Introduction, Chapters 1, 2, & 3 (totally unedited)

Introduction
They always say you find it when you’re not looking..
What a bunch of horseshit.
Face it, honey, we’re always looking. Yes, sometimes we’re more wrapped up in our jobs or our family or some other outside influence, but let’s be honest here – We. Are. Always. Looking.
At the grocery store, when contemplating the Boar’s Head vs. the Store Brand (seriously, is it WORTH $2 more?) and a cute guy walks by, you KNOW you check out his left hand. You KNOW, if he stops and takes the number at the counter behind you that you’re hoping that your butt looks cute in those jeans and that, God forbid, if he sees your 12 pack of Slim Fast in the cart you’re just going to roll over and die. Within 30 seconds you have already met him, dated him, married him, and lived happily ever after with your 2.5 kids and SUV. Because, my friend, he’s a potential, and that’s what we’re looking for.

They should really teach you these lessons in sixth grade health class when they discuss the birds and the bees and smoking and drugs and adolescence and teach you the correct “When you do (blank) it makes me feel (blank)” messages. How about “When you don’t want to sweep me off my feet and be my prince charming it makes me feel like a forever spinster who may as well invest in a few cats, knitting needles and a rocking chair.?” I mean, what a lesson that would be.

Who knew dating would be this hard?

Chapter One
“Could I see you in my office?” comes a voice from behind, startling me enough that I don’t even have time to swap my E-Online website that I’m discussing with Carrie, my best friend over Instant Messenger, to the excel spreadsheet that I’m supposed to be working on.

“Oh! Yes. Now. Sure!” I stammer, knowing full well I just got caught breaking one of Jane’s golden rules, Thou Shalt Not Surf (the web, that is.) Jane is my boss, by the way, my 40ish pretending to be late 20ish high-pitched bleached blonde slept-her-way-to-the-top boss. What a role model, no?

Anyhoo, I grab the closest notebook-looking item from my always-needing-a-good-cleaning desk and follow her into her (so unfairly distributed) corner office. Granted, it’s about the size of a shoe closet, but it IS a corner, and, damnit, it has a window. Bitch.

Jane sits in her Harman Kardon ergonomically perfect chair, rests her hands on her desk and takes a deep breath. After working here for nearly a year, I know that we’re in for one of her deep sighing, serious expressions, exaggeration of issues talks that I’ve come to expect, say, once a week.

And here we go.

“Abby, Abby, Abby.” Big Sigh. Oh, this is going to be good. “Abby, do you like your job?”

What a question. Do I like my job? Let’s see…I like the paycheck, I like the expense account, I like the frequent flier miles when I travel, I like the (occasional) free lunches, and I like the look of the new intern down the hall. But my job? Um, no.

“Jane!” I exclaim. “What a question. You know I love it.”

“Good. Good.” Jane is known for repeating herself frequently. “The reason I ask is because Kimmie said she heard you complaining about your last project, and I just wanted to make sure you were happy. You ARE a valued employee of this company, you know.”

Note to self: Shut door when talking on the phone.
Note to self, redoux: Plan a publicly embarrassing act of revenge against Kimmie, my barely-22-year-old, cellulite-free, omni-positive quasi-assistant.

“She must have misheard me, Jane. I thought the last project was a great learning experience for me, an exciting opportunity to think outside the box.”

I’m now using one of my Jane-soothing tactics, throwing in as many corporate buzzwords as I can.

“Fabulous. You know that was my intention when I assigned you the story.”

How interviewing different convenience-store owners about their barcode readers is a challenging, exciting opportunity is beyond me, but it gave me something to do between IMing Carrie, overanalyzing my latest pseudo-relationship, and planning my upcoming dinner party.

“Well then, Abby. Back to work. I’m so glad we had this little chat.”

Yeah. Me too. Thrilling.
For the fifth time today, I wonder, ‘Is this all there is?’

Chapter Two
“The Choices We Make” , by Abby Reynolds

Thinking back, I think I always knew I wanted to be a writer. When our school had Book Sales (which honestly, in accordance with my complete dork-dom, were my favorite time of the year), they also sold blank books, which I bought by the dozen. A whole white, unblemished book! Bound, even! Full of possibilities, full of crisp white pages to fill up with my thoughts! Utopia!

Even before then, I always had a journal, though I willingly called it my diary at that time. My first one was orange with a little mouse on it, complete with lock and key. It had "My Diary" emblazoned upon the front, and within I wrote my thoughts, desires, experiences.

Like the time that Laura Turnbury threw the volleyball at me in gym class? I promptly kicked her in the knee, and promptly went home and wrote about it. Naomi Bowles, the girl down the street, annoyed me to no end, though today I can't for the life of me remember why. I talked about my dance classes, my best friend Liz Burgphaller, and later, as I grew, about the ever-so-secret crushes that I had but would never act upon.

Such as the one I had on Nathan Forester in third grade, and when he asked me "to go with him" even after the catastrophic boy-looking feathered-on-both-sides haircut that I got (a result of my Dad taking me to the barber shop, letting me get whatever I wanted done to my hair, me saying I liked it with the sides back and them subsequently mullet-izing me, to my Mother's extreme horror such that she called her hairdresser immediately and the only remedy was to turn me into Tiny Tim crossed with Farrah Fawcett), and yet, despite my secret crush, I said 'no.' I remember his sweet voice asking me 'why?', why I couldn't go with him and me just repeating "I don't know" because my Dad was in the room and I was far too mortified to tell my parents I liked boys just yet. I always wonder what would have happened if I had said yes since he was (probably still is) absolutely darling. Oh well, the choices we make...

