Meternity Page 3

  “I’m sure it’s burnout. I’ve got this amazing homeopath I’ve been seeing. It might just be a question of unblocking your gallbladder merid—” Brie starts in as I explain everything that happened.

  “I think she needs more than a homeopath...she needs a baby daddy,” jokes Ford.

  “Well, before that, she needs to start having some sex,” replies Addison.

  “Guys! Stay focused! What am I going to do? I’m going to be fired. And blacklisted and have to move home to my mom’s couch.”

  “Liz, don’t catastrophize. I’m sure there’s a solution,” responds Addison.

  The four of us are silent as we look around, thinking.

  There, sitting to the right of us is a towheaded blonde, talking loudly to her laptop’s phone feature, seeming to be working on her motherhood lifestyle blog. From her flower-child Coachella style, I’m guessing she’s probably from LA. And all of about twenty-five.

  “I mean...it’s fine,” she says, rolling out a succession of whiny calls. “Annie Leibovitz is cool, but you know, we could be doing five of these in a day in LA and getting, like, a major beauty brand to sponsor. Yeah, seriously. Yeah, you know what the trick is? Breast-feeding shots—the followers live for them. Virginal maiden thing. It’s totally faked, though... Oh, wait, sorry, it’s my manager—well, my mom, well, you know—same thing. Ha. Lols. Hi, Mom. Yeah, okay, a shoot in Aspen. Great. When?” Her face changes in a blink. “They aren’t flying out my nanny? Then I don’t wannaaaaa. That means we have to get up at the crack of dawn. Like, 9 a.m.!!!”

  Addison looks lit up. “Wait a second... I think Ms. Coachella could be on to something. Why don’t we fake it? We’re always doing that at shoots. Maybe it could work? At least for a little while.”

  “Hmm. That’s not bad,” says Brie, lighting up at the idea.

  “Do you think she can handle it?” Ford asks, referring to me in third person as if I’m a mental patient.

  “Not helping...” I butt in.

  “Look, Lizzie, I think it’s your only option. You can fake for one month—until June 6—and use your time to line up enough freelance writing gigs to get a running start. And your first bump will be tiny. No one will have to know besides the key players.”

  “Ooh, I’ve got the perfect solution. I’ll ask this guy I’ve been wanting to hook up with to see if he wants to help you create your so-called bump. He’s a stylist at the Naomi Marx Show. Plus, it’ll give me a reason to see him. He’s young, hot, kind of a douche. You know, just my type.” Ford grins.

  “What if I get caught?”

  “You can do it, Lizzie. You’ve been practically breathing babies since you were twenty-two. You know this stuff cold,” says Addison firmly.

  “If I slip up, I’ll be fired.”

  “You’ll be fine!” says Addison. “I’ll happily help you screw with that company. They’re my biggest competitor!”

  “What if word gets back to Paddy Cakes that I’m looking for freelance?”

  “It’s not like travel editors really know parenting ones—they’re like full-fat lattes and Alix—they don’t mix,” says Ford.

  “Listen, Lizzie, you’ve got this,” says Addison confidently. “Quick, what are the first set of tests called and what’s their function?”

  “Standard blood tests—make sure you’re healthy,” I rattle off.

  “When will you know the sex?”

  “Easy, as early as the first blood test. Ten weeks.”

  “What are the first physical signs of pregnancy?”

  “Morning sickness, indigestion, loosening of the pelvis and ligaments—and boobs! Bigger boobs!” I look down at my own size-Cs...the lucky inheritance from my mom’s French-Canadian side, along with absolutely no thigh gap.

  The girls keep quizzing me and the answers leap out of me on their own, rapid-fire, like a baby-knowledge-spewing semi. It’s as if I’ve been waiting my whole life for this day.

  “How much sleep did you get last night?” quizzes Brie, now having fun.

  “Ha, trick question. Not enough.”

  “Who’s the daddy?” riles Ford.

  “Let’s just say immaculate conception for now...”

  “Perfect, since as we know, motherhood is the ultimate way to deify yourself,” says Addison.

  “One more. How many weeks are you right now?”

