“Well, of course you need a job,” she said. “Have you heard back from DCLOVE yet?”
I shook my head and answered, “Not yet.” Colleen was friendly with one of the founders of DCLOVE and had helped me get the interview there. The website’s mission statement said it was “committed to showcasing the unique personality of our nation’s capital,” and the irony of applying to work at such a place wasn’t lost on me.
“Well, I’m sure you will,” she said. “But in the meantime, let’s figure out who else you should meet. I know someone at National Geographic. That would be a good one. Oh, and I just met someone who works for the Wildlife Fund magazine.”
“The Wildlife Fund magazine?”
“Don’t be a snob. This isn’t New York. You’re not going to find a job like Vanity Fair here. But you’ll find something interesting. What you really need to do at this point is meet as many people as possible to figure out what opportunities are out there. Here, I’m introducing you to this person over e-mail now, okay? You can get lunch and talk.”
Colleen was someone who actually enjoyed networking, was great at meeting random people and connecting them to one another. For all of her talk about New York being the best city, DC really was a better fit for her. She loved knowing the important players, loved knowing gossip about them even more. She was also drawn to anything exclusive—the harder it was to join, the more she wanted to be a part of it. When she first moved, she called to tell me she’d been recruited by a group called the Madison DC. She went on to explain the rules of the group, how the membership was capped at one hundred women, how you had to be between the ages of twenty-one and thirty, unmarried, successful, and pretty. The whole thing sounded like a club that was dreamt up by a group of thirteen-year-old girls, which is what I told her.
When P. J. Clarke’s started a members-only dining room, Colleen had a key card in her possession before most people even knew it existed. At least once a year, she was named to some list, and she’d forward the link to us: DC’s 30 Under 30; Rising Stars of DC; DC’s Young Power Women. She always pretended like these things were random, that they didn’t matter to her, but we all knew better.
I was lost in thought but could feel Colleen staring at me. “What’s going on with you?” she finally asked. “You’re all doom and gloom.”
“No, I’m fine,” I said. “I think I just miss New York.”
“It’s not so bad here, you know. I mean, you have a washer and dryer for Christ’s sake. And it’s not like you were going to live in New York forever.”
“I guess not,” I said.
“And everything will work out,” she said. “You’ll see.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
It was easier to agree with Colleen than try to explain what I really thought. This move to DC had disrupted things. The truth was, I’d liked being married to a lawyer, liked that Matt’s job made sense, that there was a steady future plotted out. It felt like we were ahead of everyone else in the race to become adults. We were married, we owned a home, we were a couple to be envied. I’d always felt so grown up in my life with Matt—at twenty-five, I used to offer to drop off his dry cleaning just so I could say, “Light starch on my husband’s shirts, please.”
And then, he’d joined the campaign and I’d lost my job. We moved to DC and Matt was making less than half what he did before. I was still unemployed, and we were renting a place with a twenty-year-old refrigerator and water marks on the ceiling. All of a sudden, everything felt uncertain.
“You’ll be happier once you find a job,” Colleen said.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said.
She sat back, looking pleased. “Of course I am,” she said.
—
After our nails were done, we walked back to my apartment—carefully, with our hands held in front of us so that we wouldn’t smudge the polish. It was only a couple blocks away, but we were both sweating by the time we got there, thankful for the blast of air-conditioning that hit us as we opened the door.
“How is it so hot out?” I asked. I kicked off my flip-flops.
“This is nothing,” Colleen said, removing her own sandals. “It’s only June. Just wait until August.”
“I can’t believe you haven’t been here yet,” I said. “I’ll give you the grand tour.” We walked barefoot through the apartment, poking our heads into the kitchen, then went up the stairs to the bedroom.