Authors: Cupideros
While waiting, I tugged my conservative pink top down over my hips covered in a black mid-thigh skirt. I notice the Casablanca statue had a nick in it. Seems Rick’s hat bumped into something or another. Kind of spoiled the romantic image of Rick and Ilsa huddling in the rain somehow.
“Hello Ms. Kiss No More Frogs,” PR Man’s deep masculine voice said as he entered. He noticed me staring at the statuette. “Yes, tragic isn’t it. I broke that when I rushed to answer the phone during your personal ad’s campaign. Does spoil the image. A little less love tension, I think.”
I flashed my biggest smile. “Nothing lasts forever, even Casablanca had to end somehow. I really wanted all three to get away.”
PR Man shook his head. “Only Hollywood defies giving the public their hoped-for-ending.”
“Well.” I raised my hand and flashed my wedding ring. “I married myself in a quiet ceremony last night at my meditation altar. It’s just me and God now. I’m taken. Forever, until God does us part.
“I’m glad you found a way to do some admass marketing, Megan. Reach as many men as possible.”
I ignored PR Man. “It’s just a simple gold wedding ring, but I think it’s keeping the men away. One can’t be too sure.”
“There are those men who want failed relationships.”
Suddenly I recognized myself. I actually wanted a failed relationship. I wanted to serial date. That way I couldn’t possibly be called a slut or a whore. I actually courted failure all my life, all this time. I didn’t know it. “I’ve been courting romantic failure all my life, PR Man.”
“You recognize yourself, in this Wedding Bet.”
“It’s amazing what a little lying to yourself can bring a world of clarity to the truth?” I paused. “Every man I chose had to fail so I stayed single.”
“Then, Ms. Megan Bedrosian, you don’t really know if you can or cannot live with a man independently?”
“And I’m determined to see that it stays that way, at least for a year.” I recovered nicely. Always around PR Man some burdensome truth gets revealed about who I do want and don’t want in marriage.
I began to see him as a potential threat to my winning the wedding bet. Here he is getting testimonial from me and
listening behind the scenes to find every chink in my shining gold-love armor. Armor I needed to stop arrows and slings of emotional love madness. He might be the only man capable of proving that he loved me to me. And I might believe him, too. No. I wiped that thought from my mind. We were on a path, a mission to avoid marriage. Such omissions and weaknesses were par for the course. Just like I knew his weakness for Casablanca simply by becoming his client.
“Excellent. I’m going to go with you to see Debra. She’s having a hard time grasping the concept of teaching you to avoid marriage. All her life she’s been driven, almost in a reactionary way, since her parent’s early divorce, to mend other’s marriages. Counseling people how not to get married is a new branch of her business. PR Man pumped his fist in a rare show of excitement.
“We’ll be a little bit of her test subjects in this; sort of like water that is constantly polluted in order to find the best water cleaning solvent.”
“I really needed to hear that metaphor PR Man. It made me feel really refresh and clean.”
“I apologize. It popped into my mind. But we’re her first anti-love test subject. She could then use this information to teach people how to fall out of love.”
“How to fall out of love before you fall into love? That fits my needs perfectly.”
He pulled out a sheet of paper. “Let us answer the embarrassing questions in private here.”
“Embarrassing questions?” When I started this I didn’t know PR Man’s version of Jeopardy waited in the wings.
“Do you sleep in a full, queen or king-size bed?”
“Queen.”
“No. Say you sleep in a twin size bed. If the guy responds, he likes things nice and cozy, you say but the king size bed I ordered should be delivered any day now.”
I nodded like a Catholic school girl learning history. “That’s clever. See, I never change up my answers, PR Man.”
“In sales, you have to change on the spot.” He paused and looked at his cell phone. “Oftentimes on two spots. Let’s continue. Do you want to spend time with family or friends/”
“Friends are easier.”
“Great. The marriage-minded men will say family. By the way, Megan, while you were off feeding your bank account and building wedding cakes for others, I had Amy register you for several dating websites: Date.com, elove.com, Match.com, Datenow.com, Mate and Marry.com, Ashley Madison.com. Look for your email to get busy.”
“I’m on Ashley Madison—that’s for married people.”
“You want to be married someday.”
“Yes, but—”
“And when that someday arrives you’ll soon want to have an affair.”
PR Man’s method of rationalizing his actions bordered on lying. It’s okay if I lie to myself, but for others to lie on myself for me that was different. “Wait. No. I won’t,” I corrected him. “I have every hope inside my being to be a faithful wife; for my future husband to be faithful, too.”
“Until that glorious day arrives, Megan Bedrosian, you have to be satisfied with potentially having an affair.”
“It sounds so nice and reasonable when you say it, PR Man.” I finally understood.
“Several people will notice me on Ashley Madison and assume I you’re now in a relationship. That’s what we want them to think. What’s not available? That way they don’t try to date you. You win the Wedding Bet fair and square.”
“Not fair, but square. Square is a version of the truth.”
PR Man rose up and started to casually pace in his office. Olivia and Cynthia had no right in forcing you by guilty and association of your sex to have to consider marriage,” PR Man said angrily. “A woman should freely choose her destiny and mates. She should freely choose to create her career and destiny. This isn’t some Roman province or the eighth century in old Europe.”
Shocked, I considered my options. A) Tell PR Man to calm down, although his walking pace was already calm. Inside he steamed and boiled like a railroad engine going sixty miles per hour. B) Congratulate him for standing up and protecting female sensible sensibilities or option C. I squinted and viewed him from under my long lashes. Ask PR Man if he was jealous I was on the market. After seconds, I mentally did A. Verbally I agreed with him on B. On option C. I decided to observe him more carefully.
I still had not found out who the Black Knight was. Maybe PR Man was the black knight. He said he was. He fit the height and build, if you put on the pounds of armor. Stuffing the armor in his car trunk passed the doable test. But where did he stuff the live horse! “Olivia and Cynthia are just conforming,” I sighed to PR Man. “Women love to conform to something. We’ve been living and breathing to conform to something all our lives.”
I paused and made a quixotic facial expression. “Only that something happens to be between a man’s legs. We don’t have direct access unless we enter into a relationship you know.”
PR Man calmed down internally, and emotionally. He appeared slightly embarrassed. “Ahem. Yes,” he sat back down for some anatomically charged reason I supposed.
We explored several other questions Debra might ask about. Insulated from totally shaming myself before the marriage counselor and the marriage block, I relaxed. Things actually had improved a lot. I found out new information on my hidden feelings about emotional relationships. All these years, I had chosen bad men. Who would have guessed that?
Chapter Eight
PR Man parked in a multitier parking lot. It had ten levels.
“This is as close as we can get and not risk getting a ticket. I don’t trust parking meters,” he said.
“That’s fine. I could use the walk. You’d think catering weddings I get to walk miles and miles, but that’s like walking in a circle. Walking in a circle is no fun at all. I like seeing the new shops and people strolling by. I watched all those prevideos on the USB stick you gave me a week ago.”
“This lady is certainly worth the money. If anyone can keep you single, Debra can.”
PR Man and I continued our stroll down Greenside and Stintonburg Street. The busy shops full of stuff to buy. Occasionally I met a person who recognized me from the bus poster ad. We were not holding hands, if you think I’m not telling you all the truth. Yes, PR Man looked handsome in his black suit and crisp white shirt and blue and light grey stripped tie. I looked fabulous as usual in a conservative pink top and black mid-thigh skirt and black sandals.
We neared the office complex where Debra Runyon, licensed marriage counselor worked when this young woman, say thirty, judging from the crow’s feet under her eyes stopped us and yelled. “You’ve already got a date! And to think, you’re putting up bus posters telling everyone you don’t sleep around. Here you’ve got one handsome guy tailing after your scent. You should be ashamed of yourself. It’s lonely women like me! Women whose biological clock is ticking out, powering down for the great siesta of life, that need to find a man. You have a man—you—” the brunette woman strained to find the right words. You—slut!”
Then she stormed off running down the street toward the multitier parking lot.
PR Man stood there. He looked at me. He turned and looked back at the woman running in her long tie-dyed red, blue and pink swirl skirt and blue jean vest. “I do believe she had a point. I should have you as a girlfriend!”