  “I don’t know?” I freeze. I look down at the app. Since “weeks” start on Mondays, I’m at the tail end of sixteen weeks. Just a little over five months until October 20. My “due date,” I realize with strange solemnity. My eyes sweep around the room, feeling my brain abuzz with activity. The coffee grinder whirring combines with the sounds of clinking wineglasses as the lounge begins to heat up. Everywhere, the sights and sounds of possibility are brewing. Maybe more is out there than I’ve let myself realize. Maybe my friends are right.

  I sit back in my chair and allow the idea of a “meternity leave”—time off for me to really figure out what I want to do with my life—to take hold... Could this be it?

  A long-suppressed vision of myself begins to resurface. I picture trading my monochromatic office formulas for sunny tanks and sarongs and sipping strong Indonesian coffee while finishing up an article for Travel + Leisure from a beach in Bali. Maybe I’ll even be spotted by a handsome importer/exporter, who will knock me up for real...

  A power surge unblocks something inside me that has been bound up for ages. Looking at my friends, I realize they’re right. I have to see this through—it really is my only option. I place my hands on the table firmly.

  “So I’m keeping this baby, is what you’re saying?”

  “Yes.” Addison looks me dead in the eye.

  “Yes.” Brie wraps an arm around my shoulder.

  “Yes,” says Ford, nodding up and down like a puppy dog.

  “Okay, then.” I gulp. “I feel sick.”

  “You’re supposed to,” giggles Brie.

  Meternity, here I come.

  Three

  By 11:15 p.m. we’ve slugged back some vodka sodas, and somehow my friends have managed to convince me to join them at a packed karaoke bar on St. Mark’s Place. Addison begins to make inroads with a table in the back full of fashion bloggers, model bookers and extremely skinny models from Balkan countries while I try to keep Brie away from checking her phone every three minutes.

  At this point, Brie knows not to expect anything besides a friends-with-benefits situation from her forty-four-year-old former ad exec colleague, Baxter. He’s made himself clear about not wanting a “romantic attachment,” as he icily put it one night at Babbo when she mistakenly assumed ample making out might mean he was interested in something romantic. But still she wonders if she’s putting out the wrong “vibe” to the universe if she allows their relationship to continue, since she’s not even sure she’d want him if he actually were into her, as like a potential husband. Ever more ironic is that all she’s been thinking about since turning thirty is finding a PH (potential husband), as she’s started calling every available man with a job.

  After text number six, I give her the stink eye.

  “I sweeaaaar to you, Lizzie. After tonight, it’s plan Secret-4-the-One.”

  “WTF is that?” I respond as Addison goes up for her song.

  “It’s new—something I devised at a recent mastermind session. A combination mix of The Secret, The 4-Hour Work Week and Outliers. Basically I’m going to set an intention for the perfect guy, then outsource my flirting on every available dating app to reach my goal of ten thousand hours. I’ll attain dating mastery while using up all available ‘Love RAM,’ so Baxter can’t even take up a kilobyte.”

  To me it sounds about as exhausting as faking a pregnancy, but she seems enthused so I go with it, smiling and nodding as she takes her tu
rn on the mic. Inside, though, I’m panic-stricken. This feeling must be what all our younger editors talk about, I think, fighting off waves of anxiety so intense it’s as if the room is swaying. All these years, I’d somehow managed to sidestep the Dark Side that so many editors fall into as a means of coping with the pressure: anorexic bouts, Adderall addictions, the occasional bump of coke. I’d never seen the point to all that—or maybe it was my Catholic good-girl upbringing—but now I think I feel what this new kind of terror is all about. I try to fight through it by gulping more of my gasoline-like vodka soda while panning the room we’ve been to countless times.

  Addison grabs the songbook away from me and hands back a microphone. “You’re up, my friend. NO MORE wallowing. I can’t take it.”

  “No, absolutely not. Not tonight.” I shake my head. Karaoke has never been my strong suit—ever since the “You Oughta Know” debacle of ’02, our freshman year of college when every single guy in the room shuffled out, giving me a first impression that sealed my star-crossed romantic fate all throughout college and a lasting new nickname: Ballbuster.

