at putting problematic behaviors in little silos.
Besides, how many people really even watchLet’s Talk!?
Okay, so it’s one million people. One million people watch, give or take a hundred thousand. And the hosts combined have two million followers, so I might be in trouble. I’m staring at “fun facts” on the wall of the greenroom of the local affiliate morning show, the wind howling outside, and the skies filled with snow that threaten a second February blizzard. There’s already three inches of the white stuff on the ground, which I slogged through to get inside the building. The slush is currently melting off the heel of my stiletto boot into a puddle on the floor.
The greenroom is lovely, though not technically green. It’s charcoal gray, with modern-looking furniture and free bagels and cream cheese and a coffee maker offering vanilla and mocha flavors of joe. I sit nervously twisting my purse strap, wonderingwhy I ever agreed to be on television. And what if Jack finds out? Or someone Jack knows?
I should text him. Now. But what would I say? “Oh, funny thing, I’m onLet’s Talk!right now! Why didn’t I mention it before—oh, huh. Funny. I just forgot!”
Crap.
I glance down at my designer black-and-white dress, courtesy of Arial and theSlickcloset. It was one of the only samples that wasn’t a size double zero, but it fits pretty well, I think. And I’m wearing red-soled stiletto boots that probably cost more than my rent. I feel like I’m looking pretty damn awesome. But that’s only because I’m used to wearing worn flannel pajama bottoms and that damn faded Turkey Trot sweatshirt. Plus, whatisthis relentless stabbing across my rib cage? I realize it’s been so long since I’ve worn a bra that I’ve forgotten what torture devices they are.
“Sora?” asks a perky twenty-something wearing a smock and holding makeup brushes.
“Yes?” My voice comes out as a dry croak.
“I’m Gabrielle. I’ll be your makeup artist.” She blinks, hopeful. “Want to come to makeup?”
“Do I ever!” I’m so relieved. My makeup is a disaster. When I tried to glue on my fake eyelashes at 5:30A.M., it became a hot mess real fast. A) I couldn’t get them to adhere properly, and B) when I tried to fix the left one, it dropped into the toilet. Ergo, no fake lashes. I might as well just wear a name tag that reads “I’m a mole person.”
Gabrielle’s a leggy brunette who weighs ninety pounds soaking wet, and as she leads me to a director’s chair in front of a giant mirror lit with the kind of big round bulbs that will showmeallof my clogged pores, I worry that she’s going to tell me I need to exfoliate. With a sandblaster. Instead, she surprises me with a warm smile.
“You know, I’m #GoingSolo, too,” she tells me, powdering my intensely oily forehead with a brush. “You’re, like, my hero.”
“I am?”
I can’t believe Gabrielle and I have anything in common. She’s gorgeous, ten years younger than me, and probably can’t go anywhere without literally fighting off the attention of attractive, rich people.
She nods. “Seriously. I’ve been having so much trouble. My boyfriend…” She rolls her eyes. “Ex-boyfriend now. He opened credit cards in my name. Maxed them out. Ruined my credit.” Gabrielle gently places one false eyelash on my right eye.
“No! That’s terrible.”
