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Later that afternoon, Pruscilla Cockburn stood over me dictating her latest memo, shifting the ample burden of her weight from foot to foot. With each lumbering sway, a noxious waft of Kendra White’s “Honeysuckle Garden” perfume, discontinued since 1996, assaulted my senses. Through watering eyes, I squinted at my screen.

“Evie, please try and pay attention. I’ll start again. Date it for today.” Obviously. “And send it out to the usual team—all the Division Managers.”

I typed dutifully.

To: Marketing Department Product Division Managers

cc: Teresa Delallo, Fragrances; Alexis Desmond, Cosmetics; Sophie Swartz, Skin Care; Thelma Thorpe, Hair Care; Elaine Scarfield, Health and Fitness.

As per company policy, employee evaluations will take place during the last two weeks of October. Please schedule meetings for each of your senior team members during this period, and remind them to schedule evaluation meetings with their own staff. Self-evaluation forms and suggestion sheets must be distributed no later than by the end of next week. See me for the proper forms. Please try to keep these meetings short (no more than 30 minutes)…

“Do you think half an hour is long enough?” I interrupted, remembering my evaluation last year. Pruscilla spent the whole meeting extolling the virtues of a serious attitude. If I ever expected to be promoted, she’d said, then I’d have to start buckling down, taking things seriously. She never so much as glanced at my list of grievances (“Nobody else I know has to work between Christmas and New Year’s”; “Why can’t we have fat-free creamer in the coffee cart?”) and helpful suggestions (“Yearend bonuses should be scaled according to company profits and not employee salaries”). In the end, we ran out of time before I even had the chance to plead my case for a raise, which to my mind, is the whole point of these meetings in the first place.

Pruscilla glared at me and continued.

“…and do not engage in endless discussions regarding salary increases. Notify me regarding any employee whom you feel has met the requirements for a raise…”

“That’s good,” I assured her. “You’re definitely right about that. No sense in wasting time.”

“I’m not done yet,” she said. “I will be out of the office from October 16 to December 1, so all five Product Division Managers will need to see me within the next two weeks to complete their own evaluations. Please make an appointment with me as soon as possible, as my schedule is already quite full. Pruscilla Cockburn, Director of Product Marketing, East Coast Division.”

Pruscilla, gone for six weeks? This was the woman who’d notoriously used a personal day to clean out her desk. She hadn’t missed a single day of work in the three years I’d been there.

“You’re leaving for six weeks?” I asked, barely able to contain myself. My mind was reeling with the possibilities. I could come in late, leave early, take long lunches…

Wait a second…instead of just slacking off, this could be a great professional opportunity, provided I take proper advantage of the situation. After all, there’s supposed to be more to work than just getting away with things and looking busy (Cosmopolitan, September: “Seven Secrets to Job Security”). And everyone knows that the higher up you climb on the corporate ladder, the less you actually have to do yourself and the more you can delegate to others, not to mention perks like expense accounts and parking spots.

This was brilliant! Pruscilla would probably entrust me with everything. As chief note-taker at her biweekly brainstorming sessions, I know exactly how her mind works. Once or twice I even had the feeling she’d taken credit for my work. My gift for product names, especially lipstick, has gone completely un-appreciated (Prissy Persimmon, Sycophantic Cinnamon—those were mine!) and I also have a way with words, as my contributions to the wildly successful direct-mailing campaign of the Fall of ’99 can attest (“Why Buy Foreign Makeup at Department-Store Prices When You Can Have American Quality for Less, Delivered Right to Your Door?”). With her gone, I could make a real name for myself, maybe even get promoted before she gets back….

Pruscilla interrupted with a thoughtful wheeze, “I’m just taking some time off for personal reasons.”

“Are you okay?” I asked, trying to sound concerned. I was still pissed off at her for not giving me the afternoon off. True to form, Bruce had to go back to work anyway, but still—it isn’t every day a girl gets engaged, and it’s not like I was going to get anything done here. I’d spent the last hour staring at my ring and graciously fielding congratulatory visits from co-workers who’d heard about the proposal.

“I’m fine, nothing to worry about,” she replied in a singsong voice about an octave higher than normal.

“Well, I certainly hope so. Six weeks is a long time to be away from the office,” I continued, trying to play to her insecurities.

