I'll Take a Bellini...With a Side of THAT Boy

I enjoy my job very much, and I should, because as I've approached the seven-year mark of my employment here, roughly 22 percent of my living years have been consumed by this job. It leaves me little to not enjoy. Sure, I do paperwork most of the time and it is rather tedious, but I like where I work, I like the people I work with and I like my paycheck and I like my free health insurance. I also like that apart from about four weeks a year, my job is pretty leisurely, so I get paid a decent sum of money to essentially pursue my real interests, like blogging and shopping on eBay.

Unfortunately, this is one of the four weeks of the year that I am expected to work, and I am working hard. Perhaps if I'd been a little less leisurely, I would not have to work as hard this week, but alas, I was not, so now I am paying the price.

Since I have so much work to catch up on--by tomorrow--I had no choice but to skip the annual building-wide holiday party. I figured I really would not be missing much, since I see these people five days a week for 52 weeks a year. Do I really need to devote even more time to them?

However, I did request a Bellini. Served at my desk. Because what could be better than a leisurely job that also allows to to drink? At your desk. No questions asked.

In all of the years that I have been at my job--nearly seven--I have encountered virtually zero attractive men. I work for a railroad museum/tourist railway, and the majority of the men I encounter are in the 65-plus age group. However, a few months back, our insurance rep visited, with his son. Imagine my shock that day when in walked the best-looking guy I'd seen in years. Imagine my horror that I was wearing a maternity shirt--even though I was not pregnant at the time--and no lip gloss. Had I known that I would be meeting an attractive man on this day, I would've freshened up by applying fresh lip gloss, wearing a real shirt that would flatter my DDs and losing 25 pounds.

Alas, the good-looking man is easily a mere 25 years old, a full seven years younger than I. One of my co-workers has explained that to put you in full-on cougar territory, the man you are pursuing needs to be at least ten years younger than you. I beg to differ.

Today, I made an off-the-cuff remark about inviting our insurance rep--and his son!--to the holiday party. As a "favor" to me, my boss did indeed invite them. My no-longer-favorite co-worker called and demanded that I get to the party to mingle, because guess who showed? It was the insurance rep's son. I politely declined, but again requested that she deliver my Bellini.

Imagine my surprise when my Bellini arrived--carried by the good-looking son of the insurance rep. I am not a good flirter. Not by any means. After seven years of marriage, it is a lost skill for me. And when the good-looking man stepped into my office, bearing a Bellini, I am sure that my face turned as red as Sebastian in 'The Little Mermaid'.

Again, had I known that I would be visited by whom I consider to possibly be the best looking guy in town, I would've freshened up by reapplying my lip gloss, showing more cleavage and losing 25 pounds. Nevertheless, I am sure that my bright red face nicely disguised my lack of lip gloss.

After I got through this awkward social situation, my co-workers demanded that I thank them: this was my birthday gift, as my birthday is tomorrow! Despite my embarrassment, it was still a far better offering than two weeks ago, when I walked into my office to find two of my co-workers sitting there, bearing champagne and a half-dozen roses. I asked if I was being proposed to, by not one--but TWO--people. How would I ever choose? They told me happy birthday. I told them they missed the mark by two weeks. Ever since then, I have wondered how they could've possibly gotten this so wrong: they presented my birthday gifts on December 4, which is a day that has neither a "1" nor a "7" in it, so I am not sure how December 4 could be confused with December 17.

Alas, I still can't turn down a Bellini on work hours, with a side order of eye candy.