Not Meeting Mr Right (6 page)

I was determined to prove to my family that I was
not a lesbian, but there was no way I was going to
succumb to the pressure and go on a date with Cliff to
make two in-denial mothers happy. Instead I carried
on with my project, my strategy for finding Mr Right.
I had already feng shui-ed my flat; now it was time
to get serious. I was ready for 'Phase I': blind dating.
I thought hard about the mantra I would cite daily,
playing with combinations of words. Finally, my new
mantra for meeting Mr Right wrote itself:
I am daring
and dynamic, deadly and desirable.

I launched Phase I at school. I strolled confidently
into the staff room with a sense of hope. Surely some of
my colleagues would have eligible brothers, uncles, exhusbands
or sons who were open to a date with me, the
newly crowned Ms Deadly and Desirable. Most of my
own staff in the history department were middle-aged,
married men with unattractive beards and bellies.
There was nothing about them that suggested they
would be at all helpful in my new quest, but as Peta had
pointed out, teachers from other departments were
bound to have single friends – connections to get me
into 'The Club'. Conscious that some of the older staff
members considered me a floozy simply because I was
single, and that others probably thought I was a lesbian,
because they'd never known me to have a relationship
with a man, I was cautious about who I approached.

I decided to follow the younger, more upbeat, notso-
uptight teachers for a few days, and thought about
how best I could befriend them. The head of the history
department really
should
mingle more with the English
and maths staff, I thought.

I made my mate Mickey my pilot project. He was
gay, and the only friends of his I'd ever met were
batting for
his
team, but it was still worth a try. I often
wondered why, as a straight person, I had lots of gay
friends, but few of my gay friends had straight ones.
When Mickey had dinner parties, I was always the only
straight person there. His friends probably all thought
I was a lesbian too. Shit, I really did need to get some
dating happening – not just to meet Mr Right.
Mickey was a well-dressed country boy who wore
R.M.Williams gear with an Oxford Street sashay. He was
gorgeous, single and looking for love, just like me, but
was willing to take all the lust he could get along the way.

Mickey knew a lot of other gorgeous guys seeking that
ideal love, but none of them had proved right so far.

I briefed him on my new mission and all he
responded with was, 'Love, unless you're having a sex
change, I can't help you. And should you actually be
calling it a
mission
?'

I'd been ranting about politics and history to Mickey
over cocktails for years, so he knew quite a bit about the
missions many Aboriginal people had lived on under
the Protection Acts. He was right; for many Blackfellas
it was a word that brought back a lot of bad memories.
'Goal' was definitely a better choice. It sounded more
professional, too: 'I've set myself a life-goal of meeting
Mr Right'.

Later that day, however, Mickey grabbed me in the
corridor and melodramatically mimed hitting himself
in the head. He'd forgotten to tell me about his 'spunky
cousin Daniel' – captain of a touch football team. 'He's
single and hot.' Mickey admitted that Daniel was 'a lad's
lad', but we both agreed that one date couldn't hurt.
Mickey added, 'I'm sure he'd be great in bed too.' How
Mickey knew this I wasn't quite sure, and I didn't want
to know. He often slipped into graphic detail about his
own sex life that made me feel uneasy.

'What star sign is he?' I asked, more to change the
direction of the conversation than anything else, but I
was mentally going through my criteria for Mr Right at
the same time.

'God, I don't know. Does it matter?'

'Yes.'

'Well, probably Taurus – the bull.' And he made some
disgusting thrusting gestures, just as the bell rang.

I wasn't really worried at this stage about the star
sign, and there was a spring in my step as I walked
away. Mickey was already on the job. Perhaps finding
Mr Right wasn't going to be that hard after all. I put on
hold the prospect of harassing any of the other teachers
for the time being.

***

Having made minor progress towards my goal, I had
some time to focus on my other job – my
real
job. That
of teaching my Year 11 class about significant moments
for women in Australian history.

The students had done research for homework and
had come up with some suggestions. We spent the class
narrowing these down and identifying what the girls
believed to be the most important moments. After half
an hour or so, I faced the blackboard and started to
write up our final list:

• 1881 – Women are allowed to enrol in the same
  subjects as men at Sydney University for the first
  time. (Medicine is the only exception.)
  

• 1901 – Women are granted the right to vote.
  

