THE GLASS SLIPPER

The Interview

"Oh, my God, Lucy. Just look at her."

"I know. What is she wearing?"

Out of curiosity, I glanced over at the subject of the two women's barely suppressed giggles. The question wasn't what she was wearing, but what she wasn't, and that was quite a lot. I was fairly new to the DC metropolitan area, but I was certain that October weather did not call for PVC booty shorts and heels of porn star proportions. To top it off, the woman was practically spilling out of her leopard-print bustier, which may have looked somewhat decent on someone twenty years younger and fifty pounds thinner.

The women continued their verbal assault as I silently contemplated suicide.

This is what happens when you're the only one in a tight circle of friends who isn't married. They start creating profiles for you on eHarmony and Match dot com, determined to find the man you will spend the rest of your life with. Or they invite you out to dinner and just happen to bring along their single male friend, then excuse themselves to go to the restroom and mysteriously disappear for the better half of the night.

Or, in this case, sign you up for the umpteenth season of a really bad dating show.

All right, it wasn't a bad dating show in the rating sense. In fact, since its creation two years ago, The Glass Slipper had become one of the most widely watched shows on network television, right up there with American Idol. The show followed the same plot as The Bachelor – the only difference was that the bachelor was always a celebrity looking for an ordinary wife. It was Cinderella meets reality TV.

For my part, I steered clear of reality shows. There was enough drama in my everyday life – why waste time watching someone else's?

"Twenty-three," a girl wearing an outfit no mother would approve of called from the doorway.

That was me, and might I mention what an ego-deflater it was to be marginalized to a mere number. Why the producers for this show didn't feel the need to call us by our given names was beyond me. They claimed it was for the sake of anonymity, but really, it was just Hollywood's way of making sure you knew you were nobody. What really disturbed me was the blatant bias in appearances. I had been sitting in that cramped waiting room for two hours, and the interviews for heavier set women were noticeably shorter than those of the Victoria's Secret body types. Makes you wonder if there will ever be an amendment protecting the rights of the ugly. Hadn't Abercrombie & Fitch already been sued somewhere along those lines?

I kept these thoughts to myself as I followed the casting assistant into a dark room. She motioned for me to stand in front of a lime green screen. The cameraman in front of me adjusted his equipment to accommodate my height – or rather, lack of it.

"Please state your full name and age," a disembodied voice stated from the other side of the room.

I squinted into the dark, trying to see past the harsh spotlight, which had been strategically placed to shine directly into my eyes. "My name is Katherine Wilde and I'm twenty-seven."

"What is your marital status?"

Marital status?

"To my knowledge, I'm single, but there have been a number of intoxicated weekends in Vegas where I woke up the next morning with no clue what happened the night before, so anything could have happened."

There was a pregnant pause.

Then, "Katherine, please just answer the question."

I sighed. "Sorry, it just seems obvious to me that I'm single, or I wouldn't be applying for a husband. By the way, I go by Kate. Katie, if we become good friends."

"All right, Kate. Tell us why you want to be a bachelorette on The Glass Slipper."

Of all questions to start off with, they had to kick off this interview with the hardest one. The truth was, I didn't want to be a contestant on this overrated, yuppie version of The Bachelor. Amanda, bless her heart, hadn't realized they actually charged you a processing fee when she submitted my application and boy, does a joke stop being funny when it turns into a five hundred dollar billing statement. To mollify her husband, the bankroller in their family, I promised to at least pretend I wanted to be on the show – and damned if I don't keep my word.

So here I was, six weeks later, having an interview for a dating contest I had no desire to participate in. For Amanda's sake, I rattled off some crap about wanting to complete the picture perfect American dream by marrying the nation's most eligible bachelor and having five perfect little American babies to continue our perfect little bloodline. My love life was a speed dating session that never ended, and I was ready to take love into my own hands.

I'm sure the sarcasm in my speech did not go unnoticed. After a few more perfunctory questions that I answered with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever, they showed me to the door with a hollow promise of contacting me within a week.

The moment I left the screening room I took off for the restroom. During the interview, the urge to urinate had shot up to dangerous levels, and not surprisingly, the line for the women's room was impossibly long (applicants prepping themselves for the camera, I assumed), while the men's room was pretty much unoccupied.

Well, nature took precedence over propriety, so in the men's room I went. Thankfully, the urinals were not in use. I quickly bypassed these and slipped into a stall to relieve myself, hoping I could escape without being noticed by the man in the next stall.

Unfortunately, we stepped out of our stalls at the same time. The man didn't notice me until we were at the sink washing our hands. He glanced up at my reflection and did a double take. I smiled and continued washing my hands without comment.

Inwardly, I was cursing. Of all men to witness my transgression, he had to be the dark-haired version of Brad Pitt in his Fight Club days. Then again, a man with his looks most likely only dated women of the same caliber. He could probably care less which restroom I chose to do my business.

"Got tired of waiting?" he drawled, handing me a paper towel he had just pulled from the dispenser. A man who could still be a gentleman during an awkward situation? I was in love.

"Nature didn't call. It demanded," I replied.

He had the sexiest laugh I had ever heard. "Are you here for the screening?"

"You mean for the show? Guilty as charged, but this is as far as I go."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"This whole thing was kind of a fluke. My coworker signed me up as a joke and…well, it turned out to be a really expensive joke, so I decided to humor her by coming."

I suddenly became very aware of how odd it was to be chatting with a stranger in the men's bathroom while its rightful patrons were moving about. They sent weird looks in our direction as they came in, and wisely chose to do their business in the stalls.

"That's too bad," dark-haired Brad Pitt murmured as we walked out the door to more curious glances.

"Right, well, the guy's probably into the Triple B's," I replied. "So no loss here."

"Triple B's? Is that a new bra size?" Naturally, his gaze flickered down to my chest and back. Real smooth.

"Beautiful, blond, and busty," I explained. "So I won't make the cut. Wrong on all counts. But here's what I figure – if a rich guy has to go on a dating show to find a wife, well, there must be something seriously wrong with him."

At this, dark-haired Brad Pitt smiled vaguely and stuck out his hand, which I shook. "Well, it was nice meeting you…?"

"Let's not bother with names, because we'll never see each other again and frankly, I don't want you to remember me after my...ah, intrusion."

"That's too bad." His blue eyes twinkled with mischief. "Guess I'll just have to use public restrooms more often."