"I rang in the New Year with my mother and two of her next-door neighbors, " Delia Sumner lamented to her best friend, Angela Eley. Sitting on her leather couch, wrapped in a blanket and still in her pajamas, she held the phone in one hand and a pint of Haagen-Dazs in the other. "How much more pitiful can my life get?"
At twenty-seven, Delia Sumner was slowly inching her way up the corporate ladder. Already a project manager at the modeling firm of Soza & Co. —a much-coveted position, and mostly one restricted to those women, typically over thirty years of age, who have a plethora of experience behind them—Delia was living a posh lifestyle. In a fairly upscale neighborhood in Manhattan, she managed to occupy a rent-controlled apartment complete with all the trimmings: an domicile decorated by the famed New York interior designer Francois Dupris; a small, though not insignificant collection of modern art; and a wardrobe to positively die for. Of course, Delia was still unhappy.
Groping her love-handles she cried into the telephone, "Are you listening to me, Angie?"
"Yeah, I'm here," Angela replied. "The cat is scratching at the furniture again."
Angela Eley was Delia's friend and confidante since she first joined the firm five years ago. She was the picture-perfect blonde bombshell with a petite figure, peaches and cream complexion, and the natural magnetism to attract every man within a ten mile radius, and Delia couldn't help feeling a little envious of Angela's . . . assets. Of course, Delia wasn't overly over-weight, nor was she unattractive—she just happened to feel that way. Every day. Every single day. Since she was twelve.
"Listen, Delia, it seems to me that you've got to get proactive about your life."
"Proactive? Angie, if you haven't noticed, all I've been is proactive since I started at Soza& Co," Delia replied, driving her teaspoon back into the frozen dessert. "I've been steadily climbing in terms of rank, pay-scale and job description."
"That much I know, and I'm not talking about your job. I'm talking about your personal life, Deel. As long as I've known you you've been dating losers, settling for second best, never standing up for yourself, taking shit from guys, and falling off the wagon of your diet and exercise programs. For someone who is so career driven, you sure don't have the same drive and motivation when it comes to other areas of your life."
"That's why I've made resolutions this year!" Delia chirped before sucking on her spoonful of triple chocolate brownie ice cream.
"Resolutions are . . . good," Angie replied, her tone indicating a lack of conviction.
"You don't agree?"
"It's not that I don't agree, it's just that no one ever keeps their New Year's resolution. Everyone always vows to quit smoking, give up drinking, stop sleeping with the UPS guy . . . but really, those resolutions will flop by the February. And I'm being generous! What you need is a fail-safe plan to live by."
"Geez Louise! You sound like Dr. Phil!" Though Delia never admitted to being a Dr. Phil fanatic.
"Yeah, and he's oftentimes right, honey! Listen, I've gotta run, the cat's going berserk on Paul's newest antique chair. We'll chat tomorrow. Think about a plan, Delia. Ciao babe."
And with that quick, almost perfunctory ending, Angela cut the connection. Delia hung up the phone with a heavy sigh.
"I need a plan," she repeated. "A fail-safe plan."
She reached for a pen and paper and before she knew it she had a detailed outline which centered around three goals for 2005: losing twenty pounds, becoming more spiritual, and vowing off of men entirely! She would begin first thing Monday morning. She would be committed. She would be determined. She knew that she would be up for a challenge.