Why I Love Singlehood: (11 page)

Authors: Elisa Lorello,Sarah Girrell

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Women

“Hypothesis: Speed dating doesn’t net long-term relationships. It’s too full of superficial hopefuls trying too hard to get—” I grimaced “—
out there
.” My jeans seemed to agree. “No. Trying to get
laid
.”

“Methods and Materials,” I recited, eyeing my bed again. “First, Materials. Me, my clothes, my conversation…or are clothes and conversation part of Methods?”

Aw, hell.

“Screw it.” I grabbed a floral print skirt with a ruffle hem at the knee, stepping into it before I could change my mind again, and matched it with a solid violet cap-sleeve, wide V-neck top that I’d purchased ages ago because it reminded me of my favorite shade of tulips and looked good on me, the way it practically fell off my shoulders. Come to think of it, Shaun always loved it.

Methods: Researchers will meet at The Grounds prior to the Event to be Observed, and will enter the bar together, and we will feign…no, forego…bias? Let’s see…a married couple, a thirty-two-year-old guy who’s not been on a date since February, and me, who willingly walked into this mess.

Nope, no bias there.

As I moved from the bedroom to the bathroom to apply my makeup, my memory took me back to fourteen-year-old Olivia’s bedroom, helping her get ready for a school dance. As I handed her various pots and compacts and tubes of cosmetics, hues of eighties ostentation, I’d dabbed my cheeks with hot pink blush and imitated her sharp, angular eyeshadow using my fingers as brushes. I studied her honey-colored hair, teased and standing straight on top with puffy bangs, the rest falling to her shoulders. Her face was round; her skin, fair; her eyes, the shape of almonds, with blue diamonds for irises.

“Do boys like all this stuff?” I remembered asking her, lining her lip glosses in a row.

“They like the way it looks on girls, if that’s what you mean.”

I glanced at Olivia’s Culture Club poster. “It looks like they like to
wear
it, too.”

“Boy George does.”

“Does the lipstick get all shmudged when you kiss?” I asked.

Olivia giggled. She had sporadically dated all through high school until our mom got sick and she broke up with Bobby Ackerman. And me? I had kissed boys at parties and went to the occasional movie, but by my mid to late teens, most kids didn’t know how to talk to me. I was the girl whose parents died of cancer, who was living with her sister on welfare, so the rumor went despite it not being true. Dating just wasn’t on my mind, not even after I graduated high school and went to work in the bookstore. College coaxed me out of my shell, and I’d finally started doing all the things most girls would’ve done in high school.

Not that I minded being a late bloomer. It made me appreciate my dating experiences more. But perhaps it explained why I fell so hard for Shaun—he was the first guy I
lived
with, the one with whom I shared all my secrets and fears and hopes and dreams.

As I brought myself back to the present moment, staring at my reflection, blush brush poised in midair, studying my slate eyes, my pointy chin, and searching for wrinkles, I asked my reflection out loud,
“What are you doing?”

I mean, really—why was I going through all this? Was it to please a bunch of people who read
Why I Love Singlehood
, people who responded to my posts as if they actually had a say or a stake in my life? My blog readers were mostly singles like myself, sometimes cheering me on and sometimes complaining about their own lonely existence. Some seemed to be waiting for me to make a bold move, almost so that they’d have something to emulate. But no sooner had I written that inaugural post did I realize that I didn’t want to be the Singles Spokesperson. It was too late to surrender the title, however.

This dating thing seemed much easier in Olivia’s day. There was nothing to analyze. You dressed up. You moussed and crimped your hair and wore bracelets all the way up to your elbows. You put on makeup. You went out and came home when your parents told you to. You wrote about it in your diary and then hid said diary somewhere your little sister couldn’t find it.

The whole damn dating thing was easier in Shaun’s day, too. No tearing about the closet or striking poses in front of the mirror. I wore jeans and a blazer and heels the night we met, with subtle makeup and my hair long and straight. Of course, I wasn’t intending to meet anyone that night, but my wardrobe didn’t change much throughout our courtship. Why bother? I’d already impressed him that first night.

If only it could be that simple again. The last great RelationShip hadn’t sailed away without me, had it?

I arrived at The Grounds by 8:35, having only changed my top two more times (out of the purple V-neck, and then back into it), flaunting three-and-a-half-inch strappy sandals (the hottest part of the outfit, as far as I was concerned—I considered maybe putting my feet on the table during the dates to have the guys get a look at them), and keeping my hair down and makeup simple. After a failed attempt at an updo, I brushed it out and let it flow past my shoulders, soft and unruly.

The Grounds closed at seven o’clock; Norman and I both took the night off and had our favorite part-timer, Susanna, close for us. By the time I arrived, Norman, Jay, and Minerva were already there. Norman was dressed in dark khaki chinos, a light cream button-down shirt, and black Oxfords. He was clean-shaven and had also gotten a haircut. A John Cusack lookalike, Norman Bailey had jet-black hair, puppy-dog brown eyes, and a nose so well shaped it could be featured in a rhinoplasty catalogue. He wore paisley shirts and blue jeans with black Chuck Taylors or brown moccasins, and gave up wearing cologne after working at The Grounds for one week and being nauseated by the combination of aromas (although he smelled faintly of Kuros tonight). Totally adorable and datable.

Jay wore black Dockers (Minerva gave him a hard time about wearing black during summertime) and a golf shirt. Minerva had on her “date dress”—a hot little red number with a slit on the side and a low-cut back, all for Jay’s benefit, I knew. The moment I walked in and saw them, I turned around and Minerva had to grab me by the arm to keep me from walking back out, as if the door was a revolving one.

“Wow, you look lovely, Eva!” exclaimed Norman. “That color is perfect for you.”

“Lovely?” I said. I wasn’t sure I was going for “lovely.”

“Seriously, you look really good,” said Minerva, who at that instant pointed her cell phone at me and clicked a picture.

“You look hot,” I said to Minerva. “I don’t look hot.”

“You look sexy,” said Norman.

Sexy. Norman thought I looked lovely and sexy. Was there an eclipse of some kind taking place?

“Thanks, Norman. You clean up pretty good yourself.”

“Thanks. So…are we ready to go?” Norman asked. We all looked at each other and nodded in agreement.

“Shotgun!” called Jay, and Minerva rolled her eyes. Norman had offered to be the designated driver, so we all thanked him for that.

With Jay and Norman in the front listening to a local band that Norman had downloaded from iTunes, Minerva and I sat in the back and chirped away like two teenage girls.

“So,” she said as she leaned in to me, her voice lowered. “I have to tell you something.”

“What?” I said.

She was giddy and her eyes sparkled. “I might be pregnant.”

My mouth fell open, and she put up her hand to keep me from speaking.

“Don’t say anything. No one knows but you, Jay, and my lab partner, and I don’t want anyone else to know.”

Thankfully the music, along with Jay’s and Norman’s conversation, was loud enough that they wouldn’t have heard anything even if I could’ve found words.

“Min!” I finally managed to spit out. “Are you serious?”

She giggled. “Totally.”

“Did you do one of those home pregnancy doohickey thingies?”

“My lab partner at school gave me a test.”

“Ohmigod. Wow. Min.”

“I know!” she said, scrunching her shoulders as if we were talking about a prom date. “Isn’t it great?”

“I didn’t know you and Jay were planning anything.”

“Oh, it’s totally unplanned. I mean, it couldn’t come at a worse time, with me still in school and him paying off his student loan. But who cares? It’s a
baby
, Eva. A little Minerva and Jay. A Baby Brunswick. Can you imagine my bringing a little one to The Grounds? She’ll have her own Cookie of the Week.”

“Strained biscotti?”

Minerva laughed.

“So, Jay’s excited?” I asked.

“Well, he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but yeah, he wouldn’t be upset if it’s positive.”

“Wow. A mini-Min.”

“Oh, please tell me you’ll never say that again.”

We both giggled, and I gave her arm a squeeze. “I’m not sure what to say. It’s too soon for congratulations, isn’t it?”

Minerva scrunched her shoulders again. “I’ve got a good feeling about it. I’m not even gonna drink tonight, just in case. But don’t tell Norman, OK?”

“I promise, I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

She hugged me.

“Hey, no lesbian hanky-panky back there—not if I can’t watch,” said Norman, looking through the rearview mirror.

When we arrived at the bar and the four of us entered together, scoping the place out, I couldn’t help but feel hopeful to meet someone by the end of the night.

“This is gonna be fun,” said Jay.

“Is it?” I said. At that moment, as Minerva inconspicuously slid off her wedding ring and sneaked it into her clutch purse, I had the urge to snatch it from her, put it on my own finger, and never take it off.

The Social Experiment

The Just Barely Morning After Speed Dating

OK, here’s how it went.

Jay, Minerva, Norman, and I arrived at the club just moments before it was to begin. Ten guys total, one guy to a table.

The Rules: Everyone gets a number. Women start at one table, and you have eight minutes to make conversation or whatever. When the eight minutes are up, a bell rings and you move on. No chance to wrap up the conversation, get a business card, nothing. You stop in mid-sentence and move on.

Guy #1 goes something like this:

Him: Hey, good-lookin’. (I shit you not.)

Me: Hi, I’m Eva.

(I extend my hand for shaking. He kisses it. Eiw.)

Him: Ay-va, you said?

Me: Yes.

Him: I’m Peter.

Me: Hi, Peter.

(At this point, I’m thinking that introductions can actually kill a lot of time when you only have eight minutes. He’s wearing a button-down rayon shirt with a Harley Davidson on it, by the way.)