Slightly Suburban. Wendy Markham

look down at my brown heeled pumps, topaz Ann Taylor pencil skirt that’s rumpled across my thighs, white blouse and the chestnut cashmere cardigan sweater that I used to love because Jack gave it to me for Christmas and said it’s the exact shade of my hair and eyes.

      I’m sure I’ll probably love it again when I pull it out of my closet wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic next fall. But by March, I’m always sick of my heavy winter clothes—even cashmere—and anxious to start shedding them for pastel sleeveless silk and cotton pieces. Which is still a long way off.

      Anyway, I look fine for drinks with Jack and Mitch.

      Still, I open another button on my blouse to make the outfit less prim. Which exposes most of my right boob. Oops.

      Buttoning up again, I tell Lane, “That’s the thing about living in the city. It’s not like you can just run home before you go someplace after work.”

      “Where do you live?”

      “Upper East Side. How about you?”

      “East Fifty-fourth at Second Avenue.”

      Ah, practically around the corner. If I lived that close, I’d run home to change.

      I watch Lane put her lipstick into a black cosmetics bag, then zip that, along with her clothes, into a matching black garment bag hanging on a stall door. Wow, she’s organized.

      I guess I could have had the foresight to bring a nice dressy outfit to work, like she did.

      However, I was too bleary-eyed and stressed this morning from getting less than five hours’ sleep after being stuck at the office till midnight last night.

      You know, since I moved into the Creative Department, my life is not my own. It’s really starting to make me wonder…

      Okay, it’s not starting to make me wonder.

      It’s continuing to make me wonder:

      Is this how I really want to spend my life? (Or at least, the career portion of my life, which lately seems to encompass everything else anyway.)

      At which point, I wonder, do I finish wondering and start deciding…and doing?

      Something else to wonder: if I did bring makeup and a change of clothes to work, would I have to carry them in a quart-size Ziploc and a Handle-Tie Hefty?

      The answer to that, at least, is clear: absolutely. The beautiful matching luggage set Jack and I bought for our Tahitian honeymoon was lost a few months ago by the airline somewhere between New York and Buffalo when we flew up to spend Christmas with my family.

      Lane, who probably spent Christmas skiing in Switzerland, tosses her auburn hair. “Well, have fun tonight, Tracey! See you Monday!”

      She swings out of the ladies’ room in her fabulous, sexy little number.

      The number being 0, you’ll recall. In lieu of –2.

      I look at myself in the full-length mirror next to the hand dryer.

      I’m usually a 6 or 8, though I’m a 4 at Ann Taylor, which is my favorite place to shop. Did I mention I’m a size 4 there?

      If there’s anything I’ve learned these last few years, it’s that everything is relative.

      Because, you know, back in my size 12–14 days, I would have been envious of someone like size 6–8 me.

      You know, this is utterly exhausting. Am I ever going to be satisfied with who I am?

      I keep thinking maybe I would be…if I lived somewhere else. But here in If You Can Make It There, You’ll Make It Anywhere, the competition is fierce. Everywhere you turn, someone is more attractive, more successful, more respected, thinner, happier, just plain old better. And everyone is richer.

      Here in Manhattan, Status Quo is a curse. There is tremendous pressure to achieve greatness—on a personal, professional, spiritual and, yes, global level.

      I’m telling you, all this striving can really exhaust a girl.

      Lifting the sweater, I tuck the blouse in more tightly and twist the waistband of the skirt, which has shifted slightly so that the side seams aren’t lined up with my hips. It’s a little big on me, even without my trusty Spanx, which I opted not to put on this morning.

      The silver lining in having to work these long hours is that I rarely have time to overeat anymore—and sometimes, to eat at all. Not only have I managed to keep off the fifty pounds I lost over six years ago, but I actually weigh a few pounds less than I did on my wedding day.

      So why am I not satisfied?

      With my weight?

      With my job?

      With my life?

      With my outfit?

      I make a face at the mirror. I might be pleasantly unplump these days, but I’m unpleasantly uncomfortable.

      In general, yes. And mostly, right now, in these clothes. Too much bulk caused by too many layers. I wish I could change into something more fun and sexy. I wish I could be someone more fun and sexy.

      But you’re not, grouses Inner Tracey. You’re an overworked married woman who’s closing in on thirty.

      Does that mean I have to look frumpy on a Friday night?

      Yes, because changing would mean going all the way uptown, then all the way down, which, depending on the time of day and various acts of man, God, Mother Nature or the Metropolitan Transit Authority, could take hours.

      Forget it.

      See what I mean about living here? You can strive all you want, but even the most mundane things are extra challenging.

      You know, I haven’t felt this bummed about life since The O.C. was canceled.

      My long camel-colored coat—also cashmere, a steal at Saks last April—feels cumbersome as I plod down the corridor toward the elevator. Ho-hum. I look like every other corporate drone in the city.

      Plus, my leather shoulder bag, bulging with work I need to go over this weekend, weighs a ton. Lugging it back and forth to the office, I’ve accumulated all kinds of extra junk in there—loose change, wrappers, magazines, papers—the kind of stuff you’d toss into the ashtray or backseat of your car if you had one. But a car is a liability here in New York, so I wind up carrying all of this around town on my back, which—no surprise—has been killing me lately.

      Here’s a brainstorm: Maybe I should start wheeling a little wire cart, like those wizened old widows who live in the boroughs. Instead of groceries or laundry, mine will be filled with PowerPoint presentations and endless notes from endless meetings.

      For a split second, it sounds like a great idea. Maybe I’ll start a new trend! Maybe I can design a sleek little black cart, patent it, quit my job—key point—and become a rich and successful entrepreneur, marketing chic carts to Manhattan’s upwardly mobile young women.

      Mental Note: or maybe you’re just losing your mind.

      Yeah. That’s probably it.

      “Night, Tracey,” Ryan Cunningham, an assistant art director, says as I pass him in the hallway.

      “Night. Have a good weekend.”

      “I’ll be spending it here,” he says, striding on past. “Same as usual.”

      Having endured my own share of seven-day workweeks, I shake my head in empathy, glad it isn’t me this time.

      You know, lately I really miss the good old days in account management. Not that I knew that they were good old days at the time—or that I’d even want to go back there, because it’s not the same.

      There used to be four of us who shared a big cubicle space on the account floor—along with countless margarita happy hours, office dirt, diet tips, recipes, advice—you name it.

      But