Actually, I liked the way my hair looked. I’d never wanted to be a blonde, and curly hair reminded me of a bowl full of worms. Besides, bangs, although not in favor at the moment, were very useful for hiding and for covering up baggy eyes – the kind you get from staying up late and reading a good novel – something I preferred to dating.
As to the rest of my appearance – the chubby part — show me a man who tastes as good as a box of chocolates. I was sure he didn’t exist. And no exercise was ever equal to a good, hard cry when the heroine finally is swept up by her Mr. Darcy.
I could suffer through Judy Sanders’ matchmaking. It was usually just a single evening here and there with a stilted goodbye handshake, and an I’ll never never hear from Mr. Too Good For Me again. That was fine, but what was making life the most difficult was the fact that I absolutely hated my high prestige job.
Having the best boss in the world still couldn’t make dry paperwork interesting. It was my responsibility to read through accounts that could make one’s heart weep for the injustice of it, but it wasn’t part of my job to seek restitution, only to check that the statistics pointed out the client’s evident need. For months I’d been telling myself that I was helping people, but that didn’t stop my eyes from sagging, my yawns from popping my jaw, or my fingers from reaching out for another chip or chocolate-covered malt ball.
Mr. Sanders constantly praised my work. “You’re the most industrious worker I’ve ever had,” he assured me day after day. I was good at my work, and it was nice to hear it said, but tedium was rubbing the edges off the praise. I wondered how long his former investigator had stuck with it. Had he or she one day pierced the air with a deadly shriek and been carted off to an insane asylum to spend the days counting flies on the wall? Wouldn’t that be less tedious?
Yes, the pay was good. I earned enough to pay for my apartment (with a roommate sharing the rent.) Nothing fancy, but it had clean, white paint which I’d applied, wooden floors that I’d stripped and varnished, and a location that, although not entirely safe at night, was still not too bad – especially since I had no car to leave parked on the faint-lighted street.
My place was just around the corner from the library and two blocks from a used bookstore. That was the best part about it, plus the fact that in between was a bakery; a market that sold fresh goods, candy, and sodas; and an ice cream shop, where they had ninety-three flavors of ice cream, at least, that’s what they’d told me when I asked.
But, life is supposed to be WonderLand when you’re young. And mine wasn’t, and because I couldn’t admit my unhappiness to Mr. Sanders, I continued, munching my way through the days, lost in a fog of endless romance novels.