Free Ten Girls to Watch by Charity Shumway

depressing by my decision not to go to law school, as if the universe had fated me for legal work and all I got by attempting to escape was a kick down to the lowest paid rung on the ladder), a junior associate had finally talked to me in the hallway. I said I’d just graduated, or graduated eight months earlier and was temping while I looked for a job, and after I revealed where I’d gone to school, he’d incredulously said, “What are you doing here?” A mad streak of toe raises in the copy room that afternoon was the only thing that kept me from turning into a fountain of tears, or at least postponed the outburst till I was out of the office.
    The toe raises I did in the archives copy room today were similarly soothing—three hours of copying later, I’d done about three hundred—but the pages of TGTW were the real boost. I made eleven trips up and down the stairs and copied about thirty years of TGTW coverage, lovingly lingering over the best years. Like 1986.
    That year, Charm ’s editors thought the college girls of America should be using their smarts to rake in some extra cash. Suggestions included tutoring (yawn), typing (yawn), and my two favorites (no more yawning): selling art class seconds and late-night snacks. That ceramic pot may not have made the grade for class, but it could fetch a pretty penny as a “dorm decorator’s item,” and grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, which Charm assured were a breeze to make with just a little tinfoil and a hot iron, were sure to be top sellers.
    I took my own sandwich break around lunch (a grilled ham and cheese would have been a real upgrade from my pb&j), but by midafternoon even the fabulous oversize sweaters of the nineties weren’t enough to keep me interested in more copying, so I decided to take a quick break and look at the coverage of the most recent TGTW winners in last March’s issue. At least that’s what I told myself, but it was a total lie. I’d been listening for Elliot’s footfalls all day. A flicker of lights, the slightest hint of a sound, and I braced for him. But nothing. Now, I sat down at my desk with the issue and turned straight to Elliot’s March article. Secret Agent Romance’s dispatch title for that month: “I’m Finally Ready for a Real Relationship.”
     
I just turned 30. And somewhere between the cheesy party and inspecting my scalp for signs of thinning hair, I realized something: I’m finally ready for a real relationship. I’m not suddenly financially secure or mature or any of the other things that supposedly make guys get serious, and I’m not losing my hair either, thank you very much. I didn’t wake up one day transformed. It was more like I woke up day after day and realized I wasn’t quite as happy on my own as I thought. Turning 30 finally made me wake up and smell the stale coffee.
     
“I’m not ready for a serious relationship.” That’s the number one excuse guys give for breaking up. But I’m here to tell you, it’s not an excuse. It’s the only real reason I’ve had for breaking up with anyone for the past ten years. The actual excuses are a lot more ridiculous. In the spirit of looking back and seeing how far I’ve come, here’s a sampling of the totally bogus explanations I’ve had for breaking up with some pretty wonderful women when the real reason was my immaturity.
     
•  Willow—Started wearing cutesy aprons while cooking. Looked too much like my mom in them.
•  Roller Girl—Beneath those roller blades her ankles were a touch thick.
•  Banking Beauty—So driven and productive she was bound to have a breakdown sooner or later.
•  Speed Racer—All that running, what was she really running from?
•  Dandy Lion—Tone-deaf but loved to sing.
•  Mandolin—So much crying. Why so much crying?
•  Velvet Ropes—Knew way too much about celebrities.
     
What an idiot I’ve been. I met someone new a few weeks ago. Let’s call her Boots. She flips her hair. Her lips