“Thelma Thorpe from Haircare will be stepping in to my position temporarily to make sure things run smoothly.” Shit.

“Are you sure that’s necessary? I can handle…”

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” she cut in, “but I need somebody I can trust to stay on top of things. As it is there’s going to be a lot more for you to do so you’ll have to try very hard to stay focussed, Evelyn. Especially since I’m sure you’re going to be preoccupied with your engagement for the next little while.”

Nice reversal. I had to hand it to her.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m up to speed on everything,” I said with a wave of the hand. “And you know I’m not one to get distracted easily. But can I call you if I need to after you’re gone? I mean, if there’s an emergency or something I can’t handle?” I had to know what she was up to, if she was leaving town or something.

“No…I don’t think so,” she said. What the hell was that supposed to mean? “At least not for the first month or so. But we’ll work out all the details later. For now, why don’t you go home early? You’ve had quite a day!”

Pruscilla smiled beneficently. I looked at my watch. Five-fifteen. Thanks a lot. I grabbed my bag and coat.

“But come in a bit early Monday morning, say around seven-thirty?” She was still smiling. “We’ll sit down and have a quick meeting when it’s nice and quiet.” Then she leaned in for a hug. “Congratulations again, dear.”

“Thanks.” An invisible cloud of Honeysuckle Garden all but consumed me.

The subway ride home was a long one. As the train lurched forward, my stomach bubbled and my mind raced, playing over the day’s events. Sure, my private life had been dragged kicking and screaming through the office like some kind of circus sideshow, but aside from that, I felt quite good. And the rest of the day had passed pleasantly enough.

Most days at work, I tend to keep to myself more or less, especially since there are really only a handful of people there I actually like. All in all, I think I’ve managed to maintain just the right combination of professional courtesy, friendly water-cooler approachability and social aloofness. That way, after I’m promoted, the respect I’ll need will already be in place. Without that, things can get pretty messy—I heard of one girl down in Accounts who, after a promotion, ended up having to fire her daughter’s godmother, a woman she’d worked side by side with for years. Eventually, she became so reviled by the underlings that she was forced to quit, and ended up playing the fiddle in the subway for spare change.

But today, anonymity shattered, I decided to make a show of it. At the coffee cart, I let Andrea, a bitter marketing drone who works in Fragrances, grab my hand to get a better look at The Ring. On cue, it sparkled brilliantly under the fluorescent lights. Inspired by her courage, two other girls skulking nearby came in for a peek.

“That’s at least a carat and a half, you know,” Andrea said. “I thought your boyfriend was a teacher.” The girls behind her laughed. It was well known that Andrea had been expecting Phil, her boyfriend of far too many years, to propose during Labor Day weekend on their romantic Caribbean cruise. But Phil, an actuary, had booked during hurricane season to save a few bucks. He ended up spending the rainy days in their cabin with his laptop, while Andrea played bingo and shopped for gold-plated chain by the foot.

“Oh, he is a teacher,” I replied coyly. “He teaches gifted children at a private school on the Upper East Side. He went there himself, actually.”

“Really? Must pay well,” she said, releasing my hand and reaching for a Sweet’n Low.

“Not really,” I told her, leaving her to wonder about Bruce’s mysterious and wealthy family.

So I’d managed to keep it together quite nicely, apart from that little thing in the bathroom. But Bruce was a pretty good sport about it. He always is when it comes to my dramatics. After I came out of the bathroom, there he was, surrounded by five or six women hanging on his every word, and looking remarkably pleased for a guy whose girlfriend had vomited at the thought of marrying him.

“…I wanted it to be old-fashioned and romantic, a real public declaration of my love, you know?” I heard him saying as I walked up behind him. His fan club quickly scattered at the sight of me and my puffy eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked, stifling a laugh.

“Yeah,” I sniffed, and laughed myself.

“You know, if I didn’t think you could handle this, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“You mean ask me to marry you?”

“No, stupid, I mean ask you here at work!”

“Oh,” I replied, feeling a bit foolish. Loud shushing sounds came from behind the bathroom door, but Bruce didn’t seem to notice. “Of course I can handle it. I guess I just never expected my professional life and my personal life to collide in exactly this way.”

“I just wanted it to be something you’d remember forever. Like a story we’ll tell our grandkids, you know?”

