Christmas with the family seemed a distant memory now, as early January brought with it a grudging return to the office life. My office life meant planning and analyzing print advertising, for a big-box Canadian retail store. Whenever I repeated that sentence to friends, their faces would glow and they would nod in approval. “Your job sounds really interesting!” they’d say. Maybe it’s because a sentence on its own couldn’t capture the extent of the boredom.

I stared at my log-in screen, half asleep from the absence of a latte (which was a no-no beverage on my weight-loss plan), and half stupid because I couldn’t remember my password. I knew it started with an uppercase and ended with a number for extra security, but beyond those details I was clueless.

A few more seconds passed before I noticed the silver picture frame on my desk, with my cat’s precious face staring back.

Suddenly the password returned: Kittylover27.

I typed it in with ease until I stumbled on an awkward thought: my password is Kittylover27.

The twenty-seven-year-old cat-obsessed single girl?

I immediately changed it to Manlover27, with just the tiniest feeling that my life was about to change.

“Hey Romer, it’s almost nine-thirty. Are you coming to this meeting or not?”

I was too busy repeating the “Manlover” mantra in my head to produce a response.

“Maybe you’re too busy picturing David Beckham naked.”

That’s usually true.

I rolled my eyes at Todd, the lanky blond in the navy sweater. As Advertising Planning Manager, Todd held the title “boss” but rarely ever put it to the test. Instead he would just make fun of himself. Or us minions. Or the world. I was more than happy with this strange variation of a boss. Anything to help the time go by.

“Yeah I’m coming,” I said, as I rummaged under piles of paper for my favourite pen. “And YOU’RE the one obsessed with David Beckham! Does your wife even know about your ‘man-crush’ yet?”

“Hell ya she knows. He’s on my top-five list of dudes I’d do.”

I grabbed my favourite pen with the easy-flow ink, smirking to myself as I followed him down the corridor.

My married boss has a list of “dudes he’d do.” Yup, just a typical Monday.

When we entered the boardroom it was buzzing with bland post-holiday talk.

“Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Eat enough turkey?”

“Did your kids like their presents?”

“So how much were you dreading the alarm clock today?”

And blah, blah, blah, and shoot me in the face.

The answers were peppered with laughter. For my part I simply watched in horror.

Is this what it means to be social in the office? To pretend we give a damn about each other’s lives? And if we’re really as tired as we claim, then why not a pre-meeting nap?

I shuffled through the beige-coloured room, passing leather chairs and only stopping when I found one in the back, where I’d hopefully be spared of any human interaction.

Once seated I began a thorough scan of the men. Well I AM on a twelve-month man-quest after all…

Cancelling out Todd who was my boss, married, and sometimes protective like a “work dad,” I started with the one to my right. He was Ron, a guy with an okay personality and an okay bod to match. He was also the guy who should’ve been chewing gum wads of gum. Unfortunately for all, he did not like gum and he did not like mints. But he did love tuna, coffee, and as of this morning’s breath (ugh), bacon and eggs.

Three other men were over fifty (gross), which only left Mike who was leading the presentation. I’d seen this twenty-something guy around the office before, but mostly in crowded elevators, where we were relegated to sampling each other’s aromas. Despite his pleasant scent, I could tell right now that something was a slight bit off. It was the creepy way he would stare so intensely at nothing. Or was it an imaginary friend? He wasn’t attractive enough to investigate any further.

Since there was nothing in the meeting to look at (and since I don’t know shit about inventory work flow), I used the extra time to look at myself instead.

I started with my hands. I’d never spent a lot of time examining my hands, but today I noticed that my left one was looking a bit ragged. It made sense since I was a lefty, but it didn’t make me any less sad. It was wrinkled, rougher, and a little more damaged by the sun.

Maybe I should moisturize more often.

My right hand however was much more fun to look at and noticeably smoother. I should use this hand when I’m caressing a guy’s face.

I wrote a quick line about my “right hand hotness” in the corner of my notebook, while the meeting carried on at a stifling pace.

“So when you look at the peak of the graph over here, it shows how the inventory might surpass our target. And that would be a problem.”

Yeah, problems suck.

No one said a word for five whole seconds, as Mike stared deeply at the left-hand corner of the room. Or at his imaginary friend. I still wasn’t sure.

Once he resumed my eyes dropped down to my thighs. I was consumed by how they looked so expansive in the seated position. It was such a weird phenomenon, how the skin spread wide like a liquid mass in the polyester casing of my pants. I’m sure this was a disappointing moment in the dating process, to see a girl in her chair for the very first time. Double the thighs, half the fun.

But how would they look if I crossed my legs? It wasn’t something I normally did, but when I tried it out I was astounded! As soon as I lifted one leg on the other, I watched in amazement as the inner thighs kind of, absorbed each other.

What a marvelous re-assignment of body mass!

This was turning out to be a very educational Monday, as I’d already learned that I should show off my “younger” right hand, and that crossing my legs produced the disappearing inner-thigh effect. Feeling rather accomplished, I proceeded to take a “brain nap” with my eyes blankly open, as I often would in any kind of meeting at work.

