The Whitney Chronicles

blame•storm•ing: My officemates sitting in the coffee room discussing what’s going on in the office and whose fault it is.

Day two of diet. Felt as though small animals were clawing at my insides. Two slices of dry toast and an apple helped somewhat. Must make a note to myself never to drink coffee on an empty stomach again. Good thing I had Bible study after work. It’s something to look forward to while Harry has a nervous breakdown. The trouble is, he’s a carrier, the Typhoid Mary of insanity. When he’s cracking, it spreads through the office like wildfire.

The office manager, Betty Nobel, has worked at Innova since its inception seven years ago. She’s practically attached to Harry at the hip, and whatever he feels, she feels. That must be like riding a broken roller coaster in the carnival fun house in the dark after eating junk food all day. Wretched.

The amazing part is that she’s often more unreasonable than Harry. Betty’s the one who came up with the latest guidelines for employee absences. As far as Kim and I can figure out, we’re not allowed to go to any family member’s funeral except our own, and that, of course, with several weeks’ notice so Betty and Harry can hire a replacement and we can train them ourselves. My assistant, Bryan Kellund, once brought in an emergency-room bill to prove he’d really been ill. Betty didn’t buy that either. She said if he’d gotten as far as the hospital, the office was only a couple more blocks away, and if he’d really cared about his work…

Just thinking about office politics made me want to eat my lunch early—a nice tuna salad with low-fat mayo on endive and bibb lettuce. Also some insignificant hard candies and a few M&M’s I discovered under the tissue box in my top drawer. Must work on problematic issue of depending on food to comfort me—tomorrow.

Fortunately my friend and co-worker in marketing is always calm. When things get hairy (because of Harry?), Kim does the deep-breathing technique she learned in Lamaze class before she delivered her baby last year. We’re usually hyperventilating by the time Harry’s crisis is over.

Example: I turned in the cost estimates for new marketing materials that Harry had asked to see. I was hoping to have it ready for our next show, which would be in Lost Wages…er, Las Vegas. It even surprised me a little. I’d expected double the estimate on our old booth, but apparently paper, cardboard and pressed-wood prices are volatile, and it was nearly triple the original bid. When Harry came to me with that irate grizzly-bear expression on his face, cracking his (hairy!) knuckles, I knew I had a problem. Actually, knuckle cracking is just that—a bubble of gas bursting. And Harry was a whole bunch of gas about to blow up. Nasty.

I managed to circumvent the problem for the moment, but I was about to explode by the time he returned to his own office. Fortunately, I discovered the rest of my M&M’s—a two-pound bag, wedged at the back of my office drawer. Devouring it took the edge off my nerves.

Bryan has the best crisis-management solution. He simply leaves for the rest room at the first sign of trouble and doesn’t return until it’s over. He either has great hearing or an amazing sixth sense. I’ve also speculated about the seemingly minimal capacity of his bladder. Bryan is allergic to conflict and can smell it coming a mile away. I’m convinced he knows how to dematerialize and turn up again in the spot farthest from the action. He even has an ethereal look about him with his mushroom-colored hair, pale, pasty complexion and enormous gray eyes that never look straight at me.

Mitzi, who has no known use at all in the office as far as Kim and I can figure out, delights in conflict. It stirs up her juices. It also gives her something to do—rile Harry so he’ll explode. Usually when Mitzi opens her mouth, it’s to change feet. Mitzi came to work at Innova to see how the “other half” lives. Her husband is a very wealthy podiatrist. She says he owes it all to strapless high heels. I think flat, sensible Birkenstocks make him a little nervous. Mitzi could stay home and count her glass slippers, but no, she comes in every day—sometimes early—just to torment us.

One of her most evil schemes involves chocolate. Mitzi is the only woman I’ve ever met who doesn’t like chocolate. Therefore, she brings chocolate delicacies to the office at least three times a week just to see Kim and me salivate. Kim’s still trying to get rid of baby weight. I’m trying to prevent having someone ask me when my baby is due.

