I have a crush on someone. Alright, it’s not just someone, it’s my boss. How very Bridget Jones of me, right?
But I can’t help it. He’s there, working twenty feet away from me in his office while I sit in my cubicle pretending to make sales calls (I hate sales), nervously drumming my fingernails while his supermodel-like lithe girlfriend walks straight into his office. She doesn’t even stop by reception. No one is allowed to just walk in his office, including his previous supermodel-like girlfriends. But this one is different. He’s told us over lunch. She’s the One.
So not only am I crushing on my boss, but I’m crushing on someone else’s boyfriend. I am an all-around classy woman.
Except that I am an all-around classy woman. I wear yellow pencil skirts with blue tights and black heels and pull it off. I wear just enough makeup to make it look like I’m not wearing any makeup. I straighten my long black hair because curls are unprofessional (or so my coworker Sandy told me a few months ago). I graduated summa cum laude from my university. I don’t date other people’s boyfriends. Also, I don’t date.
I mean, of course I date. I have an OKCupid profile and I’ve met with some of those guys for coffees and whatever. But no one ever clicks. I can’t remember the last time I went on a second date with one of those guys. It might be because I’m hung up on my boss.
But it’s because he’s unreasonably wonderful, supermodel girlfriends aside. He’s been working at this company for twelve years, and he went from being the receptionist (he’s so beautiful that the office broke the sexist rule that only pretty girls should sit at the front desk), to a sales rep, to our boss. He wears these blue button down shirts that match his eyes, and steely grey ties. He’s got this thick dark brown hair and sometimes he doesn’t shave and walks into the office with a little bit of stubble and I swear every single woman he walks past sort of groans. He’s tall and thin but not too thin. He’s kind of, sort of, perfect.
But it’s not just his looks. He totally gives me pep talks when I’ve been on the phone for too long trying to get sales contracts. He knows when I need them because I take a bottle of Pepto out of my desk drawer to swill. He hands me tissues and doesn’t look at me all pathetic when my eyes are watery and my mascara is running. He saved my job when I didn’t get any new contracts in my first two months, and now I’m one of the top sales reps. All because of him.
He takes all of us out to lunch individually on his own dime. He’s really wonderful. Plus, he’s really nice and funny and…oh god, I’m like one of those desperate women who blather on about a guy she can never, ever have. For SO MANY REASONS. What is wrong with me?
I figure if I write about it, maybe I’ll get over him and go on some real dates and maybe have a shot at a love life, instead of being the Woman With The Pets And The Cardigans. Because that’s who I am now. My friend suggested writing it out would be therapeutic and would also help me see how crazy I’m being. She thinks I’m totally crazy. But I’m not. I’m just in love and need a detox.
This is going to work, right? It has to work.