I wanted to be her when I grew up. Brunette, shapely, working as a flowerist.

Humping Jack Tripper.

Oh shit: it’s Florist.

Oh well.

Instead of being Janet, I’m just a guy who works at a start-up company that always seems to be going under. Right now it’s afloat. Thing are even good, the CEO says. And because we want to believe him, we start becoming more eager and frisky and looking forward to the rewards.

As for me I’m taking my hopes elsewhere. I’m taking it out of the office. I’m invading other offices.

But not for a job. I’m looking for love.

Unfortunately, most recently I’ve ended up having affairs with married men and women. Yes both. I’m pretty busy. And also a little shocked because they all in their thirties and have new kids–newborns, toddlers, none even yet in preschool. And so I ask myself as I ride the subway, still sweaty from the sex at my lunch hour. How do they do it?

Nowadays both parents have to be out there hustling, nine to fiving, and when do they get time for their affairs?

No one is having time to have affairs, is one of the argument. Children take up too much time. There’s no time such time, they say Or: “What? You can’t be serious. Cheating is wrong. It’s cheating!” They say.

But seriously, I want to say to them as I make my copies at Fedex or grab some more half and half at Startbucks. I know what I’m talking about. I’m the other woman. Or man, depending on how you look at it.