I was far, far too good.
And yet.
I owed tens of thousands in student loans, my two-bedroom apartment was a three-way split with an agoraphobe and a slob, and my internship paid peanuts—literally. The only benefit aside from prestige and access was a free PB&J sandwich for lunch on the third Wednesday of every month—if you were one of the first ten interns to line up in the cafeteria.
Compared with cleaning
thick clumps of hair out of the bathtub drain every morning for the next twenty years, dispensing advice to Daunted in Danbury didn't seem so bad.
I took the job, rented my own place and told everyone I was working for a top-secret
Xombie Review
spin-off that would launch soon.
By the time my friends figured out a spin-off wasn’t forthcoming, I’d been thoroughly seduced by the
Scoopage
’s mainstream ethos. Daunted in Danbury needed me. She had no idea how to meet a zombie and not a clue what to do when she did. She didn't know what to wear on a first date or if a zombie could give her herpes or when to broach the subject of commitment
And Daunted in Danbury was worldwide. She was Confused in Copenhagen and Baffled in Beijing and Hapless in Harare.
My goals as a journalist
had always been modest: to make people think, to challenge their assumptions, to give them a different perspective on a familiar topic. I never expected the big C—to change people’s life.
But when the letters started pouring in and I began connecting with women who weren’t all that different from me (despite their appalling taste in reading material), I realized the big C was already in
motion: I was changing people’s lives.
Two years later, I still find the notion stunning. I still wake up every morning, amazed and bewildered by it.
“So tell us,” Delia says, her tone suddenly intimate as she leans in, “who is Hattie Cross seeing right now?”
My heart lurches as she asks the dreaded dating question. I knew it was coming and yet I’m still thrown. “I’m between boyzombs
at the moment,” I say, giving the answer I practiced with an overly bright smile. But it’s not enough. I can tell from the look on Delia’s face that the smile doesn’t compensate for the inadequate response. “But I’m out there and I’m looking and I’m hopeful. And that’s all it takes—hope.”
The police siren wails again, not as loudly as before but just as insistent. “Uh-oh,” Delia says, “Sweet
Treat time is over. Fanny in the newsroom is waiting to give us an update on this morning’s top stories as soon as we return from this commercial break. But first I want to thank Hattie Cross for being here and sharing her story with us.” She holds up a copy as the bright red light begins to flash. Cue pink panda. “The book is called
The Girls’ Guide to Dating Zombies.
It’s packed with a lot of
great information, so pick it up.”
The camera blinks off.