“Man, I kind of wanted to work for a senator or in the White House, but this is turning out great.”
You all go back to the office where the congressman puts on Letterman. Halfway through the show, he removes his tie and dress shirt and then he is only wearing a white undershirt. “Sorry, kids,” he says. “Avert your eyes. It’s damned hot.” You suddenly become glad that Charlie is with you. You have heard that the women staffers have crushes on the congressman, and you would rather avoid that particular cliché.
When you get back to your dorm that night, your roommate, Maria, isn’t there, but that isn’t anything unusual. She sleeps at her girlfriend’s apartment most nights. You wish you had a girlfriend’s apartment to go to. The novelty of dorm life has worn off. You are tired of the cinder block walls and your roommate’s Pulp Fiction poster that will never stick to the wall for more than five days straight. You are tired of shower shoes and communal bathrooms and the dry-erase board on the door that doesn’t quite erase. You are tired of objects going missing and not being entirely sure if they have been stolen or just misplaced. You are tired of the smell of body odor, of sex, of dirt, of football fields, of socks, of weed, of week-old pizzas and ramen, of moldy towels, of bi-semesterly changed sheets. You will die if the guy across the hall plays “Crash into Me” one more time. It’s his hookup song. The worst. All this seems particularly intolerable when you have put in a full day at work.
You aren’t physically tired, though, and you wish you had someone to talk to about everything. You think about calling your mom, but you don’t. It’s late, and there are things she wouldn’t understand.
It’s late.
You check your e-mail on your roommate’s computer. She has left her browser opened to a blog, written by a woman who works in fashion. Lately, everyone has a blog. You read a little. The woman puts up pictures of her outfits, with her head cut off, and rants about her boss and the sexist practices of her industry.
You could do that.
You lie down on your bed and you take out your laptop, and you decide to start a blog.
You decide to make your blog anonymous, because you want to be able to speak candidly about your experiences. You don’t want this blog to affect you later in life. It’s a way to blow off some steam.
You write:
Just Another Congressional Intern here.
First day on the job and I’m already in trouble. Did I steal from the campaign? Did I throw a tantrum in front of a constituent or the congressman? Did I arrange a Watergate-style breakin and then try to cover it up?
No, Imaginary Readers, I BROKE THE DRESS CODE.
Congressional interns have a dress code, and I thought I was following it. But my Big Boobs had other ideas . . .
And I guess this is my point. If a less well-endowed intern had worn the exact same outfit I wore, would she have gotten in trouble? Methinks not. This means there are double standards, based on body types, implied by the congressional intern dress code. This smells rotten to me, Imaginary Readers.
And also, what am I meant to do? I gained twenty-two pounds my first semester at U. Am I supposed to buy an entirely new wardrobe? Did I mention INTERNS ARE PAID NOTHING? The guy interns are dressed like tech support slobs, so maybe I’ll get myself a pair of khakis and a denim shirt and call it a day.
On other fronts, met the Big Kahuna tonight. You know Gaston in the cartoon version of Beauty and the Beast? He looks like that, only more muscular.
Is it weird that I have always been, like, “Belle, choose Gaston. He’s not that bad. He’s good-looking. He’s rich. He’s into you. A bit egotistical, but who isn’t? Seriously, Belle, do not go with the Beast. That guy lives alone in a castle and he has anger issues and his closest friend is a servant who also happens to be a fucking candelabra. Major warning signs ahead, babe. Also, did I forget to mention? He’s a BEAST!”
XO,
J.A.C.I.
You finish writing the blog, and then you read it through.
You think you’re pretty funny.
You locate the Publish button.
If you save it to your draft folder and then wait until morning to decide whether you want to publish.
If you delete it.
If you publish it.
You publish the blog before you chicken out. You refresh the browser several times to check and see if there are comments. There aren’t. You brush and floss your teeth, and when you come back, there is one comment—a spam that reads “Ginuine $$$Louise Vuittone$$$ purses—What All the Super Classy Women Want—Just Click Here.” You erase the comment and strengthen your spam filter settings. You laugh. Who did you think was going to comment on your blog? No one knows about your blog. You consider deleting the blog, but you leave it there. You can use it the next time you have something to complain about.
In the morning, you drive up to Boca to see your mother.
When you think of your mother, the word that occurs to you is too. She hugs you too hard, kisses you too long, asks you too many questions, worries too much about your weight/your love life/your friendships/your future/your water consumption. She loves you with an almost religious fervor. She loves you too much. The love makes you feel embarrassed for her and almost guilty—other than be born, what have you done to deserve such love?
She is happy to buy you new work outfits. Of course she is. What is within her power to provide, she always happily provides. She doesn’t explicitly mention your weight. She says things like, “The next size up might look more fashion forward” or “You don’t want the skirt to ride up in the back” or “That jacket is cute, but it pulls a teeny bit across your boobs” or “Maybe we should go up to lingerie to look at bodysuits?” You feel too defeated to argue. The purpose of these clothes is to avoid a future confrontation with the supervisor.
You wonder how much of your mother’s disapproval of your body is in your head and not based on anything she actually says. It cannot be denied that your mother is very slender. She has long dancer legs, perky boobs, and even at forty-eight years old a waist nearly as trim as Audrey Hepburn’s. She works out religiously. The only thing she loves more than her job as a vice principal is the gym.
In return for the shopping, your mother grills you about your new job.
“So you like working with the congressman?” she says.
You laugh. “I don’t work with him directly, not really.”
“What do you do, then?”
“It’s boring,” you say.
“Not to me! Your first real job!”
“I don’t get paid,” you say. “So it’s not a real job.”
“Still, this is exciting stuff,” she says. “Tell me, my daughter. What do you do?”
“I answer phones,” you say. “I get coffee.”
“Aviva, come on, give me one good story to take back to Roz.”
“I didn’t take this job so you’d have stories for Roz Horowitz.”
“Something about the congressman.”