With my dance card empty and all previous prospects properly put to rest, I recently decided to revisit the dating world. The thing is, I've never really liked this part of the relationship process. Which might explain my continued recycling of Alaska. I prefer the comfort of the known to the supposed excitement of the unknown.
For me, the dating process feels like an interview. I pay closer attention to my make-up, going so far as to actually apply under-eye concealer. My hair not only is blown straight but I make sure the kinks I typically ignore are tended to. Time is actually spent matching my purse to my shoes, my earrings to my necklace. I even go so far as to wear certain bras and panties. Not so much because they'll be viewed but because they make me feel sexy. Listen, if he's paying anywhere near as close attention to me as I am to him, I need to make sure everything is in its place.
"I have a date tonight," I randomly blurted out to Allison.
"Shut up!"
"Um, thanks."
"No, I mean, I had no idea you were even getting out there. So who's the guy?"
"Some surgeon who lives in the city."
"Holy shit."
"Doctor's don't impress me."
"No, holy shit to him living in the same area code."
"I know! I'm stepping out of my box."
"And into your backyard! Awesome. Have fun. And call me when it's over."
At six I left the office to run home and change. But after standing in my closet for five minutes, I decided to stick with what I was already wearing, save for an upgrade to sexier, strappier shoes. I dusted on more bronzer and spritzed some perfume but didn't bother with much else. It was Tuesday night. A first date via the internet. I was tired. My B-Game was just going to have to do.
At seven o'clock, I parked my car and sashayed the two blocks to the selected meeting spot. When I walked in, I saw him at the bar holding a glass of wine, chatting with the bartender. I noticed his shirt (navy and white vertical stripes, pressed and untucked) and his shoes (brown leather loafters). With one deep breath, I strolled over.
"Hey," I cheerily said as I placed my bag on the empty stool to his right.
"Thanks for coming out," he offered, leaning closer to kiss my cheek.
I smiled, dropped my purse to the floor and settled on my seat, hooking my heels on the bar of my stool as I straightened my spine and sucked in my stomach.
"Oh, and Paige," he said. I looked up and waited for him to finish, noticing the richness of his brown eyes, the soft fullness of his lips. "This is Sarah and Jessie, my friends."
And that's when I let my stomach out.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Cleaning House
Since the start of summer, I’ve been cleaning house. My bookshelves have more open space now that I've donated half of the stash to my local library. After burning any worthwhile CDs in my collection, I sold them online. For whatever reason, the time has come for me to rid myself of the items I've outgrown, things that occupy space without purpose.
“But those are cute,” my friend says from my bed as I pull a pair of dusty shoes off the floor of my closet and approach the overflowing Hefty propped in the corner.
“Want them? They're an eight.”
“I wear a seven.”
I shrug and let go of the straps looped around two fingers, the black leather sandals landing atop a backless jersey top and wool crepe skirt.
“You’re getting rid of that too?” This time she props herself up onto her elbows, leaning closer to get a better view of the clutch pinched in my grasp. I look down, observe the grain of the pink leather, embossed to mimic crocodile. A sleek and lean rectangular clutch, the only decorative detail is an angled silver clasp centered on the top.
“Yup,” I answer.
Before dropping it in the bag I do the usual once over, confirming my personal artifacts are removed. Halfway through my closet and my bedside table is already littered with a crumpled twenty and a tattered gum wrapper. Trident, cinnamon. I haven't had Trident anything since the eighties.
With a soft pop, the clasp releases and with a creak I open the purse. The grosgrain lining is dull from time and age. And when I look closer, peer deeper inside, I see a thin slice of crinkled white paper. My jaw tightens and everything goes silent, as if I am suddenly underwater, plunged beyond the depths of the surface. The only sound I can decipher is the thump of my heart.
“You okay?”
I reach into the purse and pull free a fortune, words on one side and supposed winning lottery numbers on the other. The corner is creased. Staring at it, I can taste the stale sweetness of the cookie, the wafer-like crisp shattering between my teeth as I crunch it to crumbs. I can see him sitting across from me, reading his own fortune before insisting I read mine: You will be happy in love.
