10.23 The Abyss of WonderLand
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.
10.22 The Abyss of WonderLand: Beginning of the Novel
Prelude How do you know your soul mate? Does your heart beat faster? Do your knees quake at the sight of him? Or do you suddenly spin down a hole, like Alice and Wonderland, waving your arms and flexing your legs, screaming at the top of your lungs, NO!!!!!!!? Perhaps, finding your soul mate is all of these. At least for me it was. I worked in Legal Aid, as an assistant for Mr. Sanders. Straight out of San Jose State, in the top 10% of my class and with some law classes under my belt that gave me a leg up on other candidates, I’d felt like life was a silver Porsche, sweeping me off to great adventures, to happiness. My boss was a kindly, elderly man, the ideal employer. Not only had he immediately accepted me as a valuable employee, but he had enveloped me into his unbelievably rich and comfortable life. Childless, he and his wife had large hearts for young neophytes like me. They more or less adopted me, begging me to spend Christmas and Thanksgiving feasts at their home two years in a row. Of course, I wasn’t the only one there. Ed and Judy Sanders were well known for their benevolence, but they made me feel extra special, loved even, a strange emotion to garner from one’s first boss – at least one not interested in the usual extra-marital sort of relationship. Luckily, there had never been any hanky-panky with Ed Sanders, not that I knew of. As well as I could tell, he and his wife were as much in love as a young married couple, still holding hands during cocktail hours, as if they were dating instead of celebrating thirty plus years of connubial bliss. I enjoyed my almost weekly visits with them. I sipped exquisite wines, sampled exotic cheeses, dined on gourmet food, and savored their CD collection of opera. The Sanders spoiled me, and I felt warm and at ease with their friendly banter and the frequent extravagant gifts they showered on me. There were only two drawbacks to the situation, the first being the fact that Judy Sanders’ principal occupation was matchmaking. Each and every dinner she hosted found me sitting with a new and approved bachelor, each of which was bored to death with me and considerably embarrassed at the overt pressure placed on him. Mrs. Sanders needled the men for commitment before they’d even pronounced my name. Needless to say, they ran faster than floodwater. I could endure the awkwardness of that and the men’s subtle putdowns as they brushed me off like I was dandruff that had fallen on their black suits. Indeed, they played their part in front of Mrs. Sanders, earnest to climb Washington’s ladder of success, but there was never any footsie under the table, no requests for my phone number, or offers of lunch the next day. Not that I expected it, of course; I wasn’t much for looks. My long dark-brown hair was straight. I still had bangs at age 24, and I rarely used much make-up. I suppose that all could have been overlooked. I was obviously a favorite of the Sanders, and they were the cream on top the milk of the influential. However, I was also plump, the social faux pas of the fashionably up and coming.