“Well, good job, then. But I’m pretty sure I would have remembered it no matter what, even if we were, um, I don’t know…walking in the park or something,” I said, glaring at the crowd of women pretending to be fixing a photocopy machine nearby.

Bruce just laughed and hugged me. His shirt smelled good, and I buried my face deeper.

“But we never go for walks in the park, Evie. If I’d asked you to go for a walk in the park, you wouldn’t have wanted to.” True. Walks in the park are for old ladies and people without cable.

“You needed this, Evie. We needed this. Shake things up a bit, you know?” He held my tear-stained cheeks between his hands and kissed me. Not a long kiss, but it was more than just a peck. And then he looked at me with a face that, in an instant, said, “You silly, silly thing. Don’t you know that I’ll take care of you? And whatever problems we may have, we’ll work them out. These people, this job, the rest of world, none of it matters. What matters is us, so let’s forget all this crap and get on with it!”

Yes, let’s get on with it. Bruce has a wonderful way of forgiving me no matter what; it’s really one of the things I love most about him. So, once again, even though I’d behaved like a complete idiot, he managed to make me believe I was a completely normal person, and not the freak I truly was.

He kissed me again. Whether it was all the crying or the barfing or the seven cups of coffee or the kiss, I felt a little wobbly. I took it to be the kiss—even though it had been a long time since Bruce made me weak in the knees. He looked into my eyes and smiled. It was pretty obvious that he was pleased with himself. I guess he deserved to be.

We’d talked about getting married before. You don’t date a guy for six years and not talk about it. But I really, truly didn’t expect it to happen any time soon. For us, or for me, rather, it was more of an abstract idea, like “Of course we’ll get married one day. Then we’ll move out to the suburbs and buy our kid a pony.” But this time it was for real. And the more I thought about it on the ride home, the more I saw that it was a great thing. And on top of it all, for what might have been the first time in his life, Bruce had done something completely on his own. Made a real decision, without consulting me, his mother or anybody. He deserved to feel good. And so did I. Something was finally happening in my life, something real. Like I’d been asleep for years, content to play the woman in the gray flannel suit, only now the alarm clock was ringing.

The train was pretty crowded, and I hadn’t noticed till then but the man sitting on my right was leaning up against me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was clutching a ratty pink Barbie backpack tied up with brown cord. His left knee bounced up and down frenetically as he tapped his heel against the floor. On one foot, he wore a filthy Reebok cross-trainer smeared with what was probably not rust-colored paint. On the other foot, a purple toe with a black nail stuck out of a dirty sock. Disgusting. I’m so sick of this shit. His bulging eyes darted from my hand to my chest then back down to my hand. My Ring! He was staring at my Ring!

Normally, in situations like these, which occur not altogether infrequently on the A Train, I get up and move. But today, the sight of this greasy interloper inspired within me the courage to take a stand for all peace-loving female commuters everywhere.

I looked directly at him and cleared my throat. Bruce would have absolutely killed me. The guy looked up suddenly and when his eyes met mine, he let out a shriek so loud that the force of his very bad breath blew my bangs up off my forehead (In Style, April: “The New-Fashioned Fringe: Bangs Are Back!”). With a gasp, I jumped back onto the lady beside me. But she was wearing a Walkman and I guess she hadn’t heard him yell, so she freaked out and reflexively pushed me forward into the group of stunned passengers. I reached out wildly for the man standing in front of me wearing a black trench coat (as it turns out, a very sensible color for a trench coat). But he just deflected me and used the opportunity to slide into my seat. I landed on my hands and knees on the floor of the car. The crazy guy, whimpering a little, just rocked back and forth, staring at someone else’s hands.

By the time I got home, Bruce was already there. I threw down my newspaper-stained, Pruscilla-smelling, mud-smeared, formerly white trench coat and flopped onto the couch and cried again. We decided not to go for dinner, not to call our parents, not to call our friends. We just stayed in and ordered a pizza. It may not sound romantic, but it was. We talked and talked, and by the time we went to bed, I felt like myself again.

