My Boss and I have an unusual relationship: we mutually respect and like each other. A lot.

Sure, whenever an exhibition nears opening time, I broadcast a less-than-praising  text message to whatever set of eyes I think will listen. But generally speaking, I really dig the woman that hired me and signs my paychecks. However, there is a catch to the somewhat familial relationship with my superior: in the time I’ve been her protege, she’s taken a keen interest in my personal life.

Signing me up for young professional focus groups.

Sending me to regional business development meetings on her behalf.

Introducing me to the “social media coordinator” for the nearest BMW dealer.

Whenever an opportunity to throw me in front of eligible, single, high-income, young (and local) bachelors arises, my boss is quick to act and sign me up.

She’s no dummy. Get me settled and happy with a boy who can keep me clad in Diane von Frustenberg and I’m more likely to stay happy right where I am as her Gallery Director. If I had to bet, I’d say she figures getting me off the single-girl streets is a win-win for everyone.

When I strolled into the office the Monday morning after my college 5-year reunion, I was notably still groggy from a weekend of catching-up with old schoolmates. The massive multi-tonal blue temporary tattoo of my college’s mascot on my right bicep was a sure indicator that it had been a good time.

“How was the reunion?”

“Fun!”

“Did you meet anyone?”

“Yea! I caught up with some friends I haven’t seen since graduation. Met some of their friends… it was a great time and good networking.”

“No. I mean did you meet any MEN? MEN!?!”

I quickly moved my hand to my neck and brushed my hair around to the front. There was an ambiguous bruise that needed hiding — one that could as easily have been a result of last week’s fencing practice as evidence that yes, boss, I did meet a man at the reunion.

“Ummmm…. yes. I met one.”

“Only one?”

A few weeks later, she caught me in the office with a shopping bag, indicating that I had made more than good use of my lunch hour.

“You went shopping without me! What did you get?” (my boss likes my taste in clothing/jewelry and frequently suggests we go on shopping excursions together, despite our obvious salary differences…)

“Nothing interesting.”

“Common! What did you buy?!?!”

“Underwear.”

“Oh! Is there a new boy?”

“Not a new one….”

She raised her eyes and gave a fist pump.

“Boss, this has nothing to do with him. I needed new underwear,” I replied, but I doubt she heard me.

“Is he interesting?”

Pause.

“Very.”

My eyes and single-word response must have been telling:

“Well then! Good. But don’t do anything brash without talking to me. I mean don’t run off and elope or anything.”

“I’m more likely to run out and buy another pair of underwear.”

“Good. Of that I approve. Get something slinky. Now, where’s that sponsorship proposal you were working on?”