And sure, that’s not a bad thing, but if I’m honest, it’s not that they’re married that’s the issue. I’m the issue. It’s me. Because I too was once blissfully married.

And at the beginning of my marriage, there was love between me and my ex, there was excitement, there was passion. But as time went on, year by year, I could start to see my husband’s interest in me slip. His passion to hold my hand, cuddle, kiss me good night—no longer there. And the love diminished until the last year of my marriage, when it came crashing down after my husband forgot my birthday, leaving me to eat a piece of cake I bought for myself alone at the dining room table while he played video games.

So being in an office building surrounded by men who are happily married…it’s…it’s just hard. Makes me think of Matt, makes me think of how inadequate I am, how I wasn’t good enough to hold his attention.

Not to mention I have nothing in common with them, unless they want to hear about the gum that got stuck on the bottom of my shoe while on a single-lady walk through Central Park over the weekend.

Nor do they care about my Sunday night girl dinner, which consisted of two dill pickles, one single Triscuit, and a cup of applesauce that I ate alone while watching the Menendez brothers documentary on Netflix.

There is a marriage cult, and I’m on the outside, looking in. Heaven forbid they ever find out I’m divorced. I can’t imagine the clutching of their embroidered vests, the horror that would wash over their freshly shaven faces.

Scottie Price, the single one, sequestered in her office, not to go near in case she’s contaminated with the “divorcées,” a rare condition that could spread if one comes in close contact.

“You coming?” Finky asks, nodding toward the conference room.

My nostrils flare. “Yes, on my way.”

“Good, don’t want to be late. Ellison is here today.”

My estrogen sonar perks up.

“Ellison is here? Really?”

“Yes. And you don’t want to be the last one in the conference room.”

No, I don’t.

I quickly grab a notepad and pen, secure my coffee, and then head out into the pit and across the office to the conference room, where the men are already gathering. As I move around the table and find a seat, I scan the room, my mind picking them out one by one in my editor brain.

Brad S: never uses an uppercase T when writing T-shirt, despite how many times I remind him.

Duncan: can’t remember to cite his sources, ever. I’m constantly chasing after him.

Finky: funny, but if he has to describe a putter, might as well settle for hard and gray as his description.