Modem Operandi
Columbus Day Weekend
Henry Hudson Parkway, NY 2001
Shiksa Syndrome
Counting the Omer
West End Avenue, NYC 2002
In Search of the Regular Ultimate Hold
Fourth of July
East Hampton, NY 2003
The Water in the Walls
New Year’s Eve
Brooklyn Heights, NY 2003
About the Author
Coming Next Month
1
You Have to Kiss a Lot of Frogs
April Fools’ Day
Hell’s Kitchen, NYC 2003
I like being a woman. I also like being friends with other women. I don’t, however, like feeling forced into participating in some ritual with an entire flock of them I’ve never even met. It’s like having to wear those dumb party hats, and blow on those even dumber paper things at midnight with a bunch of strangers on New Year’s Eve. You’re thrown in with people you don’t know and don’t want to be with, but you’re all going to share this intimate event with glee. If it kills you. And that’s how I feel at this bridal shower.
Here I am. Tuesday. 6:00 p.m. Right after work, if you actually have a normal job, and I’m standing in a Mexican restaurant in midtown Manhattan, holding a margarita I’m not drinking because I don’t like the salt. I’m stuck wearing gray wool slacks because I came from an audition for a soup commercial, à la Winter in Vermont, and realized way too late that the bag with my dress was at home on my bed, and not with me. The bright fluorescents highlight the brown roots on my red head, and a silver barrette is holding together a few strands of hair, attempting to disguise a bad bang trim. That time-of-the-month bloat is making my size-four pants feel tight, and my hair feels hot around my neck. I can’t help but compare myself to everyone around me. They seem perfectly coiffed, and groomed, and excited to be here. I’m one of fifty overeager women waiting for Marcy to arrive to surprise her because, finally, after twenty-five years of dating, she’s met some guy she’s going to marry. And everyone’s gabbing how they’re sooooooo happy for her. Frankly, I don’t believe it.
The married ones must be remembering their showers. The too many toaster ovens and Crock-Pots, the friction between the maid of honor and the other best friends, and now the contemplation if the marriage has lived up to the fanfare of the shower.
The single ones are standing with plastic smiles, wondering if the person getting married is really better off than they are. That’s me. I wonder, is Marcy really Happy Now? And is that to say she really never was before? After the years of angst and dates and therapy and plans for when The One arrives, when It happens, what does It feel like? What does it feel like to be with Mr. Right. Mr. It. Does it feel great? Does it? Does it feel better than it did before? Does it feel better than I feel standing in the middle of it? Watching. Comparing. Are other people unconditionally happy for this person or is it just me?
“Sssshh, she’s coming.”
“AAHHHHHH!!!”
“QUIET…QUIET…quiet…”
The lights in the restaurant are out, and there’s chatter coming up the stairs to the balcony. Everyone pushes together in the middle to see. To see how Marcy will react. She thinks her mom and aunt are taking her to see The Phantom of the Opera. Aunt Tessie’s visiting from Philadelphia and wants to see it, she’s heard “The Music of the Night” sung so much over the years. Marcy thinks they’re coming to Fajita Fajita for a bite before the show. Little does she expect that tonight, eight weeks before her wedding, years after attending God knows how many showers herself, instead of seeing Phantom, she would see every important female she knows tell her, “I’m so happy for you. I told you it would happen. It happens for everybody. It just has to be your time.”
“Watch it, Marcy,” I hear a gravelly voice say. “You stepped on my toe.”
“Oops. Sorry, Mom.”
“I can’t see,” says the other one. Obviously Tessie. “Go ahead of me, Marcy, dear. It’s dark.”
“SURPRISE!”
The lights snap on, and Marcy sees every woman she’s ever known in her entire life before her—wide-eyed, drunk from waiting and wishing her well in her new life. Marcy is heroic, because Martin has found her. Marcy is elevated to another level, because Martin has picked her. Marcy is thrown to the other side. The side that is validated. She’s no longer going to be Single. It’s happened. It’s happening now. And as a result, Marcy can’t move.
I lift my five-foot-one-inch frame onto my toes so I can get a better look. Marcy’s leaning against the banister of the balcony. She turns to face us. Her bright auburn hair falls back, and her smile spreads so far across her face it’s inside her ears. She looks like she may faint. The banister is holding her up for dear life.
Marcy’s face is frozen in terror. No. Not terror. Happiness. Terrorized happiness. Her small body’s wobbling. Will all this happiness make her keel over?
“Ehhhhhhhh!” Marcy cries out. Her grotesque smile opens wider and wider, and her eyes bulge out. “Ehhhhhhhh!”
We are happy for Marcy. We are. But now we are worried. Our smiles are plastered to our faces as we watch her meld into the banister.
“You’re getting maaarried!!!” a cousin calls out. Her red nails wave at Marcy, and her gold-and-diamond rings catch the glimmer of the light shining above the picture of a bullfight that’s painted on red velvet.
“Look at all your guests!” shouts her sister-in-law to be.
“Everyone sit!” says her maid of honor, who’d been spending the last few minutes at the banister trying to catch Marcy if she were to fall.
Marcy is walked over to a table by her mother and aunt Tessie, each holding half of her up. They smile at everyone, as if they were in a procession. Marcy remains in shock, until she passes the pile of one hundred beautifully wrapped presents that should cover almost every item on her registry. She is suddenly composed.
“Let’s eat!” announces Marcy, taking her seat in the center.
We watch a moment. Marcy has caught her breath, and so we catch ours. We sit down to eat the guacamole. I take a seat near the gifts. I want to get a good look at what I’m missing.
Seven weeks later I wake up in the middle of the night. I have just turned forty-five and no Martin came and saved me from it. I am still in my apartment, or what I hope is still my apartment. The notice to buy me out of my rent-stabilized lease arrived the day before my birthday. My unemployment claim expired, and my acting prospects quietly disappeared in my forty-fourth year, just to make my forty-fifth as frightening as possible. I never bought that “Forty” was the “NewThirty,” and feel petrified to find out that “Fifty” is the “New Forty.” I am currently boyfriendless and in no shape to date.
Perhaps I should kill myself.
This seems like an interesting idea. I can kill myself tonight and just slip away. What am I supposed to do tomorrow anyway? Gynecologist appointment, gym, audition for a vacuum cleaner commercial… Now might be a good time. I have to slip away one day anyway. At least I’d have the say as to when and how.
I’d no longer have to worry about money. That would be a relief. I wouldn’t be afraid I’d get raped running the reservoir, hit by a car or blown up by a terrorist. I wouldn’t have to keep up with fashion trends, do laundry or search for the perfect haircut. I’d never have to overhear another ridiculous cell phone conversation on the bus, or waste my time running ridiculous errands. I wouldn’t have to wait on hold for a representative to come on