 |
Our writer’s stress about home and work has reached epic proportions; would a handsome (albeit married) distraction named Burt help—or hurt?
| | |
By Sara Susannah Katz
To read the entire series of articles from the beginning, click here.
 n our last installment, our columnist was using the power of positive thinking to power through a stressful weekend. Will her tactic work? What about Burt, the flirting coworker? Read on to see what happens next…
Saturday, 8:10 p.m.
I resist the impulse to sit in a darkened corner of the restaurant and choose instead a banquette facing out onto the room. If I were with other people, a seat facing outward would absolutely be my first choice. I hate having my back to the room. Craig felt the same way, but that’s probably because he enjoyed looking at other women. In my case it’s more of a feng shui thing; it just feels wrong to me.
So here I am now, gazing out onto a room filled with couples and families eating Italian food while I |  | | It’s too late to leave — I’ve already ordered. Now what? |
 |
await the arrival of my eggplant parmesan.
And just as I am starting to relax, I see that the hostess is leading Burt and his wife to a table not far from mine. Burt’s face lights up when he spots me — he’s happy, clearly — but I want to slide under the table. It’s too late to leave — I’ve already ordered. Now what?
I pretend to be busy with my cell phone. I delete old messages. I play Scrabble (a highly unsatisfactory experience on a cell phone, I feel compelled to mention—none of the tactile pleasures associated with feeling the smooth wooden tiles but all the frustration of trying to play a word game on a tiny screen without the benefit of reading glasses).
Every time I look up, Burt is staring at me. First clue that something isn’t kosher: He doesn’t introduce me to his wife. Normally, a person in this situation would stopped at my table for a moment to visit, a time-honored Midwestern custom that has made it impossible for me to indulge my reclusive inclinations. Wherever I go, people want to visit with me.
But not here, not now. Burt doesn’t bring his wife to my table to introduce me. He just sits there stealing glances at me while I pretend to be intensely interested in my cell phone. I should have brought a book.
Unfortunately, I don’t read. I mean, I read for work, of course, and I read the newspaper (online, I guiltily admit, as newspapers all over the country are sadly going out of business). I can’t remember the last time I actually read a novel, though. I don’t have the attention span anymore. Or the time. But right now, a book would have come in very handy.
I catch another glimpse of Burt and notice that he’s wearing dark brown Carhartt pants. I love | | | Is it possible to be dog-tired and wide awake at the same time? | |
Carhartts. They’re sexy in a rugged way. Oh. God. What am I thinking?
Well, I’m thinking that Burt looks really good in those pants and I love his muscular arms. Stop, Sara. Quick. Think of something else. Think of eggplant. Why is it called eggplant? It has nothing to do with eggs. It’s not white like an egg. It doesn’t taste like an egg. It’s way too big to look like an egg. And what’s with all these seeds? Can’t they figure out a way to make a seedless eggplant? They make seedless cucumbers and seedless watermelons, right? Oh no. Burt’s wife is walking toward the restrooms. And now he’s standing up. I think he’s coming over to my table.
I watch as Burt suddenly sits back down, and then I realize that his wife never made it to the restroom. I hear her say, “The line is out the door. I can hold it.” She picks at her ravioli, and he looks at me again. There’s something conspiratorial about his expression. It’s as if he’s trying to telegraph: “Close call.”
Sunday, 6 p.m.
I spent a lot of time Acting As If today. In fact, I found someone to take my dining room table, a graduate student in my soon-to-be-new neighborhood who advertised on Freecycle.
He sounded like a sweet guy in his post, so I emailed him with a rather unusual proposal: Would you consider having my dining room set indefinitely, at least until my daughter has her own apartment? I explained the situation and he wrote back almost immediately to say he’d be glad to do it, and promised to take good care of it. Perfect!
Monday, 1 a.m.
Is it possible to be dog-tired and wide awake at the same time? I think I may be living proof that yes, it is possible. Just as it’s possible to be roasting yet strangely chilled, as I’ve discovered since my hysterectomy.
I can’t sleep. I know that tomorrow my lawyer will be talking to the buyers’ real estate agent. I can’t help but imagine variations on the same disastrous conversation in which the agent says: LIKE IT OR NOT, MY CLIENTS ARE BREAKING THE CONTRACT.
I’m also obsessing about Burt. It’s Monday, and I know I’m going to see him in the hall or the parking lot or cafeteria. Why do I feel like we’ve already started an affair?
Sara Susannah Katz is a writer in the Midwest.
Check back every Monday for the next installment.
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
What’s the best way to de-stress before a blind date? |
|
|
|
30% |
|
Working out |
|
|
|
49% |
|
Playing certain music |
|
|
|
22% |
|
Getting a pep talk from a friend |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|