You're Not Pretty Enough (14 page)

After a couple minutes of listening to their small talk, I
said, “Let’s go to lunch!” a little too loudly, a little too abruptly. I just wanted
out of there.

Michael looked at me weird and then smacked his hands to his knees before rising. “OK, I guess we’re leaving. It was nice to meet you.”

Never once did Josh “give me up.” That freaked me out! If the situation had been reversed, I would have confronted that shit
immediately.
But not Josh; he kept up appearances and later asked me if it was OK if he
was mad.

“Is it OK? Honey, I thought my shit would be on the lawn. Yes, it’s OK. But we can’t pretend anymore.” I moved out a month later. My friend Cathryn rented me the bottom half of a duplex in Old Brooklyn, which was just up the road from The Memphis Tavern (aka
The Drew Carey Show
bar).
I offered Josh and Kristin my share of the monthly rent for bagging on the place after only a month, and they took me up on it. So, double rent for ten months, but conscience clear.

What was not clear was my future with Michael. On the ride to the airport that day, it was clear I was freaked, and that made him question my integrity. Further, he felt I had waited too long to move out, and in doing so I lessened his confidence in the relationship. In mid-December I flew into
Boston for a project, and when he met me at my hotel I could tell he was perceptibly cooler toward me. In a panic, I climbed on top of him at 3:00 a.m. and rubbed against him until he was hard. I grabbed a condom and guided him
inside me. Though he didn’t protest, he was not an active participant. He lay there, with his eyes closed and his arms by his side as I circled my hips slowly and then faster and made noises that I hoped sounded sexy. Neither one
of us was satisfied with the experience. I flew back to Cleveland knowing it was over.

Back at my own apartment, I sank into a funk for a few weeks. The only thing worse than a general funk is a funk that you yourself created. And because I was (in retrospect) embarrassed about the way I behaved,
I didn’t talk to anyone about it; I just internalized it.

Hey, you need an activity.

So I started taking cardio kickboxing classes, which helped,
but I remained in a funk.

Why don’t you spruce your place up?

So I waited for inspiration to find me, and it did in the form of a
Real World
marathon and some mushrooms a friend gave me. I
painted my walls bright blue and green but did not get the hues right. A friend came over and asked whether my place used to be an ice cream parlor.

“No, I painted it!” I said proudly.

“Are you on Prozac?”

“No!”
But maybe I should be?
I thought that if I could only see him one more time I could convince him I was ready to pursue it. And
that
would end my funk.

If he just looks me in the eyes, he’ll know.

In the beginning of December, I returned to Boston one more time for a project and let him know I’d be in town from Wednesday through Saturday. He was at a conference in DC, returning on Friday, and to my surprise
he agreed to meet me that night. I was elated.
This is your last chance,
I thought.
Don’t screw it up.

A day later a snowstorm hit the Northeast and planes were delayed across the region. He called to tell me he didn’t know when he’d get
back, but it wouldn’t be for a couple days at least. I hung up the phone, gathered my knees to my chest, and rocked myself back and forth for an hour straight, calming only when I came across
How Stella Got Her Groove Back
on
cable. At least where Stella was it was sunny.

ME, 12/30, 9:30 a.m.

I miss you. It’s been eating at me for the last week. I really want to see you, but I feel nervous, bad, what have you. I thought about
sending you a Christmas present, but they were plum out of
The Big Lebowski: The Director’s Cut
. Actually, I kind of tortured myself with whether or not to send you one. But I didn’t want you to feel guilty or weird, and I wanted it to be the perfect gift that said exactly what I wanted it to say without
actually saying it, so I took the low road and got nothing. Lately, I’ve just been reliving moments and thinking about you. A lot. I just miss you.

Got to go now; have a conference call with Mike and
Cassandra in your office, actually. They’re helping me with some project stuff, and I’ve been slacking. Give the girl a promotion and a raise and she quits working…

HIM, 12/30, 10:14 a.m.

Well, you must not be doing the call, because I just saw Cassandra sitting at her desk.

I wouldn’t worry about the gift (I know you’re not really, anyway). I didn’t get you anything either, though I thought about it, but I
figured I’d have the chance to do that later if/when we saw each other.

I don’t really know what I’m feeling, and, of course, the holidays are always a screwy time for that sort of thinking, so I try not to put too much stock into how I’m feeling either way now. Things are different,
more realistic. You’re more settled, and that’s good. I don’t want to force things just because they were better between us before—that’s not right. The distance thing is hard for me—I’m sure for both of us—it makes
it hard to make a strong, tangible commitment. But I like that we’re (beginning to) talk normally again and write normally, etc.

I think that’s best for now.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: if someone
wants to be with you, they will do whatever it takes to be with you. They won’t follow some
Nicholas Sparks-type plot, meandering through a series of obstacles (
We’re from totally different worlds; it will never work!)
until they finally “see the light” (
All I need is your love! I get it now!
) And then the two of you go off and live your dream life, the end.

No, if someone doesn’t want to be in a relationship with
you, they’ll send clear signals; you may just not want to recognize them. At least that’s how I was. I’d send Michael letters and call him and e-mail him, all in the spirit of “Hey, I’ve got some funny story to tell you” but with an agenda of “I will wear you down until you like me again.” He’d always respond,
was always gracious, and at first I mistook his simply being kind to me as hope. But there was no hope. He was gone and wasn’t ever coming back.

