“Do you want to help me?”
This from Abby yesterday as she plopped into a chair in my office, and it was the way her eyes lit up, illuminated by the force of some mysterious Grand Plan That Just Had To Be A Lot Of Fun, and the fact that it’s my nature to reply, “Of course” whenever a friend says “Help”, that caused me to hesitate not a second but just nod my head, already thoroughly caught up in the excitement of whatever it was we were about to do.
“Will you write a profile for me for Match dot com?”
I suppose the smart decision would be to say no, of course not, that’s entirely too personal and you should write your own. My writing it would be wrong on many levels, kind of like writing a recipe with actual measurements in it when my true method of cooking is a handful of this and two shakes of that and a cooking time of somewhere around a half hour and whenever it smells done. It would be unethical and I suppose I should have said no but I didn’t because I will write anything requested by any of my friends and as a result I’ve written everything from obituaries to 50th birthday poems to speeches to ‘personalized thoughts’ in parents’ birthday cards, and that’s only been in the last couple of months. Besides, Abby’s got good reason to give Match dot com a chance, if for no other reason than the comic relief of reading some of the profiles out there but more importantly just to have affirmed that yes, she’s attractive, and she’s desirable, and there are articulate, interesting men in the universe who would like to meet her (there are, it should be noted, also a lot of geeks, freaks, and flat-out weirdos but the same can be said about the produce aisle of any supermarket in any city in the country, so it’s OK. You just arm yourself with a sense of humor and a delete key).
In short, she needs affirmation that all men are not like The Last Guy. Not all men are going to date you seriously and exclusively for over a year and then for no reason at all, simply stop calling. Stop emailing. Stop all communication and simply walk away without letting you know why they’ve come to the conclusion that this would be a good thing to do. It was the last thing she expected (it generally is, with all of us who’ve had the experience of it and perhaps the most difficult part of that is the point at which you consult your calendar and realize the weeks have flown by and you haven’t heard a thing from someone who was allegedly a pretty big part of your life. It’s at this point that you apply: a) éclairs, b) Sauvignon Blanc, c) a mad, unbridled shopping spree at Macy’s, or d) a marathon of Lifetime Television for Women movies after you’ve done all of the above, directly to the pain that has become what once was known as your heart. And is, from a physiological standpoint, still known as your heart, it just feels like an oversized, unbearable, “Ouch!” that’s taken up residence in your chest that you’re pretty sure isn’t either a heart attack or the ill effects of picking up lunch at the local taco cart). It was, in the final analysis, “Rude!” as she put it, capturing its essence with one four letter word (not, I’m sure, the only four letter word that entered her mind when ruminating on the entire situation, but one of the most repeatable in a public place). Having been dutifully dumped, it’s time for Abby to move on, to launch herself into Cyberspace where the worst thing that might happen is The Last Guy might pull up her profile in one of his own searches and have pause to reflect on what exactly it was that he let go of (note that in a perfect world he pulls up her profile at the exact moment he’s holding onto someone new who isn’t half as attractive or an iota as intelligent and who speaks with an unmistakable lisp that almost but not quite detracts your attention from the fact that she has all the curves and bulges of your basic Buddha statue, only with a chest that makes Kate Hudson look downright voluptuous and to top it all off she’s incapable of anything but a bad hair day, especially on her upper lip. Yep, it’s a worthy cause if for only that reason).
So we’ll get together on Saturday and we’ll write this profile and launch her out there. Maybe she’ll find Mr. Wonderful. Alternatively, she’ll have something to do on those rare evenings when boredom overtakes her (as it does from time to time with anyone living alone) and she’ll have plenty of emails to print out and correct the grammar on (I’m sure she’d do that. I can’t be the only one that obsessed with punctuation and vocabulary. On second thought, if I am the only one that obsessed, I’d rather not know it). She’ll step out into that strange world known as ‘being in a relationship’ and I’m quite sure, while I will be wishing her the best of everything in that pursuit, there will be some small part of me (or, who am I kidding? There will be some big part of me) standing at the sidelines thinking, “What is she thinking?”
That small/large part of me seems to be very much at the forefront of much of my thinking of late, because when it comes to relationships I’m batting about….well, about like that grade school kid with the astigmatisms and the wimpy arms who was always picked last for the softball teams. My ‘relationships’ seem to have all the longevity of your basic dryer sheet, and I’m not sure why this is (Brent is very sure why this is, and he’s espoused his theory with all the assurance of any man who was married to the same woman for fifteen years and is now happily ensconced in a friendship with that woman which makes much more sense and entails no sharing of the television remote and definitely no more angst over whether the toilet paper properly rolls from the top or from the bottom. Brent would say I am too independent. Men don’t want independent. Men want to feel needed. I am too outspoken, as well, and perhaps it doesn’t entirely help my case that I’d rather read a book than watch a movie, especially any movie where the only action seems to be buildings blowing up and maidens being ravaged). I just know that lately, (lately being looking over last year and the start of this one), the relationships I begin to trust as ‘Gosh, this is great and I’d be happy to stay in this relationship forever,’ turn out to be those relationships with men much like Abby’s own The Last Guy, who simply and confoundingly disappear like the mate to the one solo sock the dryer consistently spits out. Or there’s the relationship with someone who really seemed to get it, finally, why I stopped seeing him once before, only to suddenly remember why I stopped seeing him once before and exhibiting that same irritating behavior when I’ve finally settled in to the whole routine of seeing him again, thus leaving us at the ridiculous point that so far, the only real conclusion we’ve come to is that we now understand why we broke up in the first place.
Sally (Formerly known as The Strange Girl Downstairs, but no longer. I’m not sure what’s happened to her in the past several months since Lainie moved, but she’s started making actual eye contact in the foyer, calling out a ‘hello’, or a ‘have a great day’, and gabbing at me with little gossipy details about her life and the lives of the other residents in the building that simply make my day) has a theory, and she espoused it last night, after listening to the tail end of a conversation I was having with He Whom I Already Broke Up With Once Before and realizing it wasn’t exactly a happy moment.
“Girl,” she said, with all the flair of either a southern belle or a Vegas ‘escort’ (wink wink nod nod) I couldn’t be immediately sure, “you need to forget the whole relationship thing and get yourself a man friend with benefits.” She seemed so sure of herself I didn’t have the heart to tell her I already had a man friend with benefits. He had a chop saw, and a DeWalt drill, and an uncanny knack for completing home improvement projects. Those were the only benefits I was capable of allowing myself in order to keep from finding myself in another ‘relationship’ that was pretty much doomed from the outset, kind of like any diet I start when I have PMS.
So while obviously, I’m hardly The Poster Child For Believing In Romance Forever right now, I am sincerely rooting for Abby, and happy to assist with this profile and her debut in cyberspace. Romance simply eludes me right now, like directions for any appliance I’ve ever purchased, or the location of that blue sweater I’ve been wanting to wear for months. As for myself, I’m limiting my own venturing to the produce aisle at the market, and maybe – and it’s a slim maybe – actual eye contact with someone at the gas pumps or at the dog park. Not to say that I’m over romance forever. I prefer to think of it merely as a sabbatical of sorts, more of a manbatical, if you will. A step back until I can figure out how to extend the longevity of that metaphorical dryer sheet.
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