Meternity. Meghann Foye

I gulp. “I feel sick.”

      “You’re supposed to,” giggles Brie.

      Meternity, here I come.

       Three

      By 11:15 p.m. we’ve slugged back some vodka sodas, and somehow my friends have managed to convince me to join them at a packed karaoke bar on St. Mark’s Place. Addison begins to make inroads with a table in the back full of fashion bloggers, model bookers and extremely skinny models from Balkan countries while I try to keep Brie away from checking her phone every three minutes.

      At this point, Brie knows not to expect anything besides a friends-with-benefits situation from her forty-four-year-old former ad exec colleague, Baxter. He’s made himself clear about not wanting a “romantic attachment,” as he icily put it one night at Babbo when she mistakenly assumed ample making out might mean he was interested in something romantic. But still she wonders if she’s putting out the wrong “vibe” to the universe if she allows their relationship to continue, since she’s not even sure she’d want him if he actually were into her, as like a potential husband. Ever more ironic is that all she’s been thinking about since turning thirty is finding a PH (potential husband), as she’s started calling every available man with a job.

      After text number six, I give her the stink eye.

      “I sweeaaaar to you, Lizzie. After tonight, it’s plan Secret-4-the-One.”

      “WTF is that?” I respond as Addison goes up for her song.

      “It’s new—something I devised at a recent mastermind session. A combination mix of The Secret, The 4-Hour Work Week and Outliers. Basically I’m going to set an intention for the perfect guy, then outsource my flirting on every available dating app to reach my goal of ten thousand hours. I’ll attain dating mastery while using up all available ‘Love RAM,’ so Baxter can’t even take up a kilobyte.”

      To me it sounds about as exhausting as faking a pregnancy, but she seems enthused so I go with it, smiling and nodding as she takes her turn on the mic. Inside, though, I’m panic-stricken. This feeling must be what all our younger editors talk about, I think, fighting off waves of anxiety so intense it’s as if the room is swaying. All these years, I’d somehow managed to sidestep the Dark Side that so many editors fall into as a means of coping with the pressure: anorexic bouts, Adderall addictions, the occasional bump of coke. I’d never seen the point to all that—or maybe it was my Catholic good-girl upbringing—but now I think I feel what this new kind of terror is all about. I try to fight through it by gulping more of my gasoline-like vodka soda while panning the room we’ve been to countless times.

      Addison grabs the songbook away from me and hands back a microphone. “You’re up, my friend. NO MORE wallowing. I can’t take it.”

      “No, absolutely not. Not tonight.” I shake my head. Karaoke has never been my strong suit—ever since the “You Oughta Know” debacle of ’02, our freshman year of college when every single guy in the room shuffled out, giving me a first impression that sealed my star-crossed romantic fate all throughout college and a lasting new nickname: Ballbuster.

      But then I hear the familiar dance party hit “Hotstepper.” Thankfully it saves me. The ’90s rap rhythm is followed by “Everybody Dance Now.” I turn on my heel, and a very cute, thirtiesish-looking guy makes his way to the stage from right behind us, looking strangely confident. He proceeds to take the mic, and launch into a perfectly punctuated rap, sending us into a round of laughs.

      “He’s good,” says Brie.

      “I know,” I say, impressed.

      “I might have told him my friend was having the worst day of her life, and a little ’90s medley would cheer her up.”

      “Oh, God, you didn’t, Addison.”

      “Someone had to give you a push.” She smirks.

      Next it’s “I’m Too Sexy,” then “Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls.” From the get-go, he’s totally got it, nailing every single low-voiced guy part. Halfway through “Crazy,” he pushes a hand through his light brown wavy hair as he uses the other to do some sort of complex Steven Tyler move. He’s got on those light-wash Gap jeans all the soccer players used to wear in college. He’s so into it and so making fun of himself at the same time, I can’t stop laughing. By the time Chumbawamba’s “I Get Knocked Down” comes on, the entire crowd is cheering him on as he attempts the grand finale—the running man to “Poison.”

      “He’s got balls.” Addison nods approvingly.

      “He’s cute,” says Brie.

      “I think I know him,” I say. “How do I know him?”

      Brie surfaces a sticky sweet lemon drop shot. I down it, thinking to myself, Why not? Clearing my throat, I turn toward the teleprompter, cursing as I see my name. Addison and Brie, those little cheeks, can’t hide their giggles when the traumatically familiar chorus begins to play. As always, every last face in the bar is cringing as I screech out the first few verses. Pretty soon, I’m belting it out, battling my way through the lyrics as if my life depended on it. It feels good. I’m a woman without a box, and I don’t care anymore, damn it.

      “You...you...you oughtta know,” I sing out at full volume, just as the song stops sooner than I expect. My voice fills the void with a shriek, followed by silence. Finally I look up. Addison and Brie fight to contain their giggles. A slow, perfunctory applause emerges from the crowd. I notice Gap Jeans Guy is clapping jokily, too. God. Head down in shame, I beeline off the stage. Needing another drink, I walk over to the bar, red-faced.

      “One vodka soda, splash of cran,” I say to the bartender.

      “That will be sixteen dollars,” he responds. Ouch.

      “I’ll get you a drink,” a weird guy with fluttery eyes says as he reaches for his man purse. “Malibu?”

      “Uh, no thanks,” I say, trying to be polite, searching around in my oversize bag for my wallet. I balance my huge hobo carryall on the edge of the counter to get a better look. Then something heavy inside shifts the center of balance, and all of the contents spill out on the floor.

      “Um, can I help you with that?” It’s Gap Jeans Guy. He’s coming over to the bar. I feel myself growing flustered as we both reach down toward the floor and he hands over my copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

      “That’s not, er, mine, well it is, but I’m not...you know... I work at a baby magazine.” He looks as if he’s biting his lip, trying not to laugh.

      “Wait, are you Liz Buckley? Deputy editor at Paddy Cakes? I thought you looked familiar up there. It’s Ryan—from the Discovery Channel.”

      That’s right, I remember now. He recently turned thirty-seven, which I’d noted when he’d friended me on Facebook. I’d helped handle some details on a Paddy Cakes story they’d brought to air on mega multiples.

      Before I can correct him on my title, the music comes on. “Oh shoot, my next song’s up.” And with that, he gets up on stage, as Pearl Jam’s “Better Man” starts up. I can’t believe how good Ryan is. Well, not exactly perfect, but strong, confident. As I stare at him, I notice his ability to let go. It’s sweet. So different from the zombified Patrick Batemen psychos I’m used to dealing with on Tinder. He’s actually got a beating heart. Once he’s through, he comes back to the bar to join me.

      “My buddies made me get up there on a losing bet. My team, Liverpool, lost today.”

      “Seems like you’ve been practicing,” I tease. It’s his turn to grow red.

      “Hey, I’m thinking of hitting the ramen spot for some takeout on my way home now. Wanna join me? You look like a girl who could use some soup.”

      “Why not,” I say as I laugh to myself.