For a while I thought if I could just prove how good I was,
how on track I was to being that person we both saw potential in, then dammit, we might just have something here. I devised schemes (that I neither implemented nor shared with anyone, thank goodness) where—as one example—I
would send him a postcard with a date, time, and place somewhere in Boston in the future, and then I’d just show up on said date and time and wait for him.

If he doesn’t show, then I’ll know!

You already know, dumbass!

I almost bought a love potion that was guaranteed to win him back
for $69.95, but that was a lot of money for me back then, and it was also…crazy. I said some cruel things to myself during that time (though
publicly I tried to project a persona that was put together and happy).

You are such a fuck-up!

Why doesn’t he love me back? How can it just GO AWAY?

WHY does it just go away?

You made it go away you dumb, fat bitch.

This time in my life is what finally forced me to confront my grief about the downfall of my marriage and the changes it brought. For a
while, I thought Michael was the main factor behind my sadness, and the fact that I was “fat” was the main reason he was gone. That he was
the one who got away,
and by my own design no less. I thought that I blew my one chance at happiness post-divorce, and because of that I deserved to live a life alone,
a life of being single, a life of hellish existence. How awful!

How dramatic.

Because, hindsight being what it is, he wasn’t my “soul mate.” He wasn’t
the one who got away.
He was the one who made me
realize I wanted to fall in love again—my breakthrough guy, if you will—and if I wanted it, I’d have to be an active participant in getting it. Awareness. Good.

But there was also this: I didn’t/don’t believe in a “soul
mate” as in singular. If we all had just one soul mate, then with my luck mine would have been some kid who lived in Siberia and died at age ten, two hundred years ago. “Soul mate” as singular is a term trumped up for fantasy or
convenience. Want to express your love to someone? “You’re my soul mate.” Looking for someone to love? “God, I just want to find my soul mate! Is that too much to ask?!”
He died. Siberia. Two hundred years ago.

Soul mates as plural, however—meaning there are several people you could potentially partner up with out there in the world—that’s something I can get behind. And I don’t mean
just
with romantic partners; friends can be soul mates too, but let’s focus on romantic
relationships. We are all multifaceted, yes? We all have different primary sides to us—the stuff that makes us who we are. If I had to narrow mine down to eight, they would probably be these:

I want someone who brings out these sides of me, who encourages them. And these descriptions reveal not only my primary traits but
also many of the traits I seek in a long-term partner. Think about the traits you seek. Then think about whether you’ve been with someone who is all of those things, all within the same package. (There’s someone out there who said yes? ALL of them? Really? Well, congratulations! You should play the lottery every
week).

The point is I came to that sort of philosophical arrangement in my head when it came time to approach dating as a twenty-eight-year-old divorcee who was ashamed of her status and didn’t have
the best track record. It helped me manage my expectations.
I don’t need my boyfriend to be my everything,
I reasoned. I have friends and family and peers to help fill those voids, as well my own solo pursuits (like going to
movies by myself sometimes, or reading or walking with my iPod). This is where I landed. But it wasn’t such a direct route from almost buying love potions I hoped would trick someone into loving me to…a better place. Getting from A to B? That’s the mucky stuff, which had to be dealt with, but I didn’t recognize
it as a necessary step at first.

I didn’t recognize, frankly, how closed off I was. Even with my own family. A few years ago, my mom and I were touring Arlington National
Cemetery and took a challenging walk through the grounds. It was one of those oppressively humid days. The sweat was gathering on my inner thighs and under my breasts, chafing me. I could see the waves of heat and feel the heaviness of it weighing down my limbs, my hair, my lungs. But that’s not what nagged at me
most. What nagged at me most was the affection my mom threw my way. She held my hand as we passed by thousands of grayish-white graves. She linked her arm in mine as we approached the Eternal Flame. She put her arm around my waist as we
stood at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

And all it did was make me feel really uncomfortable.

I recalled a conversation my Mom and I had not long before. “You know I do
not
want to get remarried,” she said, “but I do…well,
sometimes I miss being touched you know? Even if it’s just a hug.”

My mother holding my hand on that hot day brought up this recollection. And this recollection took me down a rabbit hole of inane
thoughts.

Is this my responsibility now? To be my mother’s TOUCHER?
I wondered.
OK, OK, I’ll have to rearrange some things, but OK, she
did
birth me.

What is WRONG with you?
She’s your mother for
Christ’s sake. She’s just being affectionate.

Yeah, but it’s a bit much. Plus it’s hot.

You’re a bit much.

I mean, what if people think we’re lesbians?! We’re the
same height, and from a distance we don’t look far apart in age…

You are ridiculous.

It was an absurd churn, a churn that made me feel like an awful, selfish daughter. As we exited the cemetery, we stopped to gaze at a
large, framed photo that used to hang in the entrance corridor. It showed JFK and Jackie in the back of the presidential limo moments before he was shot that day in Dallas. Texas Governor John Connally and his wife are pictured in front
of them. All are smiling, oblivious.

I noticed a woman and her mother standing just ahead of us, to the left. They looked to be about the same age as my mom and me. The daughter looked posh, wearing a crisp white T-shirt with a scarf, tasteful but
sexy shorts, and medium-length blondish-brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail.