I tell her I wish I was still young like she is. She assures me that I’m vital and have most likely outfoxed the terrifying wave of good sense that can make zombies out of men by their late thirties. She looks me in the eyes and tells me that I don’t need to worry that my adolescent dreams have given way to office hours, lattes, conference rooms, an odd and passive unrequited crush on a woman fifteen years older than me, and sitting in my office thinking about how much I envy the assistant that is ten years younger than me. At least that’s what I infer from her when she says, “It’s the sales and marketing meeting, and it’ll be mostly be sales, actually — just to let you know.” Walking into the room, there’s a carryover of some folks who were in the meeting where the muffin situation occurred. The flock of product managers, Vallerie, and an aged Robert Wagner type and several of his brethren, two of whom are rocking sort of eighties-suave Alberto-VO5-dry-look-hairstyle-and-affordable-blazer getups.
