have
never even held an actual newspaper. I dismiss Meredith and send her clip-clopping
down the hall.
My phone buzzes in my desk drawer and I pull out
my cell to see a text from Vanessa, asking if we're still on for brunch. I'm
ashamed to admit, she's been burned by me before. I never intend to blow anyone
off, but sometimes when I'm at work I just get into a zone and lose track of
anything unrelated to my immediate tasks. I check the time and I realize I'd better
get going if I'm going to meet her. I text her back, affirm our plans, do ten
more minutes of work, and then head out the door.
I work about sixty, sometimes nearly seventy,
hours a week. Since I'm available nearly all the time via cell or email, I
could probably go blow off work and ride the Sea Dog at Navy Pier all afternoon
and no one would assume I was doing anything other than working, but I never
take advantage. I just work, and then work some more.
I push through the doors of our favorite breakfast
spot and see Vanessa waving wildly in a booth in the corner. I feel a smile
flush my face, it's hard to pull myself away from my job, but hanging out with
Vanessa is always worth it. She and her husband, Ryan, live a few blocks west
from the apartment she and I shared for three years after we graduated from
college. We don't see each other these days as often as I'd like, but we text
and chat a lot.
"Hey, girl!" Vanessa stands up, hugs me, and then
pats the table urging me to sit down across from her. Since having her kids
she's developed all these mom gestures. The table tap is one of them. I'd point
it out to her, but she'd probably freak out. She's forever fretting about
losing her identity entirely to mommyhood. "I got your favorite, because I figured
you didn't have much time and I didn't want to waste all our brunch time in
line." She winks.
I stare down at the iced tea and egg white breakfast
sandwich and wonder when I became so scheduled and predictable. "Thanks,
Vanessa, you're too good to me." I smile at her, yanking my scarf from my neck
and tossing it on my purse beside me.
"Please," she says in an exaggerated two-syllable
way, "consider it my thank you for being my adult contact today."
I take a bite of my sandwich. "How was your
weekend?"
"Hmm…Well, Saturday morning Ryan and I woke up, stared
deep into each other's eyes, and asked the very profound question, ‘Just how
much do we hate ourselves?"
I giggle. "You drove all the way out to Costco on
the weekend—again?" I shake my head in mock disapproval.
Vanessa shrugs while grinning. "I know. An
important lesson continues to go unlearned. Ryan was sweating by the time we
pulled into the parking lot." She snickers.
I can picture her husband in full-on panic mode
surrounded by mini-vans and SUVs, and I laugh out loud. "I've still never been
in one."
"Good for you. Don't do it. When we left I ran out
into the lot shouting, We made it! We survived!"
"You did?"
Vanessa slams her hand on the table. "No way! Ryan
would've killed me and he was already homicidal by then. I didn't want to push
him over the edge." She sips her coffee. "The kids would've thought that was
funny, though." She smirks.
"How are the girls?"
"Busier than two girls under the age of seven
should be. I swear, all I do is shuttle those two around to and from dance,
music, gymnastics, school, you name it. Were we this busy when we were kids?"
She flips her long, brown curls over her shoulder.
I doubt my mother would've even remembered I'd had
a dance class if she'd ever signed me up for one. Which she didn't." I put my
hand on top of hers. "I think you're supermom, Nessa."
"Ha! Well, maybe if supermom's attire includes
stained t-shirts and jeans that have melted chocolate on them." Vanessa points
down at her lap.
I giggle. "Today?"
"No, this happened yesterday. I went all the way
through the grocery store, pick-up at school and to the library before I
noticed the long streak of chocolate that was decorating my
never even held an actual newspaper. I dismiss Meredith and send her clip-clopping
down the hall.
My phone buzzes in my desk drawer and I pull out
my cell to see a text from Vanessa, asking if we're still on for brunch. I'm
ashamed to admit, she's been burned by me before. I never intend to blow anyone
off, but sometimes when I'm at work I just get into a zone and lose track of
anything unrelated to my immediate tasks. I check the time and I realize I'd better
get going if I'm going to meet her. I text her back, affirm our plans, do ten
more minutes of work, and then head out the door.
I work about sixty, sometimes nearly seventy,
hours a week. Since I'm available nearly all the time via cell or email, I
could probably go blow off work and ride the Sea Dog at Navy Pier all afternoon
and no one would assume I was doing anything other than working, but I never
take advantage. I just work, and then work some more.
I push through the doors of our favorite breakfast
spot and see Vanessa waving wildly in a booth in the corner. I feel a smile
flush my face, it's hard to pull myself away from my job, but hanging out with
Vanessa is always worth it. She and her husband, Ryan, live a few blocks west
from the apartment she and I shared for three years after we graduated from
college. We don't see each other these days as often as I'd like, but we text
and chat a lot.
"Hey, girl!" Vanessa stands up, hugs me, and then
pats the table urging me to sit down across from her. Since having her kids
she's developed all these mom gestures. The table tap is one of them. I'd point
it out to her, but she'd probably freak out. She's forever fretting about
losing her identity entirely to mommyhood. "I got your favorite, because I figured
you didn't have much time and I didn't want to waste all our brunch time in
line." She winks.
I stare down at the iced tea and egg white breakfast
sandwich and wonder when I became so scheduled and predictable. "Thanks,
Vanessa, you're too good to me." I smile at her, yanking my scarf from my neck
and tossing it on my purse beside me.
"Please," she says in an exaggerated two-syllable
way, "consider it my thank you for being my adult contact today."
I take a bite of my sandwich. "How was your
weekend?"
"Hmm…Well, Saturday morning Ryan and I woke up, stared
deep into each other's eyes, and asked the very profound question, ‘Just how
much do we hate ourselves?"
I giggle. "You drove all the way out to Costco on
the weekend—again?" I shake my head in mock disapproval.
Vanessa shrugs while grinning. "I know. An
important lesson continues to go unlearned. Ryan was sweating by the time we
pulled into the parking lot." She snickers.
I can picture her husband in full-on panic mode
surrounded by mini-vans and SUVs, and I laugh out loud. "I've still never been
in one."
"Good for you. Don't do it. When we left I ran out
into the lot shouting, We made it! We survived!"
"You did?"
Vanessa slams her hand on the table. "No way! Ryan
would've killed me and he was already homicidal by then. I didn't want to push
him over the edge." She sips her coffee. "The kids would've thought that was
funny, though." She smirks.
"How are the girls?"
"Busier than two girls under the age of seven
should be. I swear, all I do is shuttle those two around to and from dance,
music, gymnastics, school, you name it. Were we this busy when we were kids?"
She flips her long, brown curls over her shoulder.
I doubt my mother would've even remembered I'd had
a dance class if she'd ever signed me up for one. Which she didn't." I put my
hand on top of hers. "I think you're supermom, Nessa."
"Ha! Well, maybe if supermom's attire includes
stained t-shirts and jeans that have melted chocolate on them." Vanessa points
down at her lap.
I giggle. "Today?"
"No, this happened yesterday. I went all the way
through the grocery store, pick-up at school and to the library before I
noticed the long streak of chocolate that was decorating my
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