She cracked open the planner she’d bought in the beginning of the year. It made a crackling noise in the same way a new textbook did signaling that she probably should’ve begun using it sooner than she actually did.
After she had given Todd a trip to Paris, she knew her schedule was going to be inundated with appointments, planning, and emails sent overseas that wouldn’t get responded to until the next day – if they even respond at all. “You know those laissez-faire French,” she told Todd the night before.
In order to really nail her schedule down, she knew she’d have to take things a step further than her Google calendar. The planner she bought from their local bookstore (#shoplocal) seemed like the perfect fit for her pre-trip prep. Oiled leather, tan pages, and a creme-colored ribbon to mark her place, the planner itself wasn’t just French – it was downright Parisian.
“Hi,” she said into the speaker of her iPhone that sat on the kitchen island. “Is there any way I can make a standing Thursday appointment from now until the first week of December?”
She tapped her pencil waiting for the receptionist to see if this was a remote possibility.
“I think we can actually accommodate that,” the receptionist finally confirmed after about two minutes of clicking and typing on her end. “Last name?” she asked.
“Fitz-pat-trick,” she said slowly into the phone. “F-I-T-Z-P-A-T-R-I-C-K.”
“Okay, Mrs. Fitzpatrick–” the receptionist said before getting immediately interrupted.
“Ah, yes,” she said apologetically, “Miss, so sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” she assured her, even though it most definitely wasn’t okay.
“Would 4:30 work for you moving forward?” the receptionist kindly asked.
She ran her finger up and down the binder wasting time so not to blow her cover to the receptionist that she really didn’t have much else going on. After twenty seconds of hesitation, she acknowledged, “You know, I think that will actually work perfectly.”
“Awesome,” the receptionist confirmed. “4:30 every Thursday until November 30th except, of course, Thanksgiving Day in which we are closed.”
For a brief moment, she panicked. “But isn’t Thanksgiving the week right before we go to Paris?” In her head, she pronounced “Paris” in the same way the French pronounced it – “Pair-ee.” She licked her finger and rapidly began flipping the pages until she got to the end of November in her planner.
“Okay,” she hesitated, “But I definitely have an appointment the week after Thanksgiving on the 30th, right?”
“Yes,” she was promised, “A week after Thanksgiving.”
She wiped her forehead and muttered, “Phew.”
“Alright, perfect,” she finally confirmed with the receptionist. “Thursdays at 4:30 it is.”
She pressed the red hang-up button on her phone and began scribbling every appointment down in her planner as if it wasn’t easy enough to remember as it was. Upon finishing and stretching her hand out because she hadn’t written that much in months (if not years) she picked her phone back up and began texting Caroline.
“Soooooo,” she began typing. “I did something bad.”
A “…” immediately showed up with a Read Receipt from Caroline.
“At lunch,” she responded. “What’s up?”
“Sooooooooo I just made standing nail appointments at that spa we went to last month…” she shot back.
Again, the “…” immediately popped up only for Caroline to press send with “Hahahahahahaha.”
“Like,” she kept typing, “I know it’s pretty much a lock that he’ll propose in Paris, but a girl can never be too careful with her nails.”
Caroline, rather than text back, decided to pick up the phone and simply call her. She accepted the call and rather than saying “hello,” she simply lead with “Am I the worst?”
“L-O-L, girl,” Caroline laughed into her end of the phone. “No, I can’t even judge considering I would’ve done the exact same thing had I gotten the feeling that John was going to propose.”
“I meannnnn,” she dragged out, “It would honestly be a complete disaster if he proposed and my nails looked like shit. Like, I saw this girl Rachel who posted her ring photo to Insta and her cuticles looked like shittttttt.”
They both laughed.
“Where are you having lunch?” she asked after the laughter dissipated.
“Ugh, I just ran and got something to go from the hot bar at Whole Foods,” Caroline said while sounding exhausted. “I’m actually supes close to your place – can I come eat there instead of at my desk?”
“Uh, duh,” she told her. “Get over here.”
After both hanging up simultaneously, she made her way to her bedroom to change out of pajamas and into a pair of leggings and a chambray shirt to put out the vibe to Caroline that she had been productive all morning outside of simply making coffee and a smoothie. While putting on some concealer, she heard a knock at the door that was met by tiny dog feet sliding against the hardwood floor and a few lackluster barks signaling that Caroline had, in fact, arrived.
When she opened the door, Caroline walked in saying, “I’m, like, so fat – I just spent thirteen-freaking-doll-hairs at the Whole Foods hot bar and am probably going to eat it all.”
“Ughhhh,” she said while wafting the smell of Caroline’s container into her nose. “It smells hella good, though. B-T-Dubs, sorry I look like shit, I’ve just been so busy all morning that I haven’t had time to change.”
“It’s okay,” Caroline assured her while peeling the top off of her to-go container. “So, like, tell me… what’s it feel like to know you’re going to get engaged at the Eiffel Tower?” .