than just a little cynical about love.
2. Angie was dating some religious-nut movie guy named Thad, and now wanted to turn her light on, or whatever.
3. Nicola was obviously perfect in every way, which might eventually become a little irritating to those of us who were actual humans.
4. Martin was gay, wanted to quit smoking, and was some kind of knitting prodigy.
And of course, they knew that I had a number of self-esteem issues stemming from committing four years of my life to my supposed soul mate who, it turned out, really just wanted to “hang out” with me indefinitely. Was it me, or was this all a bit of information overload? Weren’t friends supposed to grow to love one another, warts and all, not meet once and say: Nice to meet you. What do you think of my warts?
I’d still enjoyed the evening; it was just a little less uplifting than our initial get-together. I had to admit, most of that was due to the fact that my fun single girlfriend, Angie, was now smitten with Thad, the Kabbalah boy. But in a way, it was comforting to know that I was ensconced in a group of kind but flawed individuals, just like me. Everyone had their own problems, and hopefully, we’d be able to support each other through our weekly meetings. Besides, next week we were going to start a real knitting project. I planned to make a scarf for my mom’s May birthday—or for my sister-in-law’s in July, depending on how long it took.
But now, I had my work to focus on. Seattle Scene had arranged for me to interview a noted architect named Jim Davidson whose passion was green architecture. (A quick Google search explained that green architecture was an environmentally friendly approach to building, occupying, and using buildings.) We were to meet at a swanky hotel bar downtown, and I was even allowed to expense our cocktails. I really did have a pretty good job.
Since it was only 4:30 in the afternoon, I easily found a table in the modern Asian-inspired lounge. While the decor was impressive, the low bench seating and table did pose some problems. For one, I had worn a stylish short skirt, assuming that my legs would be safely tucked away under a standard height table. In my current position, I would have to keep my knees clamped together and twisted off to the side, to keep from providing Jim Davidson with a more in-depth view of his interviewer than he’d bargained for. The short-legged table also made jotting notes in my notebook difficult. Leaning over at such an angle would give my subject an excellent view of my breasts spilling out of my V-neck top. I was going to have to conduct the interview with my notepad balanced on my awkwardly twisted lap. God, this was ridiculous. I was dressed relatively conservatively and yet I was forced to sit like some sort of contortionist for fear of giving the green architect a peep show. This bar must have been designed with call girls in mind.
Somehow, I knew him right away. He was wearing a suit, no tie, and had a lean, tanned outdoorsy look. There was an air of distinguished confidence about him, that unmistakable quality that says “I’m at the top of my field.” Jim Davidson appeared to be in his mid-forties, with silvering hair and stylish wire-rimmed glasses. He scanned the dimly lit room until his eyes rested on me, sitting with my knees clasped tightly together, back rigid to keep my boobs in my shirt. Professionalism dictated that I rise and greet him, but I wasn’t certain I could get up off this bench without flashing at least some of my private parts. I gave him a little wave.
He strode over. “Are you Beth from Seattle Scene ?”
“That’s me,” I said, still seated. “You must be Jim Davidson.” I stuck my hand up in the air and he shook it.
“Nice to meet you, Beth.” He took a seat across from me, looking relaxed and comfortable despite the low-slung banquette. If only I had worn pants.
“You, too,” I said. “Can I get you a drink before we get
2. Angie was dating some religious-nut movie guy named Thad, and now wanted to turn her light on, or whatever.
3. Nicola was obviously perfect in every way, which might eventually become a little irritating to those of us who were actual humans.
4. Martin was gay, wanted to quit smoking, and was some kind of knitting prodigy.
And of course, they knew that I had a number of self-esteem issues stemming from committing four years of my life to my supposed soul mate who, it turned out, really just wanted to “hang out” with me indefinitely. Was it me, or was this all a bit of information overload? Weren’t friends supposed to grow to love one another, warts and all, not meet once and say: Nice to meet you. What do you think of my warts?
I’d still enjoyed the evening; it was just a little less uplifting than our initial get-together. I had to admit, most of that was due to the fact that my fun single girlfriend, Angie, was now smitten with Thad, the Kabbalah boy. But in a way, it was comforting to know that I was ensconced in a group of kind but flawed individuals, just like me. Everyone had their own problems, and hopefully, we’d be able to support each other through our weekly meetings. Besides, next week we were going to start a real knitting project. I planned to make a scarf for my mom’s May birthday—or for my sister-in-law’s in July, depending on how long it took.
But now, I had my work to focus on. Seattle Scene had arranged for me to interview a noted architect named Jim Davidson whose passion was green architecture. (A quick Google search explained that green architecture was an environmentally friendly approach to building, occupying, and using buildings.) We were to meet at a swanky hotel bar downtown, and I was even allowed to expense our cocktails. I really did have a pretty good job.
Since it was only 4:30 in the afternoon, I easily found a table in the modern Asian-inspired lounge. While the decor was impressive, the low bench seating and table did pose some problems. For one, I had worn a stylish short skirt, assuming that my legs would be safely tucked away under a standard height table. In my current position, I would have to keep my knees clamped together and twisted off to the side, to keep from providing Jim Davidson with a more in-depth view of his interviewer than he’d bargained for. The short-legged table also made jotting notes in my notebook difficult. Leaning over at such an angle would give my subject an excellent view of my breasts spilling out of my V-neck top. I was going to have to conduct the interview with my notepad balanced on my awkwardly twisted lap. God, this was ridiculous. I was dressed relatively conservatively and yet I was forced to sit like some sort of contortionist for fear of giving the green architect a peep show. This bar must have been designed with call girls in mind.
Somehow, I knew him right away. He was wearing a suit, no tie, and had a lean, tanned outdoorsy look. There was an air of distinguished confidence about him, that unmistakable quality that says “I’m at the top of my field.” Jim Davidson appeared to be in his mid-forties, with silvering hair and stylish wire-rimmed glasses. He scanned the dimly lit room until his eyes rested on me, sitting with my knees clasped tightly together, back rigid to keep my boobs in my shirt. Professionalism dictated that I rise and greet him, but I wasn’t certain I could get up off this bench without flashing at least some of my private parts. I gave him a little wave.
He strode over. “Are you Beth from Seattle Scene ?”
“That’s me,” I said, still seated. “You must be Jim Davidson.” I stuck my hand up in the air and he shook it.
“Nice to meet you, Beth.” He took a seat across from me, looking relaxed and comfortable despite the low-slung banquette. If only I had worn pants.
“You, too,” I said. “Can I get you a drink before we get
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