I woke up before Bruce the next morning, something which almost never happens. He’s the type who claims not to be a morning person, because it’s such an unpopular way to be, but who actually gets up on weekends at the exact same time, almost to the minute, that he does during the week. He usually spends Saturday and Sunday mornings on the Internet researching obscure factoids for his students or doing the grocery shopping or reorganizing my closet, while I sleep till noon and then thrash about in bed for a half hour or so complaining about him making noise. Like Bruce, I suppose I have an internal clock, too, it’s just that mine must be permanently set on Snooze because I’ve been working full-time since college and waking up at 7:00 a.m. was as torturous yesterday as it was my first day of work. I think it bugs the crap out of him, my sleeping in—his early-morning antics sure piss me off—although he’d never admit it. Let him think I’m lazy. I am.

In that blissful moment of nothingness before I opened my eyes, before true awareness set in, the first thing I remembered was that it was finally Saturday. Thank God, no work. Maybe I’ll just go back to sleep for a bit. Then later I’ll go into the city. Yeah. There’s that Clinique Gift With Purchase thing on now at Saks…and I need some new pants for work. But I refuse to buy a size 14. Okay, so no clothes shopping till I’ve dropped 15 pounds, till I’m a 10. Serves me right, after what I ate this week, and last night, that pizza…wait a minute…the pizza…ohmygod…Bruce….

And it all came flooding back. I turned over and looked at him. He lay on his back, still asleep, his chest rising and falling. Bruce always seems different without his glasses on, like I don’t really know him. Still cute, though. He was whistling softly through his nose. Did I really say yes? Did yesterday really happen? Am I actually going to marry this guy? My heart began to pound as I replayed the scene at work in my head about 37 times. God, I can’t believe I actually threw up. With a psychic snort, Bruce turned over and faced the wall.

Just to make sure it was all real, I pulled my left hand out from under the pillow. The room was dark, but there it was, plain as day—The Ring. Turns out it was his grandmother’s. Mr. Fulbright had kept it for Bruce since she died, like, twenty years ago. Last night was nice, come to think of it. Bruce told me all about how he’d been planning to propose, and how his dad had been in on the whole thing.

“My grandfather gave her this ring in 1939, the night before he left to fight in the war,” Bruce explained as he held my hand. “Six months later, he came back and married her. And nine months after that, my father was born in an air raid shelter during the Blitz.” Over the years, the Fulbright Nativity Story has evolved into an epic tale, complete with evil Nazis and valiant R.A.F. pilots fighting to the death in the Battle of Britain, including Bruce’s grandfather, shot down three months before little Bruce Jr. came into the world.

I already knew the story, minus the ring detail. Bruce’s dad, whose name is also Bruce (Bruce Jr., actually—yes, that makes my Bruce, Bruce Fulbright III. God, that better not make me Mrs. Bruce Fulbright III), loves talking about the night he was born. The only time he’s ever animated about anything seems to be when he’s telling stories about the war and his parents and the horror of butter rations and all that. It was as if being born was the only thing Bruce Sr. had ever done with any style, and it’s been all downhill from there.

Poor Mr. Fulbright. With the exception of Bruce, the only respect his family ever shows him is when he’s telling his stories, now only once or twice a year, usually on his birthday. His perpetually self-involved daughters know better than to dismiss him on this, and even Bertie tries her hardest to refrain from seeming bored. And while Bruce doesn’t quite hang on his dad’s every word like he probably did when he was a kid, now he listens intently. I’m sure trying to memorize every word so that one day he can tell his own kids. Make that our kids, I guess.

“An insane woman tried to steal the ring—this very ring—off her finger while she was in labor,” Bruce continued, almost in a whisper. This was a new twist. Sounds like ole Bruce Jr. was getting a bit carried away.

“Oh, come on,” I said, incredulous.

Bruce raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to one side. “I’m just telling you what he told me when he gave it to me.”

I looked down at The Ring, imagining a stoic, placenta-splattered Granny Fulbright fending off crazies in the bomb shelter as she simultaneously struggled to birth a child and hang on to the only thing she had left of her dead war-hero husband.

It made me think about my mom and what she must have gone through having me all alone, especially since her parents had disowned her because my dad wasn’t Italian, or even Catholic for that matter. But then I wondered if Granny Fulbright would have cruelly refused to let her child go to school in California, even though she’d scored over 1300 on her SATs and had a partial scholarship to UCLA… Oh, no wait…that was my mother. And I was the one stuck at NYU, pissing distance from the house I grew up in. No, there would be no great collegiate adventure for me. But that’s where I met Bruce, so I suppose it had all worked out for the best. If you consider marrying your first real boyfriend the best.

