swirled in my head, coming too fast and from too
many directions for me to actually process them. Aaron had balls—
who knew! I'd just quit my job. Quit it. With no forethought or
planning. Must tell Penelope. Penelope engaged. How would I get
all my stuff home? Could I still charge a car to the company? Could
I collect unemployment? Would I still come to midtown just for the
kebabs? Should I burn all my skirt suits in a ceremonial living-room
bonfire? Millington will be so happy to hit the dog run in the middle
of the day! Middle of the day. I would get to watch The Price Is
Right all the time if I wanted. Why hadn't I thought of this before?
I stared at the screen a while longer, until the gravity of what
had just happened settled in, and then I headed straight to the restroom
to freak out in the relative privacy of a stall. There was laidback
and there was plain fucking stupid, and this was quickly
beginning to resemble the latter. I breathed a few times and tried
uttering—coolly and casually—my new mantra, but whatever came
out sounding like a choked cry as I wondered what the hell I'd
done.
4
"Christ, Bette, it's not like you maimed someone. You quit your
job. Congratulations! Welcome to the wonderful world of adult irresponsibility.
Things don't always go according to plan, you know?"
Simon was trying his best to soothe me while we waited for Will to
get home because he couldn't tell that I was already completely relaxed.
The last time I'd felt this zen, I thought, might have been the
ashram retreat. "It's just kind of eerie, not having any idea what to
do next." It was that same involuntary calm-cum-paralysis.
Though I knew I should be more panicked, the last month had
actually been pretty great. I'd intended to tell everyone about quitting,
but when it came time to actually make the calls, I was overtaken
by an all-consuming combination of ennui, laziness, and
inertia. It's not like I couldn't tell people I quit—it was just a matter
of dialing and announcing—but the effort of explaining my reasons
for leaving (none) and discussing my game plan (nonexistent)
seemed utterly overwhelming each time I picked up the phone. So
instead, in what I'm sure was some sort of psychologically distressed/
avoidance/denial state, I slept until one every day, spent
most of the afternoon alternately watching TV and walking Millington,
shopped for things I didn't need in an obvious effort to fill the
voids in my life, and made a conscious decision to start smoking
again in earnest so I'd have something to do once Conan was over.
It sounds comprehensively depressing, but it had been my best
month in recent memory and might have gone on indefinitely had
Will not called my work number and spoken to my replacement.
Interestingly, I had lost ten pounds without trying. I hadn't ex-
ercised at all save for the treks to hunt and gather my food, but I
felt better than ever, or certainly better than I had working sixteenhour
days. I'd been thin all through college but had packed on the
pounds quite efficiently as soon as I'd started work, having no time
to exercise, choosing instead to down a particularly disgusting
daily diet of kebabs, doughnuts, vending-machine candy bars, and
coffee so sugar-heavy my teeth felt permanently coated. My parents
and friends had politely ignored my weight gain, but I knew I
looked terrible. Annually I'd declare my New Year's resolution of
more dedicated gym-going; it usually lasted a solid four days before
I'd kick my alarm clock and claim the extra hour for sleep.
Only Will repeatedly reminded me that I looked like hell. "But,
darling, don't you remember how scouts would stop you on the
street and ask you to model? That's not happening anymore, is it?"
Or "Bette, honey, you had that no-makeup, fresh-faced, all-natural
girl thing working so well a few years ago—why don't you spend a
little time trying to revisit that?" I heard him and knew