“Paige?” Now she’s shuffling to her knees, careful and concerned.
And like that I’m back. I’m in my bedroom, the window thrown open and the sunlight pouring in. A cool breeze rattles the blinds, making them hum. A car idles below my window, the smell of the diesel fumes wafting up, in.
“It’s nothing,” I say as I clench my fist around the paper, walk toward my trash and drop it in.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
My friend falls back into the throw pillows that lean against the wall. Ivory matelasse engulfs her shoulders, hugs her back.
I pad down the hall, into the kitchen. Setting two juice glasses side-by-side, I pour wine into both.
“Here,” I say when I return to my room, passing one off. Then I raise the glass and clink it to hers. “To cleaning house.”
“To cleaning house,” she chimes.
“But those are cute,” my friend says from my bed as I pull a pair of dusty shoes off the floor of my closet and approach the overflowing Hefty propped in the corner.
“Want them? They're an eight.”
“I wear a seven.”
I shrug and let go of the straps looped around two fingers, the black leather sandals landing atop a backless jersey top and wool crepe skirt.
“You’re getting rid of that too?” This time she props herself up onto her elbows, leaning closer to get a better view of the clutch pinched in my grasp. I look down, observe the grain of the pink leather, embossed to mimic crocodile. A sleek and lean rectangular clutch, the only decorative detail is an angled silver clasp centered on the top.
“Yup,” I answer.
Before dropping it in the bag I do the usual once over, confirming my personal artifacts are removed. Halfway through my closet and my bedside table is already littered with a crumpled twenty and a tattered gum wrapper. Trident, cinnamon. I haven't had Trident anything since the eighties.
With a soft pop, the clasp releases and with a creak I open the purse. The grosgrain lining is dull from time and age. And when I look closer, peer deeper inside, I see a thin slice of crinkled white paper. My jaw tightens and everything goes silent, as if I am suddenly underwater, plunged beyond the depths of the surface. The only sound I can decipher is the thump of my heart.
“You okay?”
I reach into the purse and pull free a fortune, words on one side and supposed winning lottery numbers on the other. The corner is creased. Staring at it, I can taste the stale sweetness of the cookie, the wafer-like crisp shattering between my teeth as I crunch it to crumbs. I can see him sitting across from me, reading his own fortune before insisting I read mine: You will be happy in love.
“Paige?” Now she’s shuffling to her knees, careful and concerned.
And like that I’m back. I’m in my bedroom, the window thrown open and the sunlight pouring in. A cool breeze rattles the blinds, making them hum. A car idles below my window, the smell of the diesel fumes wafting up, in.
“It’s nothing,” I say as I clench my fist around the paper, walk toward my trash and drop it in.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
My friend falls back into the throw pillows that lean against the wall. Ivory matelasse engulfs her shoulders, hugs her back.
I pad down the hall, into the kitchen. Setting two juice glasses side-by-side, I pour wine into both.
“Here,” I say when I return to my room, passing one off. Then I raise the glass and clink it to hers. “To cleaning house.”
“To cleaning house,” she chimes.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Catching Up On My Correspondence
Dear Mosquito,
Listen, today was pretty rough. I mean, you know it's bad when you tell a potential client to kiss off. So when I got home, I poured some wine, made a salad and sat down to work on the crossword. That's when you buzzed by. Wanting to cleanse myself of toxic anger and frustration, I let you live. But it seems, in addition to giving you life, I gave you two pints of blood. Perhaps you can show the lab techs at Quest how to tap my veins as you're clearly much better at it then they are. Also, know I've changed my mind and I look forward to slamming your head into your ass as I smush you against my wall.
Sincerely,
One Itchy Bitch
Dearest Boot Camp Instructor:
Thanks for believing in me more than I do. You're right, I could do those last ten pulls up after all. And in the six weeks since I started training with you, my muscles have become more toned, so thanks for that too. But, um, the layer of fat above said muscles seems to be holding on for dear life. The result is that my clothes now fit worse. Allow me to remind you, I'm aiming for Jessica Biel's ass, not Serena Williams' thighs.
