The Plan (6 page)

8:30 p.m.

*
White Elephants
: Exchanged.

*
Not Being Discussed
: Other pachyderm in the room.

*
Bert
: Team Edward.

*
Canon
: Still not here.

I W
ISH
I D
IDN’T
F
IND
M
YSELF
watching for him every few minutes.

So let us properly assess this situation: I am trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey and just about as relevant at this moment, surrounded by a drunken crowd of people who may or may not even know my name despite having gone to work in the same building with me for upward of fifty-two weeks.

I have relied upon the guidance of a friend, who is well-intentioned but flaky enough to think everything from cup-size to prepositions are interchangeable, and who thinks my rather illicit designs on a man who has never deigned to look directly at me is not only
not
a cause for psychological counseling, but rather a call to arms.

Received a pair of ninety-nine-cent-store Crocs and a back scratcher in the shape of a brown nose. So I have that going for me. My life is complete.

They were from a person in human resources who I don’t think I have ever laid eyes on before. Touché.

I wish I had kept the same frame of mind all night tonight that I had while getting dressed. To come out and have fun with my friends and enjoy myself, not be concerned with some a-hole who would not cross the road to spit on me or my chicken cutlets.

This is ridiculous.

I am ridiculous.

9:15 p.m.

H
E’S
H
ERE
.

Deepest midnight blue suit.

I want to get this accomplished and behind me.

I want to squeeze his behind. Whichever. I’m flexible.

It comes in handy.

He mills around by the large red and white poinsettia arrangement doubling as a present depository.

I inhale. Move into position.

I schedule a much needed self rebuke at eleven.

9:21 p.m.

*
Me
: By the poinsettias, being generally creepy.

A P
ARADE
O
F
F
EELINGS
march through my mind. Dozens of them. So many that I almost expect to spot Robert Preston high-stepping it through here, singing about trombones.

Canon is alone. Solo.

I circle around, a lion to his gazelle. He sips from a highball. Stops. Straightens. Ears perk.

I move closer. Closer.

Into his personal space.

He shifts on one leg. Turns, angles away.

I clear my throat. The glass stops short of his lips. He straightens impossibly more. I catch a whiff of scent I can’t label but need to find and douse my pillowcase in.

He turns to me, one eyebrow lifted infinitesimally.

Here’s where I spot a fatal flaw in my design. I have walked up to him. I have his attention…and what do I do with it?

Say hello? Or shake his hand? Or rip the buttons off his shirt and commence with defiling the flower arrangement?

This is my moment.

The world around us goes on spinning. It’s just Canon and me in the doorway. He looks amazing. (And, I must admit, I look darn decent myself.) He smells amazing. He is amazing…ly annoyed-looking.

So yippee-ki-yay and
carpe diem
, as Clara said while zipping the back of my dress earlier.

Say something that opens up the discussion I have wanted to have for a year. Be eloquent. Be confident. Be a goddess.

“Hi.”

You know those funny moments in movies where things get all uncomfortable and the editors splice in the sound of crickets in the background? Yeah, those are so not funny when they really happen. And this is merely the DJ playing crickets of the “Buddy Holly and the” variety.

Canon pivots back away, handing me his empty glass in the process.

“Johnnie Walker. Neat.”

Flames. Flames out the side of my head.

Not only do I not ring any bells with him after twelve months of working together, apparently, my makeover result is that I now pass for waitstaff at this restaurant.

Rather than the day, I seize any reason to hightail it out of there before I’m motivated to stomp my heel directly onto his big toe.

I walk his glass to the bar.

Place his order, specifying Blue Label because I know that’s his preference. Even though I’d love to see his face if he were delivered an umbrella drink.

Point out the jackhole to whom it should be delivered.

This will not do. This simply will not do.

10:01 p.m.

*
DJ
: Karaoke: “I Will Survive.”

*
Dance Floor
: Barren.

*
Bar
: Drained.

I S
POT
H
IM
A
CROSS
T
HE
W
AY
, being chatted up by the vice presidents of sales and marketing.

Canon appears to barely stifle a yawn. He isn’t paying attention to the VPs in the slightest.

Turnabout is fair play; the VPs’ lines of sight pass over Canon and fixate on the area immediately to the left of him.

To his date.

She is made from the same mold as the other two dates I have witnessed, the ladies who have also rested their hand in the crook of his arm.

