What a Girl Wants (2 page)

I don’t feel desperate. I sing in the worship band, I work at the homeless shelter, and I’m busy nearly every night of the week. Granted, my busyness translates into which reality television show is on that night, but I still have my routine.

Kay Harding has taken the podium and her familiar voice breaks into my thoughts. “Saturday night we’re going to the local Starbucks for a talent night. If anyone wants to sign up, please see me after Sunday school.” Kay takes the pen from behind her ear and attaches it to the clipboard. “I’ll send the sign-up sheet around, but see me if you’re performing.”

The thought of invading a local coffee house and humiliating myself sends my stomach surging. At the same time, I know I’ll be there. What else do I have to do? I’m in such a rut. It’s like when an engineer tries to explain a new segment of technology to me. I know I’ll eventually get it, but the early frustration leaves me wondering why I do what I do.

Jim Henderson is clapping. I call Jim “Wild at Heart Man” because he can’t seem to say a thing without quoting John Eldredge. Trouble is, I think Jim missed the message of that book because he’s not more masculine, just more annoying. Of course, I’m not one to judge because I’ve been sitting here, same as him, waiting for someone to bear witness to my feminine wiles.

Seth Greenwood stands up. Seth is the one anomaly in the group. He’s handsome, albeit bald, but that doesn’t bother me. He has crystal blue eyes and a heart as big as the San Francisco Bay. He’s a programmer—read: Geek. But who isn’t in the Silicon Valley? He’s thirty-four—granted his baldness makes him look a little older—but he’s always there for anyone who needs him. Including me. Right now, he’s got an out-of-work salesman friend living with him. And that guy brought two cats along. Seth’s “reason” is probably just fear of commitment, the universal fear of single men everywhere, but something tells me he won’t stay in that trench forever. So I guess maybe he’s a “season” man. Time will tell.

Seth takes center stage over the rickety music stand. “On Wednesday night, after Bible Study, we’re watching
Notorious
. It’s an old movie with Cary Grant,” (the women coo here) “and Ingrid Bergman,” (now a few guys whistle). “Anyone interested”—Seth looks over at Kay and her organized clipboard and winces just a bit. “Well, anyone interested can just show up on Wednesday night. We’ll know why you’re there. Bring a snack, or be at the mercy of my fridge.” Seth sits back down, and I feel my smile break loose. Seth encapsulates an invisible charm, like Fred Astaire. You can’t really see his attractiveness in a Hugh Jackman way, but there’s something about him that throws you off, in a good sort of way.

The singles’ pastor stands up. “If that takes care of all the announcements, I have one of my own.” Pastor Max Romanski is dreamy to look at, sort of a cross between the quarterback in high school and the president of the student body all grown up. Not the cool guy who peaked in high school, but the one whose gift transcends adolescence.

Max is tall and radiates this vibrant love for the Lord. Just by the way he looks at his wife—all googly-eyed, like a lovesick teenager—makes you appreciate him. And maybe covet just a little bit.

Max’s wife, Kelly, is a beautiful, blond, doe-eyed princess. Sweeter than caramel, there is no mistaking why Kelly married. She was the girl in high school we all wished we could be, with the right clothes and the stylish haircut. I can’t imagine Kelly ever
not
knowing how to look.

Max beams a grin, ideal for one of those BriteSmile ads. “Kelly and I would like to announce we are expecting a baby, and we’re due in July.”

Everyone claps. A polite round of applause that implies joy for the new gift of life, yet an irritable jealousy that no one wants to feel, but who can help it? Every time someone gets pregnant it’s just another reminder: There’s Absolutely No Chance of That Happening in My Life Anytime in the Near Future. Unless God is planning another Immaculate Conception, and I’m thinking He’s done with that kind of miracle.

So I clap a bit more than the others, and smile. It’s one of those plastered, fake smiles, but it’s all I can manage. I am happy for them, really I am, and I know that envy is a sin, so I force such feelings away. But when I help throw another shower, and when I hold their perfect bundle of joy, it will hurt—and I hate that I feel that way.

I notice that I do better at reacting than Kay Harding. I can’t imagine what it’s like for her with everything in her life so ordered. You almost believe she could snap up a baby by putting a line item in her Palm Pilot. But it hasn’t happened yet and she’s past forty. The age that invokes panic in us all.

