It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (4 page)

“No problem,” I said.

Feeling like a Bond girl, I pushed the door marked exit, slipped the manila envelope in the waistband of my pencil skirt, and stealthily made a beeline to my car. Ironically, the entire ordeal was over before I even had a sip of the advertised free drinks. I drove home, took my high heels off, uncorked a bottle of red (which I prefer anyway), and poured a glass as I sat on the couch, forgetting that the envelope was still sitting on the passenger seat of my car. It wasn’t until the next day while driving to work that I saw it and remembered the “seventy-two-hour deadline.” I stuck it in my tote bag and walked into work.

By 9:00 a.m., Sarah, Leslie, and Caroline had already asked how the casting went. In an effort both to downplay the entire ordeal and get them to abort their mission altogether, I decided to keep the details to a minimum by simply responding, “Ehhh . . . it was stupid. I don’t think they liked me.” Little did they know, I had totally Bond girl–ed the shit out of it! They tried to cheer me up by saying things like, “I’m sure you did great,” and, “Yeah, right, they probably loved you.”

Over my lunch break, I sat at my desk and opened the envelope. Holy shit! An entire tree must have died at the expense of this packet because no lie, there were at least fifty pages of forms to be filled out, asking everything from my bio to my dating history to my tax information, hobbies, citizenship, etc. You name it, it was in this packet. The last page was a “Photo Submission,” instructing me to send seven photos of myself, and myself only, with natural makeup and under no circumstances any Photoshopping or filters. As if I wasn’t turned off by the intrusion into my past and present, the photo request was just enough for me to chuck the entire packet in the trash.
What a waste
, I thought. Cut to a few days later, the packet still remained in the basket. Was this another sign, like my car steering me to the casting call, or had the cleaning lady just gotten lazy? Reluctantly, I retrieved the packet and placed it in my top desk drawer.

Days went by before I received a phone call from yet another casting producer inquiring into the whereabouts of my packet, which was now overdue by about eight hundred hours. Without wanting to give the impression that I was too cool for school or, in this case, too sane for reality television, I told her I’d been really busy and would try and fill it out over the weekend. I mean, how do you tell someone that you were only there for the free drinks? Feeling guilty, I decided to begin the arduous task of filling out the questionnaires. When I got to the “Photo Submission” page, I realized how screwed I was. Where in the hell was I going to come up with these seven photos? I stalked my own Facebook profile only to find that I didn’t have a single decent photo of just myself, and as I scrolled through the photos on my phone, the only solo photos of me were very much unsuited for public viewing (thank goodness iCloud wasn’t around then). I knew I was going to have to find a way to secretly get headshots taken.

Enter my sister, known to me as Shishy, who luckily was flying into town for a big family gathering celebrating our grandfather’s birthday. Despite being a nerdy-scientist-free-spirit-hippie-dippie who still had a flip phone, when I asked for her help, she happily agreed to take the photos. We snuck off during the party, and after thirty exhausting minutes decided enough was enough and whatever photos were on my phone would have to suffice. I went to the local CVS and printed out the pictures before half-assing the rest of the questionnaire, leaving many of the repetitive pages blank. Exhausted, I mailed the packet back. I figured, if worse came to worst, all I had lost was some time, dignity, and $3.45 in postage. I was finally done . . . or so I thought.

A week later, I was invited to the “final round” of casting in Los Angeles. I decided mum’s the word and lied, telling my parents I was going to visit Shishy in San Diego rather than going to a casting call for a reality TV show.

When I arrived in Los Angeles, I was hastily whisked off to an airport hotel just a few minutes away with strict instructions to wait in the car upon my arrival. Another black-clad producer greeted me and led me into my hotel room where another packet sat upon my bed. A few dozen forms and a five-hundred-multiple-choice personality test later, I finally received a knock on my door from yet another producer. How many of them were there? I followed her down the hall into a room set up with a lonely chair, a camera, insanely bright lights, and you guessed it, another producer. She asked me the same background questions along with a few new ones. I can hardly remember what I said except for one horrible answer.

“So who’s your favorite person from the current season?” the producer asked.

Fuck! Do I tell them I haven’t seen this season—or any season, for that matter—or do I wing it? Luckily while at the airport, I had come across the duty-free shop (where I often read magazines to pass the time and to avoid having to actually purchase them). On the cover of one such mag I remembered seeing a story about the current season. I quickly blurted out the only name I could remember.

“Oh, really? Interesting. Why do you like him?” she asked with a puzzled look, which was enough to assure me that if I had actually read the article, I would have known he was the one who had broken the star’s heart.

“I don’t know, I just think he’s, umm . . . he seems honest,” I reluctantly responded.

The interview wrapped, and I was whisked into another room with not one, not two, but about twelve producers. I sat in a chair in front of them with a screen behind me showing a familiar scene.

“Have you been watching my interview in the other room?” I asked.

“Why, yes, we have.” They laughed.

Several rapid-fire questions and generic responses later, I was finally done. I returned to my room with the same feeling I had after the very first casting so many weeks ago: Thank God it’s over! The next morning I was off to spend time with Shishy in San Diego. (So I guess I had really only told my parents half a lie.) I recounted the previous day’s events and told her there was no way they would pick me, and even if they did, it wasn’t my thing. A few days in the sun and I was back home to Atlanta and my regular life.

That is, until a few weeks later when one phone call changed everything. I remember it as if it were yesterday . . . I was huffing and puffing on the treadmill when Rihanna’s “Rude Boy” was interrupted by my ringtone. It was from a number I didn’t recognize, but I knew the 310 area code belonged to Los Angeles. Normally, I never answer a call from a random number, and I don’t know why I did this time—probably so I could take a breather. It was the head of casting and she was officially inviting me to be a contestant on the upcoming season. My mind began racing faster than the treadmill beneath me. I told her I wasn’t sure if it was my thing, but that I’d mull it over. I hung up the phone and cranked up the speed and put Rihanna back on. When I got home that evening, I poured myself a glass of red wine, sat on my bed and debated. Should I do the show or not? I mentally listed out the pros, which included traveling, making new friends, making out with a hot guy, playing hooky from work, and, of course, the chance to find love. The cons, however, included total humiliation of not just myself but also my family, friends, coworkers, third-grade teacher, and anyone else who was my Facebook friend. Other cons included destroying my career, going broke, and . . . finding love.

It wasn’t lost upon me that finding love was both a pro and con. I had to ask myself, Was I really ready to fall in love? I had been in relationships, but the thought of possibly falling in love and being engaged in such a short amount of time was overwhelming. It’s one thing to be ready to fall in love and have months or even years to make sure it’s with the right man before taking it to another level, but it’s a completely different ball game when there’s a time limit on all of that. Oh, not to mention it’s all on national television.

I spent days going back and forth from yes to no to maybe and back to no before making a decision that would become the biggest mistake of my life . . .

Lesson learned:
Nothing good comes of free drinks.

C
onsidering you know why I’m in my current state of depression (though keep that a secret because it hasn’t “officially” been announced yet. Gag! I could do without the shitshow that’ll create). I guess it’s no secret that I accepted the gig. It wasn’t an easy decision. In fact, I pondered for days. And days. And days. With my pros and cons list changing more often than my underwear, I didn’t know what to do. Until one day, out of the blue, I said to myself,
Screw it! What do I have to lose?
I figured I could handle my alcohol just fine and had a pretty good grip on the words that came out of my mouth, so the fate of my reputation and career was in my hands. And if I fell in love, well, then, dammit, I guess it was just meant to be.

But, it wasn’t that simple. See, before I could phone the producer back with the “good news,” I had to figure out one major obstacle: my job. How do I tell my bosses? It’s not like I worked for a glamorous magazine where I was surrounded by chic women who watched reality television and would go absolutely bananas at the idea of their co-worker being one of the contestants. No, I worked in the courthouse and on the streets of Atlanta—in the gang unit, no less. My supervisor was a man in his forties who undoubtedly had never watched the show, and had no qualms about giving me a hard time for being a cute preppy girl from the rich suburbs who wore stilettos to jailhouse interviews. And now I was going to tell him that I was about to go on a reality television show? I stalled for days before finally mustering up enough courage to walk into his office.

“So, I need to talk to you about something,” I said.

“Are you quitting on me already?”

“No, no.”

“Oh, thank God. What’s up?”

“I might need some time off.”

“For what?”

“Oh, how do I say this . . . get ready to laugh. I got invited to do a dating show.”

“Like on television?”

“Yeah, on television. Basically, I would be one of several girls vying for one man.”

“Well, damn, that sounds awesome. Not for you, but for the guy.”

I laughed. “So what do you think, can I get some time off?”

“I’m sure we can figure something out. We’ll talk to Boss Ross. But
I
have one condition.”

“What is that?”

“If I give you time off, you better win the damn thing.”

“Haha, please, I’ll probably be gone for less than a week.”

I was shocked at how amenable and even excited he was about the idea. Now I just needed Boss Ross to be on board.

“Boss Ross,” aka the head bitch in charge of the Homicide/Gang Unit, had hired me straight out of college after taking me under her wing during my internship the previous summer. The first words she ever spoke to me were, “You ready to see some dead bodies?” A tall, slim brunette, she was smart as a whip and owned any courtroom she walked into with her stilettos and take-no-prisoners attitude. Basically she was a badass, which I aspired to be, and now I had to ask this badass for time off from putting away gangbangers so I could go on a dating show. But, to my surprise she was also oddly thrilled for this opportunity and readily approved.

With my bosses on board, and even more enthusiastic than I was, it was time to tell my parents, who had been left completely in the dark and were about to get the shock of a lifetime. I waited for that Sunday’s family dinner, which was the one day a week my mom actually made something other than reservations. On my way I picked up wine for Mom and a bottle of scotch for Dad to ensure they were, at a minimum, tipsy when I broke the news. As the three of us sat around the dinner table, I took a large gulp of red wine before spastically blurting out, “So, I think I’m going on a dating show.”

“What?” my mom squealed as she nearly spit out her wine.

I looked at my dad, who wore his familiar stoic I’m-not-going-to-say-anything-until-you-give-me-the-full-story expression he always had whenever my sister or I dropped bombs on him.

“Well, Pookie”—my mom’s favorite nickname for me—“I think it’s time that you start dating, so I am all for it. But I have to tell you . . . you do know that you have to actually try out and get chosen, right? You can’t just
go
on a show.”

“Yeah, about that . . .” I could see my dad’s smile go from patiently inquisitive to
what the hell did you do?

“So . . . remember how I visited Shishy in California? Well, I might have . . . ummm . . . also . . . gone to the casting call.”

“What?” my mom squealed again, as my dad sat in silence.

“Yeah, so a while back Sarah, Leslie, and Caroline basically made me go to this casting call, and then I got a call back and they flew me to L.A. and long story short, last week they asked me if I wanted to join the next season.”

“That’s amazing! Does this mean you’re not a lesbian?” my mom said.

I scowled. “Really, Mom? No, I’m not a lesbian.”