Today it was éclairs with frosting a half-inch thick. Be still, my heart.

Kim’s one-year-old, Wesley, got a new tooth today, a molar. You’d have thought he’d erupted an oil well in his mouth, the way she carried on. Other than her blow-by-blow reporting of Wesley’s every grin, burp and bowel movement, Kim is a great friend—the best, actually. We have the same rather skewed sense of humor and similar goals—getting a raise, for one. She doesn’t need a husband because she already has one—and a nice Christian one at that. Kurt is an over-the-road semitruck driver/late-in-life student who wants to be either an accountant or a pastor, no matter what it takes. Those two professions don’t seem to have much in common, but I know for sure he’d be a very trustworthy accountant. Right now, between classes and over-the-roaders, he’s fully occupied.

Kim’s also a Christian. That makes all the difference.

Mitzi was lying in wait for me as I left the office. She always does that on Tuesdays, when she knows I leave promptly at five. Otherwise she’s gone so fast that her desk chair is still spinning when we hear the door slam.

“There are sooo many éclairs left that you’ll have to take them home.” She waved the open box holding five fat beauties, chocolate frosting glistening. Like she’d ever offer me anything useful, like help around the office. Oh, no, Mitzi was only generous when it served her depraved purposes, one of which is to make me weigh more than she does.

“Thanks a lot, but I’m on a diet.”

“No wonder there were so many left today. Then take them for your neighbors. You do have neighbors, don’t you?” She smiled sweetly.

“Thankfully, yes. They did not all move away when they discovered I was living nearby.” Sarcasm is wasted on Mitzi, but it made me feel better. What on earth goes through that perfectly groomed brunette head of hers?

“Well, I’m sure they’ll love these.” Somehow she managed to transport the box into my hands, pick up her purse and escape before I could argue. At least I’d have goodies to share at Bible study.

As so often happens on the freeway, the drive to the church brought up the subject of Christian ethics. I’m a Christian. What does that mean in my everyday life? If I believe it, I have to live it. Every choice I make, every word I speak, needs to be done through that filter of faith. So here’s my question. What is it with rude drivers?

As I left the parking lot, a woman shot up behind me and stuck the nose of her SUV into my back bumper. Even though the street was practically empty, she followed me as closely as she could without driving into my trunk.

I’m a fanatic about being polite in traffic. It seems to me that’s where most people lose track of walking the Christian walk—or, in this case, driving the Christian drive. I’m no saint, but I usually don’t expose my sinful nature when I’m driving two tons of rolling metal.

Anyway, this woman (definitely not a “lady”) honked at me when I didn’t turn fast enough for her. She had her nose in the air as she sailed around me without even a wave. I had several uncharitable thoughts but guiltily dropped back as if I’d been the one speeding and followed her to…the church parking lot.

Now, what I want to know is this—if you profess to be a Christian, if you want to let God’s light shine through you—where do you get off being rude behind the wheel? Isn’t part of the Christian life about behaving as Christ would behave? Would He have run the light, tailgated until the person ahead of Him was a wreck, honked His horn and broken the speed limit—all to get to Bible study on time?

I don’t think so.

I’m going to buy a bumper sticker I saw last week for my rear bumper: Are You Following Jesus This Closely?

That’s one thing I’ve learned since I found God and He found me. It’s easy to talk Christianity, but not so easy to walk it. Fortunately, I lost track of Ms. Speedy in the church. By the time Bible study was over, I even felt like praying for her. (“Oh, Lord, keep that nutcase off the streets….” Just kidding!!!)

Ironically, I know lots of people who will spend hours at the gym so they can live longer—and then drive thirty miles an hour over the speed limit to make up for all the time they wasted doing it.

Thoughtlessly, I ate one of the éclairs to soothe my nerves.