We move on to prayer. Same old stuff. If we were any shallower in our prayers, we’d be floating. It’s all about jobs, and job changes, and maybe moving from one apartment to another. But who among us would dare to bare their soul? It’s as though announcing our loneliness is like making it a reality. Heaven for-bid we discuss something publicly that actually means something to us. Like, it’s been six months and I haven’t had a date, or that, as sad as the coffee house talent show is, it’s the highlight of our week. But we don’t say any of those things. We either say everything’s fine, or we whine about our jobs and apartments.

Truthfully, I can’t really complain about work. I picked a boring profession, and it is a real snoozer most of the time. Since my expectations weren’t high in the first place, I’m content. Being a patent lawyer and working with engineers, you’d think I’d have beaus galore to choose from for potential husbands. However, at work, engineers are on a different plane. They’re not thinking about dates or women, they are thinking about an integrated circuit they must procure, and since they can only open one mental compartment at a time, my chance of getting a boyfriend at work is about as slim as Ally McBeal’s neck.

After prayer, we go into Bible study. Right now we’re studying submission to authority. Maybe Pastor Max is hoping to defer some job prayer requests, but so far it isn’t working. Submission, to a single, is a bit like explaining commitment to a male. It makes sense, but you don’t really have much of an opportunity to test-drive the sermon without a partner.

We go home to our separate apartments, and we think about submission, but unless the neighbor’s cat walks by and we bow before it, the good intentions drift away. I have no trouble being submissive to my boss. She tells me what to do; I do it. It’s not a hard concept for me, really. Since there’s no one else in real authority over me, I guess I’m okay there.

Max winds up his lesson with a hearty, “Go rejoice and be glad in this day!”

His invocation announces Sunday afternoon has arrived. Now, as a collective entity we will head to a local restaurant, most likely Chili’s or Applebee’s, and prove to the waitress why we are all single. Kay will order like she’s at a San Francisco five-star restaurant,
Hold this, this on the side, blah, blah, blah . . .

Someone will inevitably snap at the waitress, usually right before we all pray for the meal. The bill used to come up short, so now Kay ensures that all bills are tallied separately, yet another reason for the waitress to hate us. Someone used to assume that tax and tip is taken off the tally, rather than added, and a few of us had to add an extra dollar. It’s never worth the argument, but it makes me cringe at the witness good Christians can be: willing to sacrifice their faith for that extra buck.

So I’m in a rut. And short of jumping from an airplane, which I’m not inclined to do, or planning a vacation, which I can’t afford to take, lest someone else takes my position, I have no idea how to get out of my current situation. I’ve considered online dating, but then I think, do I want my computer to reject me, too? Remembering Meg Ryan’s excitement when she had e-mail in
You’ve Got Mail
, I can’t help but think what an empty in box might do to me. Like, “I can’t even see you and you’re still a loser!”

Maybe I need a makeover, but I already got one of those cute blunt cuts. One thing to remember when you get your hair chopped like a movie star is that they still have that face, and you still have yours. So while it may look cute for Halle Barry to get shorn like a hairless Chihuahua, it is simply not a good look for me. I was going for a Reese Witherspoon look this time, but Reese lives a charmed life. Her hair flips right; mine is in a perpetual state of confusion.

“Are you going to lunch with us, Ash?” Seth asks.

I don’t want to admit I have nothing better to do, so I answer, “Of course I am. Wouldn’t miss it.” I’m downright perky with cheerleader enthusiasm.

“Sam is driving. Do you want to come with us?”

Now, I’d like to think of this as chivalry, but parking is limited at the restaurant and in all probability, it’s a logistical issue that drives Seth to ask me about a ride.

“Sure.” I shrug, but my heart does a little cartwheel. It’s those blue eyes of his. They are like a gemologist’s dream of aquamarine and sapphire. The perfect jewel created by God alone, and when they’re pointed at you? Well, at the risk of being cliché, my knees go weak. Seth and I have a long history. He calls me when he gets dumped. I call him when no one calls me. We’ve been friends for years. And friends is all we’ll ever be.

So I grab my Prada bag, a gift to myself when I passed the bar, and I follow Sam and Seth to the car. I say follow, because unfortunately, chivalry is dead in Silicon Valley. I know from experience that Seth won’t open my door, and he’ll make me sit in the back while he rides shotgun. It’s hard to overly romanticize an engineer. They are what they are: practical above all else. And at six foot two, sitting in the backseat is wholly impractical for Seth.

