The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters with the Human Race (27 page)

You like being the hot one
.

You need someone less likely to leave you
.

An older man’s less threatening than someone your own age
.

It was the lack of self-awareness that got me, combined with my long-running resentment about the plethora of boyfriends,
combined
with the fact that I myself had no—I mean
no
—romantic options on the table at the time.

These were the circumstances that came together to put me in a chronically bad mood, and it was in the throes of this mood that I went out to dinner with another friend named Deirdre. Deirdre and I waited tables together at the upscale pizzeria where I was working at the time. Deirdre and I enjoyed this particular dinner on what I recall was the Friday before Halloween. The reason I know it was Friday, was that we’d gone to eat at a TGI Fridays (Deirdre had a coupon), and I remember thinking that being at TGI Fridays
on
Friday made the whole thing that much more pathetic.

The reason I know it was before Halloween was that I’d just received an Evite to a Halloween party, cohosted by Vicki and Don.

They’d been together one month. And they were co-hosting parties.

I received the Evite, I called Deirdre to complain about the Evite, and Deirdre, sweetly, offered to take me to dinner.

“My treat!” she’d said. “I’ve got a coupon to TGI Fridays.”

So we went to a TGI Fridays on Friday, and I ordered a total of three different courses of beef. As I ate, I complained. I said, “It’s just, like, ridiculous, you know? Vicki’ll break up with whatever guy she’s been seeing, and she’ll be alone for, like, two weeks! TWO WEEKS! I’m not even kidding! And then I’ll see her the next time, and she’ll
be all coy, and say something like, ‘Well, I have some news: I met a guy.’ And I’ll be like, ‘Of
course
you met a guy! You
always
meet a guy!’ And she’ll be like, ‘Yes, but this one’s really special. He’s
so
smart and
so
cute. I feel … really lucky.’ But then, Deirdre, I meet the guy, and whoever he is, he just seems fine, at best, and at worst he is truly deformed! I swear to God. She dated this one guy whose face evoked Sloth from
The Goonies
. My mom met him once, and she was like, ‘Is something wrong with Vicki’s boyfriend? I mean, is there something, like, mentally wrong?’ Just because his face was so bizarre!”

“So what’s your point?”

I sighed. No, actually, it was more like I huffed.

“Well, my point, Deirdre, is that it is annoying to hear someone always going on about how
this
one’s so special, and now how
this
one’s so special. It’s like, no, Vicki,
none
of them are ‘so special.’ You just tell yourself they are because you cannot be alone.”

Deirdre shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think it sounds sweet. I think it’s nice if someone cares what’s on the inside.”

“No,” I said. “No, no, no, no,
no
. There is a difference between caring what’s on the inside, and having self-esteem so low, you’ll pick up the Sloth-looking guy on the street because you know for sure he’ll worship you, and never leave. These guys, okay, they’re not, like, homely but bursting with charisma. These guys are not homely and rich. No. They are homely, and they are
blah
. And I’d forgive it all if she would only just admit it! JUST ADMIT IT! Be like, ‘I’m having a rough go at the moment, and I understand this current guy is not forever. But I cannot be alone.’
That
would be okay! But please don’t run me through the paces of how special they all are!”

We sat in silence. For, I don’t know, a while. My third course of beef was cleared. I ordered something called a
Chocolate Fudge Fixation. I ate my Chocolate Fudge Fixation. I felt gross, and very full.

Deirdre said, “Well, okay. So you’re clearly very angry.”

I exhaled.

“Not even,” I said. “I think it’s just, I feel jealous.”

You know how sometimes when you’re drunk, the truth comes out? That happens to me when I’ve had too much processed food. I was deflated now, and hitting at the heart of things.

“I haven’t had a boyfriend in ages,” I continued. “I haven’t had so much as the prospect of a boyfriend, and I feel, I don’t know, entitled, I guess. I want the universe to shower me with options.”

Deirdre nodded. “It’s raining men,” she said. “Hallelujah, it’s raining men.”

“Amen,” I said. “Yes, exactly. It’s time for a downpour, Deirdre. Even someone interesting to think about would be enough.”

Well. What I am here to tell you is that in the forty-eight hours that followed, my wish was granted. My poorly articulated, un-careful wish. The spirit of the circumstance mirrored the spirit of the movie
Big
. If, that is, the whole thing was reconceived to star Elizabeth Perkins as the protagonist.
Be careful what you wish for, grown-up lady. You thought you’d found a boyfriend, but it turns out he’s thirteen
. If viewed from this angle, we don’t have a boy who learns to relish his youth. What we have, actually, is a thirtysomething woman who fails to get herself a boyfriend. We have a thirtysomething woman who adds an atypical notch on her belt.

SATURDAY, 10:00 A.M.:
I awoke on this, the morning of Vicki and Don’s Halloween party. After a good night’s sleep, I decided to attend.

Deidre had been generous in taking me to dinner the
night before, in listening to me complain. She had helped me work out what parts of the conflict fell, not on Vicki’s shoulders, but on mine. I had therefore woken up feeling very pay-it-forward. Very, like,
Okay, Deidre was generous and understanding with me, and perhaps I ought to be more generous and understanding with Vicki
. I’d known her a long time, after all, and just because I was bitter about my own single status, well, that didn’t mean I had to pre-judge her elderly boyfriend. Furthermore, I had just read this book called
Gilead
—I’d been forced to by this book club I was in—and it had been this moving literary tale about a romance between a sympathetic seventysomething and his equally sympathetic thirtysomething wife. I read it, finished it, and then I thought, Well.
Those
characters were
awfully
likable. And they had, what? Forty years between them? Vicki and Don reach across the abyss of a mere twenty-three. I really should be open-minded. I owe my friend that much.

SATURDAY, 11:00 A.M.:
As a reward for my open-mindedness, I decided I would treat myself to brunch at a restaurant down the block from my apartment. It was a spot I dined at, on average, two times a week. I’d arrive with book in hand and sit at the bar, order a glass of wine, followed by a bowl of soup, followed by a cup of hot water. The routine, as a whole, prompted frequent urination, which both (a) provided helpful intermissions to my reading, and (b) helped me, as Solo Diner, to look occupied.

The restaurant’s most winning feature was a loinachingly handsome waiter I shall henceforth call Brian. If you imagine both John Lennon and Justin Timberlake at their most handsome of stages, shaken, stirred, poured into a tall glass of water, you’d wind up with Brian. I knew, as all patrons knew, that Brian was not to be obtained,
merely ogled; that one did well to appreciate him as exquisite décor rather than a realistic option.

On this particular Saturday, however, as though in response to my beef-drunk wish the night before, Brian’s behavior toward me appeared suddenly to shift. He was notably more chatty and attentive. He asked, “So, how are you?” He checked in with me on six different occasions to see how my wine and soup and water were going. He told me he liked the shirt I had on.

“Really?” I asked. “I think it has this sort of, like, widening effect on my back.”

“No,” he said. “Your back looks really narrow.”

12:00 P.M.:
I went to the bathroom to urinate for the final time, then returned to the bar to pay my bill. When I did, Brian sauntered over.

“Listen,” he said. “You’re, like, always around but we never get the chance to talk. I’m off at three. Would you like to get a drink? Around three thirty, say?”

I had, prior to this moment, known true and visceral joy. I had held newborn babes in my arms. I had caught wind of divorces I’d predicted years before.
I had known true and visceral joy
. But nothing could compete with this, the adrenaline rush of someone so attractive asking me to get a drink.

“YES!” I answered. And then, “I’D LOVE TO!” And then, “WHY AM I TALKING SO LOUD?”

Brian laughed. “Are you nervous?” he asked.

“I THINK, YES, I AM NERVOUS!” I said. “ALSO, I THINK I AM THINKING OF WHAT SHIRT TO WEAR! SOMETHING MORE SLIMMING FOR MY BACK!”

Brian reiterated that my back looked lovely as it was and suggested a local wine bar. I told him that sounded great, and that I’d see him at three thirty.

3:30 P.M.:
Brian and I met up for drinks, struggled to drum up conversation, settled eventually on a back-and-forth about the perils of waiting tables. We additionally discussed my encyclopedic knowledge of seasons one and two of
30 Rock
.