'Miss Aigner, only white women got the vote in
1901. Aboriginal women didn't get it until the 1967
referendum.'

In a class with only one Koori girl, Kerry, it was
actually a non-Koori student, Bernardine, who had
picked up on this fact. It made me proud. I'd once heard
feminist Dale Spender say that if a man ever made a
sexist remark in public, it was up to another man to
correct him, not a woman, and I totally agreed. It was
the same with race issues. Aboriginal people were
always expected to challenge the ignorant whitefella
when racist comments were made, when in fact it
should be another whitefella doing it. Just as a man
correcting a man packed a punch, so did a whitefella
correcting a whitefella.

'Good point, Bernardine.' I kept writing:

• 1907 – Australia's first female architect, Florence
  Parsons, wins wide acclaim for the design of her
  houses.
  

• 1943 – Senator Dorothy Tangney (Western
  Australia) and MP Edith Lyons (Tasmania) are
  the first women elected to Federal Parliament.
  

• 1967 – Aboriginal women (and men) get the right
  to vote.
  

• 1976 – Pat O'Shane is sworn in as Australia's first
  Aboriginal barrister.
  

• 1992 – Women are ordained as priests in the
  Anglican Church.
  

• 1996 – Jennie George becomes the first female
  president of the ACTU.
  

• 2000 – Cathy Freeman wins gold at the Sydney
  Olympic Games.
  

Looking at the blackboard, I realised that the moments
we had chosen were all 'firsts'. As the first female head
of department at St Christina's, black or white, I was
almost tempted to add myself to the list. Humility was
one thing we prided ourselves on at the school, though,
so I resisted the temptation.

The class had been a great success, and I'd enjoyed
the girls' arguments. They had really gained a
broad view of the contribution women had made to
Australian history. Many had only ever mentioned male
historians in previous classes, so today I was pleased
to have heard the names of female historians for the
first time – Beverley Kingston, Shirley Fitzgerald and
Wendy Brady – women who had influenced my own
understanding of Australian history and had even been
my inspiration for teaching it.

I was also pleased that the girls' debate and final
list had included Aboriginal achievements, given that
Australian and Aboriginal history were often treated as
two separate subjects.

No doubt about it: I'd taught them well. I was
confident that my students were going to be valuable
citizens once they got out into the big, wide world.

My daydream was broken by an unexpected question
from the back of the room. 'With equal rights came the
right for women to ask men out – didn't it, Ms Aigner?'

The discussion had apparently turned to questions
of equity in relationships, etiquette and dating. I had no
idea how it had happened; I'd been too busy indulging
in thoughts of my own achievements.

I tried to make a joke of it.

'Did it? I thought women just got tired one day of
waiting for men to work up their courage.'

'What do
you
think about women asking men out
on dates generally, Miss?' Bernardine asked.

I was the last one to give advice. The last guy I'd
asked out had almost taken out an AVO on me. I'd read
in
Cleo
that men loved confident women who went
after what they wanted; that men loved being asked out,
because many of them were too shy to do it themselves
as women grew more and more confident. And so I'd
tried being that confident woman. I asked a man out. I
sent him flowers. I sent emails and invitations to make
it easier for him to ask out a daunting and desirable
woman like me. None of it had worked. It turned him
right off. I'd thought I was being assertive, but he saw it
as harassment.

I'd felt embarrassed and shamed, and since then
I hadn't asked anyone out again. I'd gone from one
extreme to another, as my brother Dillon would say.
How could I tell my students that I hadn't had a real
date for months, that men didn't ask me out, and I
didn't ask them, and now my friends stayed up late
workshopping the problem and my family all thought
I was a lesbian?

'Miss, have you ever asked a man out?'

'I think we're getting too far off the topic, girls,'
I said, and turned my back to them, hoping they
wouldn't notice my wobbly hand as I cleaned the
blackboard.

'What about arranged marriages, Miss? What do
you think of them?'

I wouldn't be in my current predicament if I'd had an
arranged marriage. Then again, I might just be married
to my mum's friend Janet's gay son, Cliff, a right-wing
hairdresser who secretly desired Keith Windschuttle.

'Arranged marriages are often very successful, but
they don't necessarily work for everyone.' The bell
rang.

'Class dismissed, and don't forget to read Chapter 6
of
Butterfly Song
by Terri Janke to discuss next week. It
will be on the exams at the end of the year.'

