There was a craft service table with everything from the apple slices you told yourself you'd come over for, to the chocolate-covered pretzels you actually ate. There were breakfast burritos, tatted crew members, kick-ass producers and a director who we agency people hoped would like us - it had all the makings of a typical shoot. Except that it was in a remote area of Maine. Which meant that instead of an ocean-view at Shutters, the best you could hope for was a parking-lot-view at a motel whose name invariably contained the word "moose."

The night before we left had landed me at JCrew, where I studied a rack of jeans as if they were exotic sea creatures. A saleswoman asked If I wanted help, and I confessed that I needed it desperately. "I'm sort of a dress-girl," I added, feeling ridiculous at how it sounded, but it didn't matter - she was concentrating.

"Let me see you," she said, and I shyly stepped back and opened my coat. I squirmed as her eyes traveled up and down my body. Finally, she pronounced, "You're a curvy toothpick" as if it was an astrological sign. I wasn't sure how to react. Was I a fat toothpick? Could you even be a fat toothpick? "It’s a good thing," she assured me, and I chose to believe her.

The next day, on our tech scout, I willed myself to be brave, stepping from stone to mud, as we climbed what the line producer called hills, but seemed to me more like mountains. The crew told us to wait while they scaled yet another hill (mountain!) and I stood with Shawn, the account guy we all loved, Amandine and Walter, the team whose spot we were shooting, and Lisa, our producer, who had the impossible job of keeping us in line.

Pine trees are quiet, and in their presence, so were we. The bickering over toothpaste in the sink I’d done that morning seemed small and stupid, and I wished I’d hugged my husband closer when we said goodbye. I sighed, sticking my hands into the pockets of my Curvy Toothpicks, and glanced at the others. Their faces were turned skyward and when our eyes met, it was without our usual snark. We smiled, at each other, and to ourselves, feeling a sense of peace and awe we didn't know we'd been missing.

That night, it got way colder, and by the next morning, it was apparent that my toothpicks weren’t going to cut it. Shawn brought me to Walmart, where a saleswoman said the only snow pants left were in the kids’ department.

My heart leapt when I saw a pair, hanging on a rack as if they'd been waiting for me. And they weren’t just pants – they had a bib and straps – I’ve always loved overalls and pictured myself evaluating a shot with one strap saucily falling off a shoulder. I threw them into my cart, practically skipping to the register. As I put my credit card away, Shawn gave a snort of a laugh.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

His eyes were fixed on the price tag “This,” he said, tapping a finger on the size.

I gasped. "Oh my God. I'm a Large Boy.” 

Shawn was amused.  The cashier was not. 

As we got into the car, I explained that I was actually a Curvy Toothpick and Shawn shook his head. "You may be a curvy toothpick in New York, but things are different here, my friend.

By Day 2 of the shoot, my name had taken a back seat to my size, and “Want a coffee, Large Boy?” became a question I answered earnestly. On Day 3, it rained - cold, hard pellets that hit like stones. We huddled under a tarp, staring at a monitor as the amazing crew and god of a director kept moving. A production assistant appeared with a pile of clear ponchos and a craft-service person came by with a tray of cheese croquettes. How anyone managed to make, let alone serve hors d'oeuvres in that situation was beyond me.

With our poncho hoods up, we looked like five condoms that would never have sex. Walter grabbed a fistful of croquettes and ate them like a happy wedding guest. He was still smiling after he finished. "Those treats," he said, "They remind me of home." He was a long way from Brazil and hadn't seen his family for a while. I patted his condom on the shoulder.

Later, as we drove back to the Moose Motel, Walter sighed happily. "So far, the best part of this vacation was the croquettes." There was a beat of silence, before someone laughed. And then the rest of us joined in. Finally, Amandine, in her practical French manner, said, "Walter. We’re not on vacation."

"But guys, it feels like vacation," Walter insisted and we laughed harder. We laughed because we were exhausted and frozen and still wearing our condom-ponchos and if this was vacation, then work must really suck. But we knew exactly what Walter meant. We were away from home. We were falling in love with a new place and with each other. Afterward, we’d go back to our lives, but we’d miss making jokes that were only funny to us.

"Ok," Lisa said. "Back to the hotel for showers, then dinner.”

"But first," Amandine said, "We have to rank the Seans." Shawn sighed. There were two other guys with his name, and at the end of each day, we rated their performances. One of the Seans was the director, so he was always Sean 1.

"Doesn't this game really not make sense since they spell their names differently than me?" our Shawn asked. We ignored him.

"I think it goes like this," said Lisa. "Sean 1 is Sean 1.  And the other Sean kicked ass today - did you see him run up the mountain with that camera? Those things are heavy."

"And it was pouring," I added, glancing pointedly at our Shawn.

"I'm sorry," Walter said, putting an arm around him, "but once again, you are Shawn 3."

“Well, it could be worse,” he said. “I could be a Large Boy.  Are you ever taking those things off?” he asked.

Now that I freelance, things are different. I love not having a boss. I love being able to choose what I work on. And above all, I love that now I get to write all day, not a status or scoping meeting in sight.

As I write this, at a neighborhood café, I’m more focused than I was at my office desk, where at any moment, someone could pop by to talk about what happened on Succession or gossip about the latest company-wide email or announce that there were cupcakes in a conference room. The café where I sit is lovely and I’m surrounded by flowers. But also, by strangers.

I don’t so much miss the work part of work.  But I do miss gossip and cupcakes. And I miss texting friends during zooms and studying their faces to see if they’re holding back laughter. I miss the late-night beautiful mess of pizza-scented-conference rooms whose walls are covered with scribbled-on papers and post-it notes. And I miss eating cheese croquettes in the rain with people who will always remember it the way I do.

I keep saying I’ll give the Large Boys away, because they stick out in my closet like loud, poorly-behaved guests at a party and they take up too much room. And yet, I don’t kick them out. Because while I keep some pieces of clothing so I can wear them, I keep others so I can hold them.

For the sheer, stupid, and very large joy of it all.