“Are there any questions?”

My brain stirred awake as Mike stood waiting for a response. His eyes of course were locked on his imaginary friend, who was now sitting by the window.

“Well yes, I have a question,” said an all-too-eager-looking Indian woman. “I had a similar method of inventory management at my previous position, and it’s funny how they both have some common threads. For example...”

Priyanka---the nerdy office version of me---carried on, as I wondered if she even had a question embedded in her five-minute statement.

I cringed and twisted in my seat, so hateful of this girl’s thirst for knowledge. Why would anyone ask a question at two minutes past eleven? We should’ve been out of here by now!

My impatience and complete disinterest made me wonder why I worked in a corporate job to begin with.

Within seconds I remembered how my parents had squashed my archaeology dream, with their common sense and unquestionable authority: “You want to dig in dirt all day and never make any money? No, you’ll be going to business school like your sister.” Since I’d failed to convince them to support a line of work that at least sounded smart, of course I’d never manage to convince them I should chase my dream of writing. But hadn’t I written a parody column for my high school newspaper? Okay…maybe that was nothing, but what about those times my articles were published? On the Internet mind you, but that still counted for something! Or the time I tried to write a novel?

The more I thought about it, the more it wasn’t much at all. Maybe my parents had been right for once.

Four years of business school, four years and counting of “building a career,” and now I take brain naps.

By the time Priyanka had finally shut her trap it was a quarter past eleven.

That’s fifteen minutes of Internet-surfing I just lost. You academic cow.

I returned to my desk and started an important Google search. I was looking for extremely effective workouts, ones that would tone up my body with a minimal amount of effort. I paid particular attention to websites that would promise the butt, thighs and abs of my dreams. By the time I was finished, I had saved enough links to cover almost every major body part. All that was missing was a way to get the wrists of my dreams, and maybe some sexy “dream knees” too.

I e-mailed myself all the links, trying not to focus on the time I’d need to spend on all these workouts. Still I was motivated, as the image of bikini models pranced around my head.

My vision of a brand new body vanished with the sound of high-pitched squealing.

“Finally you’re here!”

It was Eleanor with Amy by her side, my two best friends in the office. We settled ourselves at the table near my desk, with our healthy new year’s lunches now before us. Mine consisted of carrots, non-fat yogurt and an apple. The excitement was palpable.

I turned my gaze to Eleanor, who somehow appeared to be enjoying her little salad.

“Is it good?” I asked.

“Oh it’s awesome,” she said. “I put in strawberries, sliced almonds, spinach and a light vinaigrette!”

Is she on crack? It’s a SALAD.

Eleanor was a few years younger than I, and basically the office hottie. With her long brown hair, striking blue eyes and sexy bod (plus that killer booty), she could round up the guys in impressive numbers. In other words, an excellent candidate for a wingman.

Amy was a few years younger as well. She had a loving boyfriend and a rock-hard body she’d developed from her boxing class. With short dark hair and big brown eyes, her biggest asset was her huge and inviting smile. This was also her biggest flaw, since at any given time some freak-boy in the office would be stalking her with “let’s do coffee” voice mails.

As Amy peeled her orange she shot me a sideways look. “So Romes, tell us EVERYTHING about your holidays.”

Which should I go with first, the public weigh-in or the arranged marriage deadline?

I decided to leave out the “weigh-in” from my update. Maybe years from now I’d reveal it at a drunken pool party (where I’d look so hot in a bikini), but today it made my family seem like freaks. So I explained the rest of the tale and finished with the action plan: “Which means I have to meet an amazing guy this year. Then I have to make him fall in love with me. Then maybe get engaged by the end of the year.” I nodded as my affirmation grew. “Because my parents can’t hook me up if I’m engaged!”

Eleanor poked at her salad, never looking me in the eye. “Engaged? Well I guess that’s a goal. But wait: does this mean you’re actually into guys again?”

I gasped.

“I was never NOT into guys, I just wasn’t looking! And why do you say it like that?” I frowned. “Did someone tell you I’m gay?”

“No one thinks you’re gay! You were just…taking a break. Good for you!” She finished with an awkward smile.

I rolled my eyes. “Look, I know I’m almost twenty-eight and I haven’t had a date in two whole years. Ugh, I shouldn’t be saying that out loud.”

Amy shook her head. “You really shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, I got it. It doesn’t look good if you’re Canadian, or Indian, or alien. I just wanna know how to get back in! Where do you go, where do you meet them? Has dating changed in the last two years?” I sighed. “And you might have to be really detailed here, ‘cause I wasn’t very good at it then.”

Amy answered first, as I eagerly awaited all the wisdom.

“But you don’t just walk into a ‘guy store’ and pick one up. I mean that’s what your parents are trying to do, and you don’t want that! You’ll probably find someone special when you’re not even looking.”

That’s the best she’s got?