That night the phone rang as I finished the last of a
bowl of two-minute noodles. I picked up, my mouth
still full.

'Hello?'

'Hi, I'm Mickey's cousin, Daniel.'

Mickey must have got to work on organising my
blind date already. I was caught completely unaware.
No script in front of me, no points to follow to keep the
conversation going. I didn't have my 'Strategies for not
meeting Mr Right' in front of me as a reference either.

Daniel continued: 'Mickey told me you're interested
in playing touch football?' I nearly choked. I couldn't
run with a football even if there was a guarantee of a
wedding ring and husband waiting at the end of the
field. I'm simply not fit enough, and too top heavy, and
I look ridiculous when I run. And ... And ... And ...
what was Mickey
thinking
?

'Orrright,' was all I could muster in response,
sounding like a complete yob.

'I thought you might like to come to a game on Thursday,
meet the team and maybe have a drink afterwards.'

Okay, so that's what Mickey was thinking – I could
pretend to be interested in sport and have a casual
drink. Sure, I could do that.

'Sounds good.' I got the details from Daniel and
hung up. I was so excited I jumped up and down like
a teenager, running on the spot, singing a new mantra:
I've got a date! I've got a date!
The strategy was working,
my plans were coming together, I would reach my goal!
I walked down my hall and did a little side kick in the
air like they do in the movies.

***

Before the game I went shopping for some flattering
sportswear and the sexiest sports bra I could find, then
agonised over how to wear my hair: up or down or
baseball cap? I called Dillon, because he was a sports
fanatic. He just said, 'It doesn't really matter that much
what you wear, Alice, just don't say anything stupid.
You don't know anything about sport, so don't pretend
you do. It won't help.' I'd planned on asking him to give
me some pointers on the game itself, but it didn't seem
the right time.

***

I was looking very athletic when I met Daniel at the
sideline before his game. We just said hello, as the
starting buzzer was about to go. I did a quick check,
and I looked just like every other sporty chick there.
The others were on the field, though, or getting ready to
play. I couldn't have run the length of the field if I tried
and I made up some lame excuse about a bad ankle.

I watched the game with as much interest as a nonfooty-
kinda-girl could muster. I had no idea who was
winning, what the score was, or even what the rules
were, but I honestly didn't care. There was so much eye
candy I could feel myself putting on weight just looking
at the sweet, sweaty men.

Then there was Daniel; stylish and agile, a pleasure
to watch in action. I stood there wanting to sink my
teeth into his thighs. People were screaming at him
from the sideline, 'Go Holmesy, go Holmesy!' and I
joined in. Everyone was rooting for him each time he
got the ball. They knew – and he knew – that he was the
best player on team; you could see why he was captain.
He scored five tries which, apparently, is really good for
touch football. Or any kind of football.

When the game finished, he was panting and covered
in sweat. His team had won and everyone walked in a
group to the pub across the road to celebrate.

As everyone sat around a table, I was the only one
left standing. 'There doesn't appear to be anywhere left
to sit,' I said awkwardly to no-one in particular.

'Here, let me make some room for you,' Daniel said,
and he mimed cleaning his face.

It was the kind of comment I'd expect from a rugby
league player, given all the bad press the code had had
in recent years with players involved in assault claims
and so on. He was disgusting, and clearly had no respect
for women.

'Don't worry, he's tried that line on every girl on the
team,' one of his female team-mates said.

'Yeah, he's nicknamed after John Holmes for a
reason,' another added, rolling her eyes. 'The porn star,
you know.'

Daniel ignored them and gave me a sleazy grin.
'Mickey didn't tell me you were so gorgeous.'

'Let's just say that Mickey doesn't really
appreciate
women the same way you do,' I said.

'Nor did he say you were so ...' He looked at my
double D's. 'It'd be great to watch you running on the
field.' Oh god, was this fella for real?

Even while he was trying to chat me up, he had one
eye on another woman across the bar. He saw me see
him checking her out.

'Don't mind me, I've got a lazy eye. It wanders
sometimes.' He must've thought I was an idiot to give
me such a lie.

'There doesn't seem to be anything lazy about your
eyes at all, Daniel.'

I wanted a one-woman man – make that one-Alice
man – so I finished my drink, took Daniel's number –
at his insistence – and left with no aspirations at all of
joining the team.