Young Jane Young(63)

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





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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 break-in 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.





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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.





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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, turn to page 30.

If you delete it, turn to page 32.

If you publish it, turn to page 33.





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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.





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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.