5:00 P.M.:
As the wine flowed, I noticed a marked absence of flirtation. Of any
impending
flirtation. There was not so much as a hint of physical interest from Brian, in me.

5:01 P.M.:
I wondered why this was, why he would ask me out for drinks, if not for the impending intercourse. Did he want to be friends? Was he of the homosexual persuasion? Did he want to be friends
because
he was of the homosexual persuasion?

5:30 P.M.:
Brian offered to walk me home. I accepted the offer, and wondered if this was perhaps a sign that there would be a good-bye kiss. I wondered if, to Brian’s credit, he was simply averse to in-restaurant, hand-on-knee flirting.

5:40 P.M.:
We arrived at my front door. Brian did not move in for the good-bye kiss. He did, though, say, “Why don’t we head upstairs. We could, um, watch a little
30 Rock
.”

5:41 P.M.:
I was delighted by the question. I told Brian, “That’d be really fun!”

5:42 P.M.:
I considered how quirky I was, having
30 Rock
used on me as part of a seduction.

5:43 P.M.:
I invited him upstairs.

6:45 P.M.:
After two episodes of
30 Rock
, nothing physical had occurred between Brian and me. More to the point, I got the sense that nothing physical
was going
to occur. Brian had spent the previous hour sitting on the opposite side of the sofa. Sofa-wise, he was as far from me as he could get.

6:46 P.M.:
Yet again, I wondered why this was. Why a person would invite himself upstairs if not for the impending intercourse. The potential explanations reemerged, although this time I added the possibility that Brian had genital herpes. I considered that impending intercourse might therefore require an uncomfortable conversation. I wondered if, as a result of all this, Brian liked to take things slow.

8:00 P.M.:
Five episodes of
30 Rock
, and still: NOTHING.
Still:
Brian and I had stayed glued to our opposite sides of the sofa.

8:01 P.M.:
I added to the list of potential explanations the idea that Brian had been anally raped at some point and, therefore, had only recently arrived at a place of emotional readiness where intercourse was concerned. I wondered whether he had chosen me as the partner for said intercourse because I projected the necessary warmth and vulnerability for him to feel sexually relaxed.

8:05 P.M.:
Brian stood up and excused himself to the bathroom.

8:06 P.M.:
I used my moment alone to text my friend Deirdre. She’d been a helpful listener the night before, and I wondered if, in this instance, she might do the same again.

“Im w/a hot waiter!!!!” I texted. “Weve been @ my apt 4ever. NOTHING IS HAPPENING. WHY NOT? Does he JUST want 2 watch TV?”

8:07 P.M.:
Deirdre wrote back right away.

“OMG,” she wrote. “Your RIDIC. OBVI he is shy! He wnts YOU 2 make a move!”

But no, I thought. It cannot be.

Picture, if you will, George Clooney and Tiny Tim seated on a couch. Picture both of them knowing someone must bite the bullet, and make the first move. Would there be a question as to whose confidence was operating at a higher level? And, therefore, upon whose shoulders such responsibility must rest? No. There would not. It would rest upon George. So would it rest upon Brian.

8:09 P.M.:
Brian returned from the bathroom.

“Shall we watch one more episode of
30 Rock
?” he asked.

I nodded yes. I said, “I do believe we should.”

8:20 P.M.:
During this, our final
30 Rock
, Brian became a bit more fidgety than he’d been before. I thought, Oh, okay. Now
here
we finally go. Because the behavior, I thought, indicated that something was finally en route. Maybe the moves to get the desired intercourse going. Maybe just the explanation as to why Brian liked to take things slow. Maybe the fidgeting would reach a fever pitch and he would say, “Listen. I’m sorry. I know I’ve been weird. And this is, well, a little hard to talk about.” And he’d take a deep breath. “See, the thing is, I’ve been taking these antidepressants. And they’re affecting my ability to”—and he would motion toward his penis—“and it’s making me nervous about”—and he would point back and forth between us—“with anyone new.”

Brian would ask if I understood what he meant, and I would say, “Of course I understand what you mean. And, for what it’s worth, I think penetration’s overrated.”