Slightly Suburban

But I decided to hold off a minute so that I could pull out a compact and put on some of the new lipstick I dashed into Sephora to buy en route from a Client meeting this morning.

Yes, Client meeting. As opposed to client meeting. At Blair Barnett, Client always starts with a capital C. Given that logic, my business cards should read tracey spadolini candell.

Anyway, my timing was off. I took too long with the lipstick. As I was loafing around putting it on and thinking happy TGIF thoughts, Crosby Courts—whose personal theme song should be “Tubular Bells”—stuck her sleek dark haircut into my doorway.

“Hot date?” she asked.

“Yup. With my husband.” Jack—who also works at Blaire Barnett, down in the Media Department—was taking me to see Black and White, that controversial indie drama that caused the big splash at Sundance in January.

Was being the key word here.

No, it didn’t happen.

Yes, we’d already bought the tickets at the big Regal Multiplex off Union Square and had managed to snag dinner reservations afterward at Mesob, the buzzy new Ethiopian place on Lafayette. We were planning to head over to Bleeker for drinks and music after that. Big night out on the town.

But here in the cutthroat world of New York City advertising, personal plans are insignificant. You can be getting married in five minutes and your boss will hang up from an urgent Client phone call, turn to you standing there all white lace and promises, and say, “I hate to tell you this, but…”

Which is exactly what Crosby, copywriter on the Abate Laxatives account and my supervisor since I became junior copywriter last year, said as she watched me slick on a gorgeous layer of raspberry-hued lusciousness. “I hate to tell you this, but…”

What I wouldn’t give to have a dollar for every time I’ve heard that exact phrase from her. If I’d had any idea that this coveted Creative Department position was going to be way more demanding and far less fun than the lowly one I left behind in the stuffy Account Management Department, I wouldn’t have lobbied so hard for a copywriting position in the first place.

So now, three-plus hours after I was supposed to meet Jack for our hot date, he’s presumably enjoying injera, tibs and wat at Mesob with his friend Mitch, who willingly ditched plans with his latest girlfriend to go in my place.

No surprise there. These days, Mitch is a fixture in our lives. Much ado about that later. For now, suffice to say that one of my favorite vintage SNL skits—“The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave”—is now playing itself out almost nightly in my living room, starring Mitch in the title role. And it’s not the least bit amusing in real life.

Anyway, when I spoke to Jack between the movie and the restaurant reservation, he told me to meet him and Mitch downtown for drinks whenever I finish resolving the Client crisis here. I don’t really feel like going now, though—especially with the perennial third wheel on board for the duration of the evening. I’d just as soon head home, take a long, hot shower and fall asleep in front of a good bad movie.

But Jack is counting on me so off I go, this time sans lipstick. The luscious raspberry wore off hours ago, along with that TGIF glow.

Before the elevator, I make a pit stop in the ladies’ room, where I find Lane Washburn, who works in the bullpen, emerging from a stall. She’s just changed out of her size zero business suit, and it drapes about the same from its wire hanger as the sparkly, clingy black size zero cocktail dress does from her protruding collarbones. Really, I mean that in the most loving way.

How do I know she’s a size zero?

Because the last time I checked, Saks wasn’t selling negative sizes. If they were, I’d peg her for a –2.

“Ooh, you’re all fancy! Where are you going, Lane?”

“Out for drinks with my boyfriend.” She leans into the mirror to put on bright red lipstick. “How about you? No plans for tonight?”

“Going out for drinks with my husband,” I return, and see her give me the once-over.

In that? she’s thinking, not in the most loving way.

I am thus obligated to lie, “I was going to run home and change first, but I got hung up on some Client stuff. Now I’m three hours late.”

Instant sympathetic understanding in her big blue eyes. “That stinks. So now you have to go like that?”

Um, I really was always going to go like this. Is it that bad?

I look down at my brown heeled pumps, topaz Ann Taylor pencil skirt that’s rumpled across my thighs, white blouse and the chestnut cashmere cardigan sweater that I used to love because Jack gave it to me for Christmas and said it’s the exact shade of my hair and eyes.

I’m sure I’ll probably love it again when I pull it out of my closet wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic next fall. But by March, I’m always sick of my heavy winter clothes—even cashmere—and anxious to start shedding them for pastel sleeveless silk and cotton pieces. Which is still a long way off.

Anyway, I look fine for drinks with Jack and Mitch.

Still, I open another button on my blouse to make the outfit less prim. Which exposes most of my right boob. Oops.

Buttoning up again, I tell Lane, “That’s the thing about living in the city. It’s not like you can just run home before you go someplace after work.”

“Where do you live?”

“Upper East Side. How about you?”

“East Fifty-fourth at Second Avenue.”

Ah, practically around the corner. If I lived that close, I’d run home to change.

I watch Lane put her lipstick into a black cosmetics bag, then zip that, along with her clothes, into a matching black garment bag hanging on a stall door. Wow, she’s organized.

I guess I could have had the foresight to bring a nice dressy outfit to work, like she did.

However, I was too bleary-eyed and stressed this morning from getting less than five hours’ sleep after being stuck at the office till midnight last night.

You know, since I moved into the Creative Department, my life is not my own. It’s really starting to make me wonder…

Okay, it’s not starting to make me wonder.

It’s continuing to make me wonder:

Is this how I really want to spend my life? (Or at least, the career portion of my life, which lately seems to encompass everything else anyway.)

At which point, I wonder, do I finish wondering and start deciding…and doing?

Something else to wonder: if I did bring makeup and a change of clothes to work, would I have to carry them in a quart-size Ziploc and a Handle-Tie Hefty?

The answer to that, at least, is clear: absolutely. The beautiful matching luggage set Jack and I bought for our Tahitian honeymoon was lost a few months ago by the airline somewhere between New York and Buffalo when we flew up to spend Christmas with my family.

Lane, who probably spent Christmas skiing in Switzerland, tosses her auburn hair. “Well, have fun tonight, Tracey! See you Monday!”

She swings out of the ladies’ room in her fabulous, sexy little number.

The number being 0, you’ll recall. In lieu of –2.

I look at myself in the full-length mirror next to the hand dryer.

I’m usually a 6 or 8, though I’m a 4 at Ann Taylor, which is my favorite place to shop. Did I mention I’m a size 4 there?

If there’s anything I’ve learned these last few years, it’s that everything is relative.