I fix my AirPods into my ears and play the voice mail as I wait for the light on the corner to change, bouncing up and down on my toes in that performative way joggers do to ensure everyone knows we’re not just wearing pricey athleisure, we’re actual athletes, a step above the rest.

When the woman’s voice comes into my ear, friendly but firm, I stop.

“Hi, this is Sarah Keens with the New York Times’s Vows column, looking for Eliza Bennet. We received the submission for your upcoming wedding and would love to cover it. Please give me a call when you have a moment to talk about some details.”

Check.

I play the message two more times, listening carefully to each word and memorizing her phone number as I make my way closer to the Park. I had been confident when I submitted the form eight weeks ago that it would be enthusiastically accepted. Barring today, I’d read the Vows section every Sunday since our engagement, studying each entry like gospel, memorizing the quirky meet-cutes, the successful second attempts at love, the spontaneous elopements, until I knew exactly how to pitch us.

First, the cliché hook: my name lends itself to potboiler headlines without even trying. Eliza Bennet Marries Real-Life Darcy. People eat that shit up.

Second, the tragic line: everyone loves a Little Orphan Annie who got herself out and up.

Third, the aspirational sinker: I have worked very hard to be exactly how women envision themselves in their perfect lives. No matter how hard you try to fight it, the life you thought you’d have when you were eight is still what you want. Engaged to someone with a high-six-figure income; living in a prewar luxury building that’s exploding with natural light and professionally decorated with just enough accent pieces to claim a coherent “style”; and working a glossy job in public relations wearing heels and pencil skirts with the impressive (though entirely meaningless) title Director of Communications. I am what every woman hopes for, and every man wants. And look, she’s done it by thirty. Some people my age are still getting blackout drunk on a Friday night and hooking up with strangers who drop their condoms on the floor when they’re done, leaving you to scavenge for it in the morning like a rat in a Central Park garbage can.

Not me.

I glide across the Park, replaying the voice mail in my head as I push my fastest mile time in years. That was the last potential hitch in the wedding plans, the last box left unchecked. The last thing that could have potentially tainted the otherwise perfect day. Now there is very little left to do but return the call, and wait.