Best,
Hopeful (and sweaty) in Lycra
Dear Obnoxious Banana Republic Customers:
If you knock something off the rack, pick it the fuck up. Try not to leave the clothes in a pile on the fitting room floor. At least place the crumpled mess on the stool. When you ask me to throw out a half-filled cup of Auntie Anne's lemonade, consider this: I don't have a sink behind the register and therefore am stuck holding your saliva tainted cup of backwash. And lastly, if you come up to pay for something, get off your phone. This way, when I loudly talk to you as if you aren't on the phone, you won't be so upset.
Warmly,
The Associate Who Will Likely Get Fired For Calling You on Your Bullshit Behavior
Dear Brain,
On Sunday you were useless. I sat at my computer for three hours trying to write and all I came up with was one paragraph. One FUCKING paragraph. I'm no MBA but I do know that's crappy ROI. Although, during my procrastination, I did make a killer mixtape on iTunes. Anyway, you may have failed me on Sunday, but tonight you kicked ass. Dude, I spit out eight pages in two hours! That's crazy Madoff math, right? Right. In other words, you're forgiven.
Love always,
Novelist In Training
Listen, today was pretty rough. I mean, you know it's bad when you tell a potential client to kiss off. So when I got home, I poured some wine, made a salad and sat down to work on the crossword. That's when you buzzed by. Wanting to cleanse myself of toxic anger and frustration, I let you live. But it seems, in addition to giving you life, I gave you two pints of blood. Perhaps you can show the lab techs at Quest how to tap my veins as you're clearly much better at it then they are. Also, know I've changed my mind and I look forward to slamming your head into your ass as I smush you against my wall.
Sincerely,
One Itchy Bitch
Dearest Boot Camp Instructor:
Thanks for believing in me more than I do. You're right, I could do those last ten pulls up after all. And in the six weeks since I started training with you, my muscles have become more toned, so thanks for that too. But, um, the layer of fat above said muscles seems to be holding on for dear life. The result is that my clothes now fit worse. Allow me to remind you, I'm aiming for Jessica Biel's ass, not Serena Williams' thighs.
Best,
Hopeful (and sweaty) in Lycra
Dear Obnoxious Banana Republic Customers:
If you knock something off the rack, pick it the fuck up. Try not to leave the clothes in a pile on the fitting room floor. At least place the crumpled mess on the stool. When you ask me to throw out a half-filled cup of Auntie Anne's lemonade, consider this: I don't have a sink behind the register and therefore am stuck holding your saliva tainted cup of backwash. And lastly, if you come up to pay for something, get off your phone. This way, when I loudly talk to you as if you aren't on the phone, you won't be so upset.
Warmly,
The Associate Who Will Likely Get Fired For Calling You on Your Bullshit Behavior
Dear Brain,
On Sunday you were useless. I sat at my computer for three hours trying to write and all I came up with was one paragraph. One FUCKING paragraph. I'm no MBA but I do know that's crappy ROI. Although, during my procrastination, I did make a killer mixtape on iTunes. Anyway, you may have failed me on Sunday, but tonight you kicked ass. Dude, I spit out eight pages in two hours! That's crazy Madoff math, right? Right. In other words, you're forgiven.
Love always,
Novelist In Training
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Graduation Day
I kick off my shoes and tuck my legs under me. My keys sit on the floor next to my phone, face down. The air conditioner hums as my therapist takes her seat, resting papers on her lap and a pen on the table.
“So how are you doing?” She adjusts the pillow behind her back.
“I don’t think I need to come back any more,” I blurt out, like I had been holding my breath.
“Okay,” my therapist answers, her tone still warm and soft.
I lean forward like I’m about to spill secrets to a friend. “No, it’s just, you gave me all these tools and, so far, they’re holding up. So now I’m at the point where I think I need to just spread my wings.”
“Uh-huh,” she says with a slow nod.