  But then I hear the familiar dance party hit “Hotstepper.” Thankfully it saves me. The ’90s rap rhythm is followed by “Everybody Dance Now.” I turn on my heel, and a very cute, thirtiesish-looking guy makes his way to the stage from right behind us, looking strangely confident. He proceeds to take the mic, and launch into a perfectly punctuated rap, sending us into a round of laughs.

  “He’s good,” says Brie.

  “I know,” I say, impressed.

  “I might have told him my friend was having the worst day of her life, and a little ’90s medley would cheer her up.”

  “Oh, God, you didn’t, Addison.”

  “Someone had to give you a push.” She smirks.

  Next it’s “I’m Too Sexy,” then “Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls.” From the get-go, he’s totally got it, nailing every single low-voiced guy part. Halfway through “Crazy,” he pushes a hand through his light brown wavy hair as he uses the other to do some sort of complex Steven Tyler move. He’s got on those light-wash Gap jeans all the soccer players used to wear in college. He’s so into it and so making fun of himself at the same time, I can’t stop laughing. By the time Chumbawamba’s “I Get Knocked Down” comes on, the entire crowd is cheering him on as he attempts the grand finale—the running man to “Poison.”

  “He’s got balls.” Addison nods approvingly.

  “He’s cute,” says Brie.

  “I think I know him,” I say. “How do I know him?”

  Brie surfaces a sticky sweet lemon drop shot. I down it, thinking to myself, Why not? Clearing my throat, I turn toward the teleprompter, cursing as I see my name. Addison and Brie, those little cheeks, can’t hide their giggles when the traumatically familiar chorus begins to play. As always, every last face in the bar is cringing as I screech out the first few verses. Pretty soon, I’m belting it out, battling my way through the lyrics as if my life depended on it. It feels good. I’m a woman without a box, and I don’t care anymore, damn it.

  “You...you...you oughtta know,” I sing out at full volume, just as the song stops sooner than I expect. My voice fills the void with a shriek, followed by silence. Finally I look up. Addison and Brie fight to contain their giggles. A slow, perfunctory applause emerges from the crowd. I notice Gap Jeans Guy is clapping jokily, too. God. Head down in shame, I beeline off the stage. Needing another drink, I walk over to the bar, red-faced.

  “One vodka soda, splash of cran,” I say to the bartender.

  “That will be sixteen dollars,” he responds. Ouch.

  “I’ll get you a drink,” a weird guy with fluttery eyes says as he reaches for his man purse. “Malibu?”

  “Uh, no thanks,” I say, trying to be polite, searching around in my oversize bag for my wallet. I balance my huge hobo carryall on the edge of the counter to get a better look. Then something heavy inside shifts the center of balance, and all of the contents spill out on the floor.

  “Um, can I help you with that?” It’s Gap Jeans Guy. He’s coming over to the bar. I feel myself growing flustered as we both reach down toward the floor and he hands over my copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

  “That’s not, er, mine, well it is, but I’m not...you know... I work at a baby magazine.” He looks as if he’s biting his lip, trying not to laugh.

  “Wait, are you Liz Buckley? Deputy editor at Paddy Cakes? I thought you looked familiar up there. It’s Ryan—from the Discovery Channel.”

  That’s right, I remember now. He recently turned thirty-seven, which I’d noted when he’d friended me on Facebook. I’d helped handle some details on a Paddy Cakes story they’d brought to air on mega multiples.

  Before I can correct him on my title, the music comes on. “Oh shoot, my next song’s up.” And with that, he gets up on stage, as Pearl Jam’s “Better Man” starts up. I can’t believe how good Ryan is. Well, not exactly perfect, but strong, confident. As I stare at him, I notice his ability to let go. It’s sweet. So different from the zombified Patrick Batemen psychos I’m used to dealing with on Tinder. He’s actually got a beating heart. Once he’s through, he comes back to the bar to join me.

  “My buddies made me get up there on a losing bet. My team, Liverpool, lost today.”