PR Man’s brilliant way of turning around that embarrassing situation made me laugh. I relaxed. I laughed. I mocked the woman as we walked on to the office building. “My ovaries are gearing up for the great siesta of life....I’m a bitter old woman—see my crows feet.” Then I thought, as we entered the building and pressed the elevator button. “PR Man do you think that’ll be me in three years? A bitter, barren woman?”
We stepped into the elevator.
He shook his head. “No. You love to wear black. Crow’s feet don’t look all that bad in black. Besides, you’d find something humorous to say about your crow’s feet and empty ovaries.”
I nodded. “Somehow. You always make the bad situation worse, right before you improve it, PR Man.”
* * * *
Debra Runyon, licensed marriage counselor decorated every inch of space behind her wall with plaques to verify her credentials, conservative art. Mostly positive affirmation statements adorn the other walls. On one wall in the very back held a huge picture of a wine bucket and a spilled large bottle of wine pouring out on the table. That didn’t give me a lot of confidence; that bucket and bottle of spilled wine. I imagined the cry fests and shouting that took place in her office or the training room aka negotiation room. On the bright side, she counseled not only marriages, but families and children. I imagined her putting some wife’s husband in a time out corner for ignoring his wife’s emotional needs.
“This is going to be fun, Debra,” I chirped, excited to truly know a scientific way to turn off any male suitors.
Debra’s guilty look said it all.
“I don’t relish teaching you how not get married. As for my reasons for doing this, I truly believe no woman should get hitched against her will. It makes me angry when I see society pushing women to get married, while men continue to play like little boys in their boy-cultured society.”
“I’m in agreement. I gave a big, glowing speech supporting marriage to nudge the scared bride down the lane of love.”
“I see. We all make exceptions to our rules.” She paused. I have a training room outside down the hallway. I find it better if we work there. The dark-haired Debra looked like a throw back into the 1980s. I expected John Travolta to jump out of the closet, at anytime, shaking his hips and holding out his hand for me to join him on the dance floor.
I liked the negotiation room. Posters of positive self-esteem decorated each wall. “You can be all you claim to be.” Life is for those willing to take risks.” Love comes through effort.” “You create the atmosphere in your home.” “Love is a process not a project.”
“Lovely motivation posters,” I commented. That last one stood guard against people like PR Man and me. His essential duties to let us know people’s hearts mattered more than their heads. Of course in our case, our heads remained clued, focused on the project of me not getting hitched before the remaining six months ended.
I came to some conclusions about PR Man. One, he avoided brooding silent and angry. He told me what his mind contained. I like that it was refreshing after reading all the romance novels as a child. Two, the sensitive man who cried, hardly fit him. He loved to take action. He didn’t care about my feelings, only that we stuck to our project management goals. Three, he best fit the partner man; someone you wanted by your side in negotiations. But would his rational brain cells melt away if he became involved.
“Shall we start,” Debra said. She carried her yellow pad and a tablet.
“I’m ready,” I said turning to PR Man. He gave a curt masculine nod like my relationship surgery would be painful, but necessary. “I really like yellow pads more that tablets. People get hacked and your personal information is all over the Internet.”
Debra gave PR Man an—is she serious look? “Megan, your life is already all over the internet, buses, in newspaper personal ads. I heard you’re exploring going on talks shows. I’d avoid the Brent Parks show. Shall we continue,” the barracuda chick smiled.
I smiled in return.
We established that on a good day both of us liked to control things.
“Next, Megan, you’ll need to unlearn everything you learned as a little girl. First thing about being attractive to the opposite sex is willingness to morph into anything. Become anything. Be spineless. Seek no control. Now that little stunt about not wanting me to use my tablet because of personal information is the right attitude. Men hate women who want to control anything, especially their own lives.”
I almost jumped for joy. “This is going to be fun, PR Man. I’m glad we see eye to eye on this, Debra.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll kill that little goody-two-shoes-nice-girl-in you by the time this session is over.”
That sounded ominous. I began to wonder. I used a lot of those nice girl qualities to empathize with and relate to my female customers. “What about my female customers? I used those skills—”
“You heard of Frankenstein?”
“Yes. Mary Shelley wrote that. A true feminist.”