Flawless up-do. Ivory column dress. Diamond drop pendant of the Tiffany, not QVC, variety. Makeup job so perfect she looks as though she isn’t wearing any at all. A single beauty mark to highlight, rather than mar, faultless, olive skin.

Teeth so white they could potentially blind oncoming traffic.

My lip snarls up like I’m about to belt out “Rebel Yell.”

If pride cometh before a fall, then I am slip sliding away. I pride myself on being observant, so how did I not take into account how very different “his type” is than what I am?

All the extra effort we put into my appearance this evening has moved me even further away from the real bull’s-eye.

Well, Pooh.

And Tigger, too. I am trashy, flashy, brashy, splashy. And oh so bum bum bummed.

This is not a one-size-fits-all kind of man. Casting a wide net is not the solution.

A precision strike is needed. Pinpoint accuracy.

As I speed home, my eyelashes take flight out the car window.

Day of Employment:
365

11:00 a.m.

S
UNDAY
.

Couch.

Fuzzy blanket.

Remote.

Today is the one year anniversary of my first day at work.

Final paper was submitted two days early. I’m good, but I am not usually that good.

As it is a Sunday, I mark the occasion with a John Hughes movie marathon and eat directly from a jar of Talenti raspberry sorbet until my hand loses all feeling.

When feeling is regained, I dig into the vanilla bean.

5:02 p.m.

H
E
D
IDN’T
N
OTICE.

One whole year.

Not even a blip on his radar.

Not that I find this shocking.

Not in the least.

I have been utterly invisible since I started. I was not really expecting any acknowledgment of my anniversary.

I have now officially crossed that threshold from new hire to old hand with little fanfare. By “little” I mean none. I won’t even stand out in the crowd as a fresh face now.

So I’m changing this. I’m changing me.

His radar will no longer be blipless.

Tomorrow I start over. I don’t expect him to notice me right away. It is a process. I have a plan.

Day of Employment:
366

6:00 a.m.

*
Awake
: Already.

*
Thus Far
: Plan sucks.

*
Clothes
: Laid out night before.

*
Lunch
: Salad. Yay.

I E
AT
S
ALADS
A
LL
T
HE
T
IME
; however, I maintain they are not truly food. They are food’s food.

My feet hit the cold, hardwood floor and I fight the urge to creep back under my duvet. Sleep is my friend.

Not as faithful a friend as cellulite. It is so loyal. Always there.

The treadmill groans right along with me as it whirls to life. It probably thinks I have sold it to someone who will actually utilize it. Maybe it will miss its life as my coatrack.

It’s slow going. I’m walking on an incline. Walking, not running.

It’s slow going, but that is okay. It’s a process. I have a plan.

7:45 a.m.

I H
AVE
N
OW
L
OST
A
N
E
NTIRE
H
OUR
of my life to exercise and a shower. Time better not be the only thing I have lost.

I’m one of the first to arrive at work.

He walks to his office.

He’s wearing the blue suit.

He looks around behind him before he enters. Midway, his gaze floats across me as if I’m not even there.

Invisible.

No blip.

2:18 p.m.

*
PA
: Old Mother Hubbard.

*
Pot Won
: $96 and change.

REBECCA’S S
TRATEGY
T
O
P
LACE
a septuagenarian in the hot seat fizzled out.

I can’t really fault Canon for this one. She had great phone skills, but was technologically challenged. Got cursor and mouse confused. Kept placing the mouse in direct contact with the screen, right on top of the item she needed to click on.

Maybe you had to be there.

Anyway, she’s cleaning out her cupboards and headed back to the Blue Hair Group in time for
Wheel
.

Day of Employment:
367

6:00 a.m.

*
Awake
: Again.

*
Plan
: It still sucks.

*
Lunch
: Salad. Again.

*
Hair
: Flat-ironed into submission.

*
Clothes
: Tan pencil skirt, ivory blouse, flesh-toned stockings, brand-spanking-new taupe suede pumps courtesy of yesterday’s winning bet.

L
AUNCHING
T
HE
N
EXT
P
HASE
O
F
T
HE
P
LAN
, I have shoved my teals, pinks, lavenders, bright blues, and all other colors in the Roy G. Biv spectrum to the back of the closet. Even indigo. I’m considering that a unique blue.