Jess Thoughts

Today I kept thinking how strange my life has become, but in a good way.

I have two part-time jobs now, and somehow that feels better than having one full-time job that eats the whole day. The engineering work is part-time, and I am still enjoying it more than I expected. I like the structure of it. I like that there are clear problems, clear drawings, clear measurements, and at the end something either works or it does not. Men argue there too, of course, and there is drama because every place has drama, but it is different. It is usually direct. Someone says, “That is wrong,” and someone else says, “Show me.” Then they argue for ten minutes and go back to work.

The marketing company is part-time too, and I like that one in a different way. It is creative. I write online ads, help with copy, look at what gets clicks, and sit in meetings with clients about new promotions. I work under a lead, but I have already been given a few small accounts of my own. Not big ones, nothing glamorous, but mine. I like opening the folder and seeing my name attached to something. It makes me feel useful.

But the office is mostly women, and the drama is so much more complicated.

Nobody says anything straight. Everything is said sideways, with a smile, or in the kitchen after the person leaves. There is one woman who always “suggests” that I wear something more professional. She says it very sweetly, like she is helping me. The funny thing is that I do wear professional clothes. High-end business clothes. Some are pieces I wore in Manhattan, and some are things Jaime bought me because he said, “If you are going into business, dress like you already belong there.”

They are beautiful clothes. Expensive clothes. Tailored skirts, silk blouses, fitted jackets, dresses that look simple until you see the fabric and cut. I do not say that, though. I just smile.

The shoes are what they notice most. Always the shoes.

“How can you wear those heels all day?”

“Don’t your feet hurt?”

“I could never walk in those.”

I just tell them I have always worn stilettos, and I love my shoes. That is true. I do not tell them some of my shoes cost more than some people make in a week. That sounds terrible, even writing it here, but it is also true. Some were gifts from my parents. Some were mine from before. Some Jaime bought me.

Shoes are not just shoes to me. They are posture, adding four to six inches to my 5’9″ sends me to the sky. With Jaime I tower over him, but he is well centered. It only adds to his ego, which I love. Shoes change how I stand, how I walk, how I enter a room. They make me feel taller than tall, like I am floating above the noise.

Most of the other ladies wear tennis shoes or nice flats. That is fine. I do not understand why it bothers them that I do not.

They are also always asking about Jaime.

Not directly in a mean way. It is always friendly, or pretending to be friendly.

“So when do we meet him?”

“Does your boyfriend ever come around?”

“Is he shy?”

“When are you two getting married?”

Then they laugh and say things like, “Time is passing, Jess. You have to hook a man while you can.”

I laugh too, because that is easier. But they do not know. They do not know he is older. Jaime says not to say anything because no one will understand. He says people will not ask honest questions. They will just pre-judge and decide what our life is without knowing anything.

I think he is right.

Who are they to judge anyway?

They do not know how he treats me. They do not know how much he listens. They do not know that he makes me feel calm. They do not know that I can sit beside him and not perform, not explain, not chase attention, not pretend to be someone more exciting than I am.

One of the managers hit on me last week. I did not write about it because I was still deciding what I thought.

He asked me to lunch “to talk business.” So I went. I thought maybe he wanted to discuss one of the accounts. At first it was normal. We talked about client expectations, ad timing, the problem with vague campaign goals. Then he changed the subject to travel.

He asked where I had been. I said a few places. He said we should go somewhere sometime, like it was a joke but not really a joke. I turned the conversation to my boyfriend. Then I mentioned his wife. He went along with it, but it became awkward. Then he asked about dinner.

I said no.

Not dramatic. Not angry. Just no.

I know it is a little bit my fault sometimes. That is not the fashionable thing to say, but this diary is not fashion. It is mine. My clothes can be fitted. Sometimes revealing, even when I do not mean them to be. My bust is large, and I know it gets attention. When I got it done, I was a different person. I thought I needed that. I thought if I changed that part of myself, then I would become the woman I was trying to be.

I do not regret everything, but I do not know if I would make the same choice now.

I also do not want them removed. No more surgery. No more changing my body because I am trying to solve something inside. And anyway, I wonder if it would matter. Maybe not. Men notice what they notice. Jaime does not say anything, but I know he appreciates the look.

All the guys are the same, eyes lock in like kids, go all gaga. It is funny.

It is okay. I do not get mad about every look. Guys are guys. But they have to respect no. Asking is one thing. Pushing is another. No is no, and a ring means something.

That is life. That is how I see it right now.

Sometimes I think about how temporary everything is. My age. My face. My body. The way men look at me. At some point I will be older, and my look will change, and the guys will move on to younger girls. It sounds cold, but maybe it is just biology. People pretend it is not, but it is. I have been told I am valuable now because of my age and how I look. Later, that value will drop, and maybe my choices in men would drop too.

Except I already made my choice.

I do not feel like I am waiting to see if someone better appears. I am not shopping. I am not comparing. I am not trying to keep every door open. I chose Jaime.

We went to a farm this weekend. It was outside town, with a long driveway, old fencing, and fields that looked gold in the late afternoon. There was a barn that needed work, a white farmhouse with peeling paint, and a line of trees behind it that made the whole place feel private.

Jaime walked slowly around the property, not saying much at first. I could tell he was seeing things I was not seeing. Numbers maybe. Repairs. Land value. Future plans. I saw a porch with flowers. A kitchen with sunlight. Dogs running near the fence. Maybe children someday, if God gives that to me. I saw quiet mornings and muddy boots and a life that did not feel like pretending.

Then he said, “I want to buy it.”

I looked at him because I thought he was joking.

He was not.

That would be so awesome. I know that is not a sophisticated sentence, but it is exactly what I felt. So awesome. A farm. Our farm maybe. A place that is not an apartment, not a temporary rental, not a city box with noise outside the window. A place where I can breathe.

I know so much and so little about Jaime. Like I wrote before, he is nothing like I expected. I was happy with him before, but now I am always being surprised. He respects me so much. Sometimes I think he is too trusting. When we are together and a guy tries to talk to me, he lets me deal with it. He does not rush in, puff up, or make a scene. He watches. He trusts me.

And I do not stray.

He knows.

If a man talks too long, I introduce Jaime as my boyfriend. That usually ends it. Their face changes. They look at him, look at me, do the math they think they understand, and then disappear.

At a dinner party, one guy called me Jaime’s arm candy. He meant it like a joke, maybe a little insult, maybe a little compliment. I totally agreed.

I said, “Yes, I am.”

Jaime blushed.

It was so very cute. He tried to hide it by looking down at his drink, but I saw it. I know it puffed up his ego.

Men.

Hahaha.

Still, tonight I keep thinking about the farm. Jaime has been quiet since we got back. Not bad quiet. Thinking quiet. Planning quiet.

Then, just before I started writing this, he called me.

We talked about the day, and he listened to my drama. He says it is better than reality TV. When we said bye, he added something strange before he hung up, “I have something to tell you when I see you.”

And now I cannot sleep.