  “Seems like you’ve been practicing,” I tease. It’s his turn to grow red.

  “Hey, I’m thinking of hitting the ramen spot for some takeout on my way home now. Wanna join me? You look like a girl who could use some soup.”

  “Why not,” I say as I laugh to myself. Brie is in the middle of an overemotive power ballad, making me feel like the night will soon be over anyway, and this is only a preamble to a Baxter hookup.

  I signal to Addison that I’m leaving and she waves me off, indicating that she’s got Brie-watch covered. I notice her venture capitalist du jour Brady has also shown up.

  Ryan and I work our way through the crowded street to a spot down the block called Soju Ramen. There’s a line out the door. In front of us, five twentysomething guys in flannels debate the merits of a few ramen shops in Flushing. I secretly love this talk, I think, feeling better. We finally arrive at the head of the line and the server asks us what we want.

  “I’ll take the pork belly, please.”

  “Nice. Make that two, please,” pipes up Ryan. “Five sriracha in mine.”

  “Woah, you like it hot, huh?”

  “You know it.” Ryan readjusts his worn-in baseball cap. “So deputy editor Liz Buckley... Are you going to watch the mega-multiples special next week?”

  “Yes, but I’m not deputy. Alix is.”

  “Aren’t you the one doing all the work on the tie-in?”

  It took tons of my time—but Alix got the credit as always. “Yes, well, you know how it is...”.

  The woman at the counter eyes us, making us realize others are trying to order. Ryan guides me toward the side, gently touching my arm. “Do you live around here?”

  “Uh, no, Upper West Side.”

  “Oh, cool. Uptown, fancy. Only the best for Deputy Editor Liz,” he teases.

  “Ha. Not quite.” I think of the same small, rent-stabilized studio apartment I’ve been living in for the past four years handed down to me from my former editor at Paddy Cakes.

  “Me neither. I’m on First and A.”

  “Party central,” I tease back. It comes easily, like I don’t even have to try.

  “No—I live with my brother—he got a great deal a few years back and it’s close to the bar where I watch the Premier League games.” He looks down at his feet. “Let’s figure out a plan to meet up and discuss some new ideas soon.”

  “Sure,” I say, trying to play it cool. “That would be great.”

  “I, uh, should get your number, just in case,” he says, stran
gely serious all of a sudden.

  I’m not expecting this at all. I give him the same 917 number I’ve had since college.

  “To stay or to go?” calls out the woman at the counter. Ryan looks at me, expectantly. I would like to stay and hear more about his job, his love of British soccer and the exact origins of his Gap jeans, but the weight of today’s events added to the lemon drop and the vodka-cran have sent me crashing and I don’t feel confident about what might come out of my mouth next.

  “Ugh, to go, I guess,” I tell the woman.

  “Make mine to go, too,” Ryan says.

  “That will be twenty-four dollars,” says the woman.

  “Oh, they must have combined our orders—” I start fumbling for cash.

  “That’s okay, I’ve got this,” says Ryan, waving away my attempt.

  “No, I don’t mean to make you feel sorry for me.”

  “I’ve got it,” he pushes. “Anyway, I don’t feel sorry for you, Liz. I know you’re going places. Soup’s on you next time.”

  He grins and takes off down the street.

  I notice my stomach has grown warm feeling and it’s not just the soup.

  Four

  PUSH! :) Notification! Week 17: Think of every pound gained as a sign of a healthy, happy baby. Of course you don’t want to gain too much. So stop and give us 40. Lolz. J.K. Baby Smiles: 15!

  “Aren’t you in desperate need of a makeover?” says Hudson, Ford’s just-a-touch-judgmental friend, as he’s sizing me up through his Mr. Rogers black-rimmed glasses in an empty makeup room at the Naomi Marx Show. At 9 a.m. on Monday morning the dressing room is quiet. None of the other production assistants are in yet, but all around me are racks of jewel-toned dresses, five-inch stilettos, scary-looking hair pieces, and big blown-up posters of Naomi staring back at me, with her signature Cleopatra-like closed-mouth smile.

  “I haven’t had time,” I say in a daze. I need coffee.