In this office of haves and have-nots, at least I had my first in a series of office wives, Amy (whose name I changed, like everyone else’s in this piece). For the record, let’s stipulate that the other women in a man’s life are great. His wife is great, his girlfriend is great, and—if he has one of each—well, they’re both great. They’re everything he ever wanted, more than he ever hoped for, blah, blah, blah. But if he’s going to spend all day and half the night at the office—his prime postcoffee awake-and-alive hours, the ones in which he can think and speak and do—what he needs is a confidante, a fellow corporate soldier to share the smirks, the laughs, the deep, plaintive groans of incredulity, and the rare moments of self-awareness.

Is the boss that clueless, that inept, that shallow or backward-thinking or dim or derelict? Has no one else noticed? But wait, someone else has noticed and—even better—has noticed you noticing. Out of nowhere, there she is: the work wife, the other woman your wife might just let you keep. It should go without saying that it helps considerably when the work wife is nonthreatening in age, looks, or ass size. Karen Hughes or Mary Beth Cahill will never be mistaken for Fawn Hall or Monica Lewinsky. Even fit, trim, single Condoleezza Rice comes off like Marcie to George W.’s Peppermint Patty. (Evidently, instead of “sir,” she refers to him as “my hus—,” as she did last spring in a room full of reporters.)

READ: Do You Have an Office Wife?

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