Two weeks ago, on June 16, I got a call from the mail room at work.
“You have a package delivered via courier.”
Having received many press-related packages, I didn’t think much of it. That is, until I walked into the mail room and saw the balloons.
“Oh my god.”
There was a huge monkey balloon smiling and wearing boxers with hearts on it. And several other balloons surrounded it. It was a balloon-o-gram, with the message: “Hey lady… see you soon.”
A. was in California for work. And it was a year since we first met.
I laughed as I walked down the hall with the balloon-o-gram and all of my coworkers looked at me funny. I must have been asked 20 times if it was my birthday. “No,” I said sheepishly, “my boyfriend and I have been together a year.”
Then I took a photo of me kissing monkey and emailed it to A. with the subject line: “I’ve met another man.” A. later said it was the funniest message he’s ever received from me. (I personally think I’ve been funnier, but that’s another matter.)
The monkey jokes haven’t stopped since. “The monkey is looking anemic,” C. said a few days ago. “Oh, how sweet, how touching,” said another with his British accent. “Are you still together?” said another.
But monkey is still hanging in there — two weeks later, he’s upright, sitting on my desk. One coworker suggested framing him when he dies, and hanging him on the wall so we won’t forget monkey. I think I’m attached to a balloon, like Tom Hanks was attached to a volleyball in the movie Cast Away. Is that weird?