I had four calls on my answering machine when I got home. Three from my mother—“Whitney, you forgot the dishrags I knitted for you out of scrap yarn.” (Now how did that happen?) “Whitney, do you want me to invite that nice young man from church and his mother over for dinner?” (As if she could even catch him!) And, “Whitney, I don’t know where my mind is these days. I’m so forgetful. Did I tell you that you forgot your dishrags at my house?”

Menopause can be brutal. I know now why women over fifty shouldn’t have babies. They’d lay them down and forget where they put them.

The fourth call was from Eric Van Horne. He’s a very special man in my life. We’ve been friends for years, and I don’t know if a more good-natured man exists. We dated for a while, and I really thought Eric might be the one for me. He’s brilliant, but impulsive and completely undependable. I spent many nights wondering if he had actually asked me out and, if so, where was he? I knew from the outset that no matter whom Eric dated, she’d have to agree to take second place to his love for airplanes. News of an air show in a neighboring state would drive everything else from his mind. He’d jump into his car, sniff the air and head in the direction of jet fuel. And on Monday he’d remember we’d had plans for the weekend.

Ardor fades quickly after sitting by the phone for a few weeks waiting for a call. Actually, we came to the decision together that until either I learned to love madcap spontaneity or he learned to be dependable and predictable, we’d just be friends. So far we’ve managed to navigate the bumpy waters of remaining friends and seeing each other socially.

“Hi, Whit! Sorry I didn’t call sooner. Wanted to tell you about the great air show I attended. You should see my photos!”

“I don’t know if I can stand being dumped for a crop duster again, Eric.”

“What a kidder you are, Whit. I took a picture of a woman and the plane she uses for acrobatics. She reminded me of you.”

“At least you thought of me.” I can’t be too hard on him. Eric is darling, but has what Kim calls “zero mac.” He enjoys life too much to be cool and is way too exuberant to be macho.

Actually, that may be his best quality.

The Bible verse that comes to mind when I think of Eric is Proverbs 18:24: “Some friends may ruin you. But a real friend will be more loyal than a brother.”

Mitzi may be in the first category. Kim and Eric are in the second. While Mitzi spends the day making snide remarks about my age (as if she’ll ever see thirty-five again!), Eric called a second time to apologize for standing me up. He says he just “lost track of time.”

Somehow, I believe him. I’ve known from the start that Eric has the attention span of a flea, a heart of gold and a bloodhound’s nose for airplanes, and I wasn’t going to change him no matter what I did. I’ve never gone into a relationship with that rehab-attitude. I take a guy for what he is, not for what I think he could become.

Eric is actually a much better friend than he is a date. A girl could get old waiting around for a guy like him.

I was too exhausted to cook supper, so I just heated a family-size ready-made lasagna in the oven. It was so big, I figured it would last me for days. Tasty, too. Then I started thinking about work. Ate a little more lasagna. As I put away the pan, I realized I’d eaten quite a little more. Now there’s just one measly portion left for lunch tomorrow.

Tomorrow! I’ll restart my diet, seriously this time. I’ll count calories. To make sure I didn’t forget, I dug out my old calorie counter from previous diets.

I can’t believe a measly portion of lasagna has 230 calories. That would mean the rest of my frozen dinner would have…1840 calories! Feeling a little sick, but driven to find out exactly what kind of havoc I’d wreaked, I did today’s math.

Seven thousand three hundred and sixteen calories?

I have to stay calm. Running screaming into the street would not help. I ran by it again…. I’m on a 1200-calorie-a-day diet; 7316 divided by 1200 equals…six days. That means I can’t eat again until September 21!

Stay calm. Start over. Tomorrow will be a clean slate. I’ll utilize all I’ve learned so that I don’t make those mistakes again. Can rubber bands stretch enough to compensate for today?

My prayers for tonight: For a successful trip to Las Vegas, for my boss and officemates (as undeserving as they may be—just kidding!), Mom’s hot flashes, Dad’s sanity, Eric’s memory and my life as a thirty-something. Where do You want me in this new decade of my life, Lord? And gratitude—for all of the above and for Your Son, Who loved me more than I can ever imagine.