“Like, when I went to Ireland, Alaska headed to South America. Originally, I bought him a journal and book but twenty minutes later I took it all back. The woman at Barnes and Noble probably thought I was nuts but whatever. Anyway, I stared at the purchase on my front seat and thought, okay here I am, going away and I’m not buying myself a journal. So, I’m like, why the fuck am I indulging him?”
“Right!” Like a proud parent, her face lights up.
I catch my breath and continue on. “And then, get this, I told my mother I wouldn’t drive her to Florida. Can you believe it? Or, like, I told her I’d help with one leg but not both. She can pick: down in the fall or up in the spring but ix-nay oundtrip-ray.”
“And?”
“She’s looking into the auto-train!” I say with a squeal.
“Fantastic! You’re setting up boundaries. And see? I told you no one would balk. In fact, they probably respect you more. You can still be nice and thoughtful, just not to your own detriment. And, Paige, I agree, you’re ready to have a go at it solo. Go spread your wings, but know you’re always welcome to come back for a tune-up.”
I pass off my payment for the session, fix my skirt and hug my therapist. On the drive back to the office, sun pouring through the open roof, I pick up an iced-coffee. And once settled back in at my desk, I ring Leslie to give her the news.
“I graduated!”
“What?”
“I told my therapist I was taking a break. That I’d been testing out this whole boundary thing and it’s totally working. No one’s taking issue with my new approach and I’m happier. Win-win. Sure, I might stumble, I’m human. But for the most part, I think I just need to get out there and practice. And she agreed!”
Leslie laughs.
“…..what? .....am I lame to be this excited?”
“No, I just think it’s hysterical that your therapist’s advice backfired on her.”
“......still not follo--.....”
“Right?”
“Oh my God, that’s awesome. But not as awesome as me graduating - woot! woot!”
“So how are you doing?” She adjusts the pillow behind her back.
“I don’t think I need to come back any more,” I blurt out, like I had been holding my breath.
“Okay,” my therapist answers, her tone still warm and soft.
I lean forward like I’m about to spill secrets to a friend. “No, it’s just, you gave me all these tools and, so far, they’re holding up. So now I’m at the point where I think I need to just spread my wings.”
“Uh-huh,” she says with a slow nod.
“Like, when I went to Ireland, Alaska headed to South America. Originally, I bought him a journal and book but twenty minutes later I took it all back. The woman at Barnes and Noble probably thought I was nuts but whatever. Anyway, I stared at the purchase on my front seat and thought, okay here I am, going away and I’m not buying myself a journal. So, I’m like, why the fuck am I indulging him?”
“Right!” Like a proud parent, her face lights up.
I catch my breath and continue on. “And then, get this, I told my mother I wouldn’t drive her to Florida. Can you believe it? Or, like, I told her I’d help with one leg but not both. She can pick: down in the fall or up in the spring but ix-nay oundtrip-ray.”
“And?”
“She’s looking into the auto-train!” I say with a squeal.
“Fantastic! You’re setting up boundaries. And see? I told you no one would balk. In fact, they probably respect you more. You can still be nice and thoughtful, just not to your own detriment. And, Paige, I agree, you’re ready to have a go at it solo. Go spread your wings, but know you’re always welcome to come back for a tune-up.”
I pass off my payment for the session, fix my skirt and hug my therapist. On the drive back to the office, sun pouring through the open roof, I pick up an iced-coffee. And once settled back in at my desk, I ring Leslie to give her the news.
“I graduated!”
“What?”
“I told my therapist I was taking a break. That I’d been testing out this whole boundary thing and it’s totally working. No one’s taking issue with my new approach and I’m happier. Win-win. Sure, I might stumble, I’m human. But for the most part, I think I just need to get out there and practice. And she agreed!”
Leslie laughs.
“…..what? .....am I lame to be this excited?”
“No, I just think it’s hysterical that your therapist’s advice backfired on her.”
“......still not follo--.....”
“Right?”
“Oh my God, that’s awesome. But not as awesome as me graduating - woot! woot!”
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