So last night was pretty good. We talked a ton about the wedding, what we wanted and all that. And we really laid our cards on the table. Bruce is as far from a commitmentphobe as is humanly possible in this city (Glamour, April: “Is Your Man Afraid To Commit? Take This Test and Find Out!”), so the usual male worry of only being able to have sex with one person for the rest of his life doesn’t really seem to concern him. “Evie, I would have asked you two years ago if I thought you were ready,” he’d said while massaging my feet.

“How can you ever really be ready for something like this,” I mused, but he just looked at me, not understanding at all how marriage isn’t the most comfortable or logical step for some people.

No, Bruce’s marital stress comes from more of a mama’s boy place. He was worried, and rightly so, that his mother was going to give him a hard time about it, especially since his dad didn’t even tell her he’d given Bruce his mother’s ring.

“Especially since she hates me, you mean,” I said.

“She doesn’t hate you. She’s just a negative person sometimes. And she’ll think my dad went behind her back. I think she wanted to give the ring to Brooke, ’cuz she’s the eldest daughter or something I guess.”

“Oh great. Now Brooke will hate me, too.”

“Oh, Evie, don’t say that. She won’t.”

“Yeah right. Then it’ll be my fault when she loses it and has another one of her ‘spells.’” His sister is a frail, skittish girl with four full-blown nervous breakdowns under her belt and she’s barely twenty-four. “She’ll probably cry as soon as she sees the ring on my finger.”

And that’s a scene I can look forward to witnessing in person tomorrow night when we “stop by” to break the good news. Bruce’s dad was so excited about the whole thing that he made Bruce promise we’d come as soon as possible.

“I doubt it,” Bruce said.

“You just watch—she’ll be back in the looney bin by the end of the week,” I said, then instantly regretted it. Sometimes, I can go a little too far. It’s not that I don’t mean what I say, it’s just that I know that some thoughts are better left unsaid, especially when it comes to things like people’s families or haircuts. I think I get my big mouth from Claire, my grandmother. Only she gets away with murder because she’s old, and people seem happy to confuse her brutal honesty with quaint eccentricity.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“It was a relaxation facility, not a looney bin,” Bruce said, peeved. “They didn’t strap her down or anything.” He knows I know that—he’s only told me like a thousand times—but he can’t control himself either, sometimes.

Despite my occasional overstepping of boundaries, it’s this sort of honest interchange about important things like family that convinces me that Bruce and I may actually have a chance. And in my own defense, there is an upside: There’s no point in letting the little things fester into giant, repressed issues when a bit of well-directed hostility can bring stuff out into the open right away. And so we make a point of being very open with each other about everything, although it’s not a natural thing for Bruce to be like that. He’s much more reserved when it comes to saying what’s on his mind, especially if it involves hurting someone’s feelings, but I’ve been helping him to try and get over that a little bit.

It was in this spirit of openness that I admitted to Bruce later in the conversation that the idea of marriage makes me a bit crazy.

“It does? I thought the puking and crying meant you were calm and rational about the whole thing,” he laughed.

“I’m glad you can laugh about it already,” I told him. “That’s a good sign, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, well, I hope so. But I think we’ll leave that part out when we’re telling our grandkids the story.”

“Seriously, Bruce. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Don’t worry. Have another piece of pizza. And don’t be so hard on yourself.”

I wanted to tell him that I knew that getting married was the next logical step in our relationship, and that it was definitely the right thing for us. Because we love each other and that’s what’s important. And not to worry about me—that I was ecstatic and sure and positive and all that sort of thing. But I don’t think he wanted to talk about it anymore.

But there I was the next morning, lying in bed in a full sweat, feeling an awful lot like I had the day before in the bathroom. It was almost twenty minutes before my heart stopped thumping and I had psyched myself into a “Marriage is Good” place again.

After mentally planning my nuptial dietary strategy for a good half hour—wavering back and forth between invoking the Member for Life clause in the Weight Watchers contract and developing a simple starvation plan on my own—I was firmly back in the camp of, “I’m getting married and I’m gonna look like a million bucks!” Trying not to ruin Bruce’s first attempt at sleeping in in years, I snuck out of the bedroom and into the kitchen and put a pot of coffee on. There were so many people who had no idea what had happened, and it was too cruel to keep them in the dark any longer.