I was always writing, knew it was my strong suit, and loved to not only write but read aloud what I had written as well. My 7th grade English teacher, Mr. Werner, is to whom I often attribute my zeal for the written word, but it wasn't until High School that I realized how much I loved to speak in front of people. Perhaps it was those many, many student council elections that I subsequently lost, perhaps it was the only child in me, but I loved it. I'm shocked that I never pursued acting past those few classes I had at the Beck Center when in elementary school, but again...the choices we make.

When looking for a college, the naïveté in me combined with the inflated opinion of myself caused me to 'pooh-pooh' any schools in Ohio; the only school I applied to was Ohio University and decided against it, despite my scholarship, because it didn't have a good enough Pre-Med program. You see, I was beginning to stray.

Along with writing, I also found a natural talent for the sciences, which is the analytical side in me acting up. Whether it was all of those logic puzzles we did on a daily basis in the Gifted Program (the same program that embarrassed me to no end, being that it isolated me from most of my classmates -- kids never want to be too dumb or too smart or even be anything but normal, you know), or an inherent fascination with Tweedle Bug colonies when younger, I found myself deciding that the career of a doctor would be the perfect one for me.

So I applied to top-notch schools, went to Carolina, and balanced my Biology/Genetics degree with as many journalism classes as I could take. Oh, the choices we make.

On graduation day, I decided I didn't want to go to Med school. Coming to the realization that you don't HAVE to do everything you are able to was a huge realization for me. I always felt bound to science, obligated to follow that path, since not doing so would be, in essence, denying a gift. Yet I don't know of a day since that I have felt that free, felt that confident in my decision, and being elated in the fact that, for me, the matter was final.

Since then, I've gone to Grad school, left Grad school, lived in three cities, seven houses, and now, five jobs and three cats later, I wonder about the choices I've made. I've turned down offers to work for magazines in NYC, due to the unlivable salaries. I've accepted jobs with the promises of writing, only to find my only writing projects to be formal letters of complaint. And despite all I've accomplished, despite knowing how far I've come, I still feel - still know - that something is missing.

My Mom tells me to have "An Attitude of Gratitude." I tell her to stop watching Oprah so much. (She claims it's not as good this year since everyone is "Living their Best Lives." I tell her again to stop watching Oprah so much.) But it makes me think - am I living MY best life? Am I doing what I should be, living where I should be, working where I should be? I feel like a broken record, constantly questioning this decision or that decision and always looking for more, wondering if there's something inherently wrong with me that I feel this nagging yearning that seriously, I'm holding something back. And that I am being HELD back.

By these choices I make.

Chapter Three
I somehow made it through the day, chatting with Carrie about the best way to get back at the ever-precocious Kimmie, surfing the web for items to add to my Birthday list, walking to the kitchen to get a snack, only to decide against it (Birthday diet, you see), and hitting “Send/Receive” in Outlook every 15 seconds, mentally willing Kyle to email me. (Incidentally, he didn’t. Thus the pseudo-boyfriend status.) By 6pm, I was more than ready to head home.

Here begins my daily ritual, telling myself that I WILL go to the gym this evening, that I already have my clothes packed in the trunk, that the gym won’t be too busy, that I could read “Entertainment Weekly” while I used the elliptical machine, that I’ll be so glad that I went. And somehow, without fail, my car magically turns towards the highway, towards the stop-and-go traffic, towards my home and my comfy cashmere pj pants (a STEAL at $49!) and my couch. And we wonder why I’m getting flabby arms.

Tomorrow, I tell myself. I really WILL go tomorrow.

Basically, as much as I complain about it, I actually have a pretty good life. I love my friends – as an only child, they’re my family. I own a house – ok, a townhouse – which is always in need of a good dusting, vacuuming & swiffering and a main reason why my bank account is continually overdrafted. And the job? Well, let’s just say I don’t hate it (on most days), but I know that I won’t be able to write 50-word snippets on trash compactors, laparoscopic hysterectomies, and the plight of the barcoding industry for much longer.

I work for a small, monthly magazine here in Atlanta, acting as a writer, editor, sometimes-salesperson, lackey, peon, and underling. (When there’s only 15 people in your office, you do a bit of everything.) We cover just about everything that Jane believes is local interest, and though we all know she misses the New York lifestyle from which she was transferred, we also know that she’s just paying her dues until the next promotion that will send her back. “Get some Managing Editor experience – just a year or two – and that Fashion Editor job will be yours.” Trust us, we’re counting the days.

Yet despite the mundane assignments, the 5:30am phone calls from Jane asking me to pick up bagels for the office, the fact that I think Kimmie makes close to my pittance of a salary, I stay. The writing industry isn’t that robust in the South, so we endure the locality and miniscule salaries and duller-than-dull articles because, well, this is home.

We all have our exit plans – to quote my new favorite singer, Colin Hay, “I’m waiting for my real life to begin.” Kimmie wants to do fashion styling for magazine photo shoots. Another co-worker, Tony (the sole male in the office, though he’s basically just one of the girls), wants to work on Wall Street and write about stocks, a subject far removed from my knowledge base. And me? My only solace is my website, where I can write the articles I want to write and be the writer I want to be.