Mari
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!
Oh, shit! I twist and turn in bed. Reaching to hit snooze on my phone, I try to wake up. I hate waking up early. Getting up is so hard that I have eight—yes, eight—programmed alarms, one every fifteen minutes, just so I get myself out of bed and get to work on time.
I get up slowly, stretch my body, and take a nice warm shower to prepare for another day at Be, one of the most respected fashion magazines in the country.
I’ve been the personal assistant to the CEO, Carlos Eduardo Moraes, for the past three years. It’s a challenging and tiring job that demands lots of creativity and compromise from me. I get to work at the same time every day, yet I never know when I’m coming home. But, I learn a lot and I can put lots of what I’ve learned in my business courses to use.
Be is a great place to work. I make great money, have lots of benefits, and I was able to get a master’s degree at a good university—all paid for by the company. I love my job, even though a few things still bother me—like the way most people there treat me.
Okay, maybe saying most people is kind of unfair. Most of my coworkers are actually really nice. The models, their agents, and the people connected to them are a different story. Although I try to be nice to everyone, I’m clearly different from the majority of those who work in this field.
I get out of the shower and go back to my room to get dressed. I stop in front of the mirror and look at myself for a few moments—at my long brown hair, my ordinary face. My body doesn’t fit the beauty standards I see on a daily basis in my work, let alone the standards generally imposed by society.
Well, not fitting the industry stereotype doesn’t bother me—quite the opposite. Lais, my best friend, says I’m like one of the women from the Dove soap commercials, a regular or “normal” woman. I’m exactly typical for Brazilian women with bodies that curve in all the right places. I’m one of the majority who instead of a size two, wears a size twelve. But alongside models and their artificially perfect images . . .
I shake off these thoughts—they won’t get me anywhere—and I focus on getting ready for work and arriving on time. My boss is great, but he hates delays. And don’t even get me started on his morning ritual.
I turn on my music and my favorite singer’s melodious voice fills the room. I sing along as I dress in a black pencil skirt that does wonders for my curves and a white silk shirt with short sleeves.
I finish the look with nude stilettos, a nice pair of earrings, and a bracelet. If there’s one thing I’m proud of, it’s my style. I may not be one of the models from the magazine, but I’m always well-dressed and elegant, ready for anything.
I’m applying my makeup as my cell phone rings. My friend’s amused face shows up on the screen.
“Hey!”
“Good morning, Mari! I’m here. The van won’t wait for us!” She uses that same line every day.
I smile, grabbing my jacket and purse. “I’m coming!”
We live in Méier, a suburban neighborhood of Rio de Janeiro. We work on the opposite side of the city and are lucky enough to have a van that drives from Méier to Leblon, which is rare. Lais gets off before me, in Botafogo, and I stop in Ipanema where Be is located. The office is very fancy and modern and it has an incredible ocean view.
I take the elevator out of my apartment building, still straightening my clothes, and when I reach the ground floor, Lais is talking to one of my neighbors, Marcio. Hot, twenty-five years old, he owns a men’s clothing store at the local mall. He also happens to be a super man-whore.
“Look who’s here, beautiful Mariana,” he says, smiling in his womanizing way. Although he takes our breath away, we know he’s not the right type of guy to get involved with. Those eyes and that smile may draw us in, but his tendency to go through women like most men go through socks is a recipe for a broken heart.
“Hi, Marcio, good morning! Let’s go, Lais. We’re late,” I say in a rush.
“Oh, Mari, he’s so hot!” Lais looks back toward the man-candy as we hurry toward the van.
“I know, but he’s not for us. Come on! Let’s go.” I urge her along, a smile on my lips. She laughs, knowing that if I let her, she’d chat up Marcio and we’d miss our ride.
Lais and I have been friends since kindergarten. We grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, and our mothers are friends to this day. When we decided to move out of our parents’ homes when we turned twenty-two, nothing felt more natural than living close to each other. We’re such close friends that we can tell what each other is thinking with just one look. I know everything about her and she knows everything about me.
Or almost everything.
“What about that hot boss of yours, huh? Is he still dating that Fashion Barbie?” she asks. I can’t help but laugh.
Lais knows almost everything about me . . . but not this. Carlos Eduardo is indeed a hot boss, but what Lais doesn’t know is that I’m actually head over heels in love with him. I know, I know. I’m fully aware that Carlos Eduardo is not into me. He normally dates Barbie dolls and I’m nowhere near his usual perfect, plastic type. But I can still look, right? And I certainly can’t help what I feel.
“No, now he’s dating some sort of Gisele Bundchen wannabe with even bigger boobs,” I answer, laughing. Though I’m attracted to him, I go on with my life and don’t get my hopes up. He’s gorgeous, but he only dates models. He will always see me as his assistant, and never more than just that.
The van arrives and we ride to work chatting the whole way. The same group has taken this van to work every day for the past three years, so it’s always a fun ride. That quality time is essential for my well-being in the morning after waking up so early.
When we reach Botafogo, Lais hugs me and pecks my cheek.
“Text me when you arrive!” she says and waves goodbye. We talk every day during our work hours. It has never stopped us from getting our jobs done, but talking to each other is a part of our routine.
About twenty minutes later, we reach Vieira Souto Avenue, one of the richest streets in the city, and also home to Be.
“There you go, little Mari. You’re here!” says Ruan, the driver, with a smile. I get off in front of the building, breathing in the ocean air as I get ready to leave Mari, the ordinary girl, behind, and transform into Mariana Costa, the competent assistant to Carlos Eduardo.