“Impressive. Mary Shelly really wanted to kill the good-girl inside her. She created an alter ego, a person capable of bending any man out of shape, protecting her, terrorizing the community. This alter ego balanced out her soft, feminine qualities of caring, healing and listening with sympathy.”
“That is quite a literary interpretation,” PR Man commented.
“Shut up. This is women’s talk. Women’s time.”
“Now wait a minute,” PR Man objected.
“You asked me to teach her how not to be married. Did you expect you’d be spared her training too? You are a man, right?”
“I am-a man.” PR Man said hesitantly. “Just remember to focus that venom at other men, Megan. Not me. I’m your friend.”
“A powerful assertive, independent woman who doesn’t need or want a man has no male friends. She’s the boss and rules her life with an iron fist.”
I pumped my fist. And smiled. I shrugged my shoulders when PR Man gave me a concerned look.”
“Next. The men must come up to your standards. You do not go down to theirs. Of course, you can sugar coat this value system however you want—but remain firm. You want a man making at least forty thousand dollars a year.”
“He can make more. More is always better—in terms of money.”
“Ask each man outright how much he makes? Expect lies. Gross exaggerations. Bragging and false credentials. If he makes, 38,999 dollars he’s worthless to you. Just say ‘Next’.
“Next!” I yelled loud.
“Good. There will be lots of other people in the hotel ballroom. Act like it is you and the date all alone. No one will hear anything. Be yourself. If you get a hint of whiff of Man Caveism, just say it’s not going to work out. If they say why not? Say, because my ancestors lived in a cave and I didn’t like the cramped and moldy conditions.”
PR Man just shook his head in astonishment.
I thought.
I’m paying for advice that’s always lurked in the back of my mind
. Things I’ve wanted to say, but avoided for being nice. Now I got to say what I really felt. Invigorating.”
“That’s the big turn off. If you don’t use power, become the power in the relationship, all the other soft power techniques I’m about to show you will fail, Megan. Are we clear?”
I nodded.
“Are we clear?” Debra yelled like some kind of drill Sergeant from the military.
“All clear!” I sat up straight.
“See, you’ve given up power. You don’t need to sit up straight for these guys. They’re beneath you.”
“But I like sitting up straight. It makes,” I tried to motion to my breasts, “Stand out.”
“What are you, a mannequin? This is not a yard body sale. You’re not some kid of shish kebab roasting on a stick for the man to consume.”
“I really like to feel like shish kebab in bed. I know how to close and open my legs until an Italian sauce sandwich awaits his tongue and lips.”
“Can you be a bit more romantic, Megan,” PR Man interrupted.
Both Debra and I turned to PR Man and said “Shut Up!”
I let my voice sound melodious and girly again. “This is girl time, PR Man. I need this so as not to accidentally fall in love.”
“He’s a man, he wouldn’t understand,. They don’t fall in love.”
“I suppose your saying I only lust after women.”
“Yes, Debra replied.
“That’s true.” PR Man quickly added. “I thought you were going to just make a statement without asking my input”
I was incredulous. As long as a woman asks her opinion about his actions, it’s okay for her to criticize him, PR Man. No offense, but admitting you’re an ass doesn’t exactly make you a charming ass.” I slouched down in my chair at the boardroom-like negotiation table.
“Don’t sit with your legs crossed. Powerful people take up space. Look at Steve.”
PR Man had his legs spread. He put his tablet down. He’d spread out his papers over the board room table, taking up three seats. I looked down and I barely took half the table space allotted to me. “That’s unfair.”
“Power is unfair. Power just does. Power just is. Power waits for no man or woman. You either get power or lose power, Megan.”
I understood something new. I gave away a lot of power. I fought off the guilt of that realization. I played like a wimp. Being a girl was wimp behavior. Men liked wimp girls, needy, dependent. Girls they can rescue and beat up all at the same time—so the man can have power. Every man came under my suspicious radar. I’d never be a woman again. I was becoming a leader. A strange place for a girl who simply wanted to avoid getting married for a year.
“How much do you talk in your conversations with PR Man? Twenty percent. Thirty percent. Forty percent. Fifty percent? Ahem. Already feeling uncomfortable Megan. You never talked more than fifty percent of the time around men. You let the men dominate and drive the conversation. How is your beau to ever know your true inner needs, if you stay quiet?”