Realizing quickly that “relationship girls” were useless in these matters, I turned to Eleanor with a smile. “So what if I AM consciously looking, what should I do?”

She crossed her arms and beamed, enjoying the conversation spotlight. “Well fifty percent of the world is guys. So get out in the world and check ‘em out! You might even have some fun along the way. Just don’t spend every night at home in your fuzzy pajamas with a slab of cake. Fuzzy pajamas and cakes are for girls who’ve given up or for girls who have a cold!”

This young-faced hottie was right. When was the last time I’d visited a trendy bar? Which ones were “in”? Which ones were tainted by cougars on the prowl? I’d need to sap young Eleanor of her knowledge, and maybe even ask her how she’d sculpted out the butt of my dreams.

Eleanor tossed her napkin in the waste bin and gasped. “Why didn’t you take your Christmas box home?”

I sighed. “Do you know…how much…it disappoints me, that our employer gives us THIS as a Christmas gift?” I hauled out the heavy cardboard box from underneath my desk, setting it down on my lap. “I mean look at this; a bag of old fashioned pancake batter, and gourmet chocolate cookies that don’t even appear to be made from real chocolate.” I sneered as I set each item on my desk. “And wait, there’s more! Some ugly-ass wooden tray that weighs ten pounds, a bottle of olive oil, and some cheese spread that was packaged god knows where and when. I bet these are all a bunch of reject products from a warehouse!”

I tossed the items back in the box and shook my head. “Do either of you want it?”

Amy frowned. “Most of that stuff is still sitting in my kitchen. None of the food even tastes good.”

“And THAT’S the appreciation you get for a year of working hard.” I dropped the box with a thud, and used my foot to push it back in its spot. “Let the cockroaches eat it.”

My irritation was replaced with a nervous shiver, when I glanced at the display on my desk phone. A report was due in two hours. Too bad I hadn’t even started.

“Alright ladies, it’s time to break this up.”

Amy raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you keep your lunch to an appropriate hour?”

“Since finding out I’m screwed if I don’t finish this damn report. Same time and place tomorrow?”

“Sure. We can start with lesson one: how to smile at guys in the elevator.” Amy tossed me her patented giant smile as she started to walk away, while Eleanor’s ass followed bouncily behind.

“Whatever!” I shouted after them. “The guys in this office are gross!”

I hope no one heard that.

***

A wrap-up of November-December sales was due by three p.m.

Where to begin?

As an Advertising Analyst, this wrap-up meant a lot of things. Things like: finding out how much dog food we sold, how much toilet paper we sold, how much dish soap we sold, and of course how these numbers fared against my expert predictions. If we didn’t do as well as I’d thought, or as well as we’d done last year, I needed to find a scapegoat. Anyone but me and I’d continue to have a job.

It would take a bit of time for the numbers to appear from the database, which left me with a chance to get things started on the presentation slides.

Not surprisingly I lost my focus, in favour of a stare-down with the far off CN Tower. I wondered how many men there were in Toronto. One and a half million? I wondered how many of them were single. Eight hundred thousand? I wondered how many of the single ones were under forty. Three hundred thousand? I wondered how many of the under-forty ones weren’t freaks, jerks, or extremely unattractive. Eighty-three? And how many of the eighty-three would actually fall in love with me? Two?

Well two wasn’t bad. I only needed one after all.

***

Somehow the clock shifted forward to two p.m. The database had gathered all the numbers by now, while I’d sat here simply staring out the window.

I read through the numbers for a couple of minutes, and discovered that our sales had sucked. Seventy percent of my forecasted sales to be exact. It was not the kind of number that would work on a report card, and it was not the kind of number that would work on big executives. So I would simply explain it away. Somehow...

I searched real hard for the brainwaves that made up my excuses. I came up empty. I spent the next twelve minutes saying “hmm” and twirling my hair. I then stopped to eat a granola bar, which I considered an allowable two-thirty p.m. snack.

Shit, it’s two-thirty. Where are my excuses?!

And then, in a sudden burst of light, the powder-puff knowledge spewed forth and I filled up the slides:

“Our sales took a hit in the final season, due to several external market factors. These included winter storms that affected our weekend sales on five out of nine occasions. With these decreases in traffic and Walmart’s unexpected below-cost killer prices, we were not equipped to meet 100% of our forecast this year.”

I added in the snowstorm excuse when I remembered all the snow I’d been shoveling in November and December. And Walmart was always a bastard with their cost-efficiencies, so that one had to be true as well. Once that was done I referenced some products specifically, so they would know I had actually studied the report.

It felt good to put my writing skills to use, even if the cause was a bullshit one. The added confidence was enough to make me drop in some pie charts. Who doesn’t love pie?

I sent the file to Todd with one minute left.

Phew.

With no more Monday deadlines, my brain switched off and I sunk into office down-time mode. This meant some Hollywood gossip online, my eighties Madonna playlist for a soundtrack, and a key recollection of the things I’d learned today: showcase my younger right hand, cross my legs, and use my friends to help me find a guy...