I look into those blue eyes, and I envision a future where Seth thinks of me as a girl. He may have his Master’s Degree in Engineering Management, but he’s in the first grade when it comes to women. I can picture him pulling my hair before I can picture him kissing me. Of course, this infers I have hair left to pull and sadly, I don’t. I used to have cascading tresses like the romance books say, but a picture of Reese Witherspoon in
InStyle
and I was a sheep to the slaughter.

We pile into the Saab, Sam’s beat-up version of the European sedan, and we head to our familiar hangout. The waitresses are probably fighting now as to who will get us in their section.

2

L
unch is just as I expect. The waitress practically falls to the ground in worship when we depart. Who says we’re not witnessing to the outside world when we go out? When you can leave a waitress lying prostrate on the ground, you have yourself some serious faith-spreading.

Seth is back to discussing video games with Sam in the front seat of the Saab. They’re talking about some secret key in some corner chamber, and I smile dumbly, like I have any notion as to what they’re talking about. Or any care.

When I was in eighth grade and boys discussed video games, I understood. Now that I’m thirty-one I think to myself,
If you
boys would grow up, you might be having sex by now instead of playing
Super Mario XXXIV.
But as an aging virgin, who am I to judge?

“You want me to drop you off at church or home?” Sam looks at me in the rearview mirror. His Asian eyes are pleading with me silently to save him the extra jaunt to church.

“I kinda need my car,” I say, trying to keep the “You’re an Imbecile” out of my voice. Although it should be obvious that I’d like to be taken to where I left my vehicle, I’ve learned that engineers do not understand simple math: A+B = C. After all, B is an unknown, right? And if B takes an engineer out of his desired path, then the equation just doesn’t add up.

I rail on engineers, but if you lived here in Silicon Valley where the men are engineers, and the women are hopelessly single, you’d understand my point. When a new science-fiction movie opens here, it’s an event worthy of a costume. A nice dinner out is considered Dave & Buster’s, the local grown-up arcade. Just once I want to meet up with a man who knows it’s good manners to open a lady’s door and let her enter first. Not a race.

Seth turns around, his blue eyes shining with laughter. He instinctively knows where Sam should be driving, but he keeps it all inside. As though he enjoys the private joke of how clueless his friends are. “We’re watching
The Matrix
tonight, Ash. You want to come over?”

“No thanks. I’m doing dinner at my mom’s house tonight.”
My birthday dinner
. I don’t add that I’ll be home in time for
Masterpiece Theatre,
or that I think
The Matrix
is stupid. That’s blasphemy around here. “Don’t you guys ever get tired of our lives in Silicon Valley?”

We’re at a traffic signal, and they both turn around and stare at me as if I have whipped cream on my nose.

“What do you mean?” Sam asks.

“I mean, we always do the same things. We hang out at the coffee shop, we see the same movies, we—you know, I can’t even think of what else we do. We should plan a trip to the beach and have a wild volleyball game or something.”

The light has changed, but they’re both still staring.
“The
Matrix
is an allegory, a worldview, if you will.”

“We’ve still seen it a few times,” I try half-heartedly. I’ve started it. Now we’ll get into the deeper discussions—like why Spock, with-out feeling, would sacrifice himself for mankind in
Star Trek Genesis
.

“Do you want to watch
Lord of the Rings?”
Seth asks.

I can’t help my audible sigh. “No. I’m going to my mom’s. Never mind. I was just thinking out loud.” That must be the burning smell in the car.

Seth’s face screws up into a tight knot. He cannot understand my problem today, and I can’t fathom my own lack of interest in the life around me. Engineers have their own language, their own culture. My fear is that I speak it fluently, and if I ever leave, will I still be able to speak English? Or will I revert to discussions about the battle for Middle-earth? These are my people.

“Maybe you need a vacation, Ashley,” Seth says.

“Maybe I do.” I shrug. “But I can’t take one now. We’re right in the middle of six new patents at work. There might be some kind of bonus when I’m done . . . maybe then my boss won’t be so crazed.” But in my heart, I don’t hold out much hope. Vacation is a dirty word in the Valley. It’s for weaklings and the unemployed. The money in Silicon Valley is great, but the most valuable commodity is time, and my boss owns it. Hence, she owns me.