I never had it in me to direct or produce, which is why I didn’t go to school for that kind of a thing. But I knew I’d be good at coordinating all the back-of-house happenings like...rounding up the production assistants, constantly walkie-talkie-ing with the crew about stuff, overseeing craft services, helping with casting, things like that. I didn’t know if that role had a real name, or if it even existed in Hollywood, but an NYU alum who also happened to be an Emmy-nominated set designer got me a gig working as a super low-level assistant to an assistant at a big studio in Hollywood. Couple the minimum wage pay with the cheap sublet I found on Craigslist, and the twenty-two-year-old me was all-in on the whole Los Angeles experience. I just needed to pack my bags and officially switch my wardrobe over to something that could be described as less “big city” and more “boho chic.” I had no idea that a month after my move, I’d end up meeting the man who would become my husband while on the job.

The studio I was working at was filming a reality show about plastic surgery. I wasn’t as good at social media as I am now, but I found some guy on Instagram named Brian Jackson who was an intern at a surgeon’s office. He geotagged the clinic in all of his posts and hashtagged every upload with #ABoobJobIsTheBestJob. I DM’d Brian to ask if he’d want to be part of the segment, and a week later, Decker was the guy who gave his good-looking boob-guy friend a ride to the studio for the taping. That left Decker and me alone to talk in the greenroom.

While chatting, I learned that Decker was a teacher, off for the summer, and had plans to drive up to Tahoe with his buddy right after the shoot. I don’t know what it was, but we just clicked. Instantly. So we exchanged numbers and texted his whole way up. When the flirting reached a critical mass, he decided to come back solo a day early and take me out for sushi. And the rest, as they say, was history.

Considering how worried my mom got at the thought of a busy weekend, I decide now is not the time to slip into conversation the arrival of Decker’s urn. So I hurry to end the conversation and cap it with a promise that I will call her after work one night this week.

“Sounds good. You know what? I’m going to ship you matzo. You can make some matzo ball soup. I don’t want you getting sick. That’d really put a damper on your dating life, wouldn’t it?”

She wants grandchildren. I get it.

An intern whizzes by me with an aromatic barbacoa burrito bowl. She plops down at the desk across from mine—Monica’s. I guess while she’s out on her honeymoon, a girl named Marigold is guarding her inbox. Marigold’s proximity to me is, at best, a necessary annoyance considering I have zero in common with the girl whose “fun fact” at our last team meeting was that she’s distant cousins with Justin Bieber and gets mistaken for a young Uma Thurman “at least once a week.”