by Ali Adler
Then all of a sudden, Jax was thirty-one. A legitimately normal age to want to get married and start a family. But his girlfriend was only twenty-three. And in practical years, because they started dating when she was so young, she’d never experienced anything but a world with Jax. She went directly from her parents’ house to his house, so she was basically still eighteen inside. He was ready to buy her a ring and, even though she loved him and wanted to marry him in an abstract way, she knew she wasn’t ready to accept it. She had other things to explore first. This is the best-case scenario for it not working out. It totally worked until it totally didn’t. But this age gap was a cruel dagger in an otherwise great relationship. You can’t trick time.
Another example to the extreme reverse. When I was in college, my friend Lauren, then a junior, started sneakily dating our salt-and-pepper-haired professor. Canyoubelieveit?! He was sexy and, however metaphorically, had suede elbow patches sewn onto his corduroy blazer. A real erudite know-it-all windbag, but he was so smart, he’d read every esoteric book in the library. (Remember libraries? Those dusty, old museums used to house dusty, old books? Now, they’re where the homeless go to take shits.)
The professor was “worldly.” Late at night, while reading James Tate’s poetry, he’d pinch sardines with his fingers and eat them, dripping with oil straight from the tin, staining the volume’s page corners. The professor had once been to Malta. He boasted the exotic age of forty-eight! We couldn’t believe how lucky Lauren was to participate in this steamy, stomach-churning affair.
But wait—Lauren actually said yes when he proposed to her. Moments before her 250-guest wedding, while I was wearing an eggplant velvet scoop-necked bridesmaid dress, I did the unthinkable. I dragged her aside (and away from the sixty-two-year-old groomsman I’d been assigned to hobble down the aisle with—the old dude even had a cane) and begged her to reconsider marrying the professor. Not so much the man, but the life of being the wife of someone so much her senior. She wasn’t even mad at me. Thanked me. Said she understood my panic. Had it herself. But, mind-bogglingly, she walked down that aisle.
Even more mind-boggling is that all these years later, she is still married to him. He is twenty-six years older than Lauren; a year younger than her own father. He recently had hip-replacement surgery, and is still lucky enough to boast a full head of cotton-colored hair to match his thicket of white pubes. This man—who has read the entire library, and turns up his snooty nose at you because you have not—doesn’t own an iPad or a cell phone because “they’re too hard to figure out.” All waitresses, all of them, mistake Lauren for his daughter or caregiver. What was extremely sexy at twenty-two (“I pretended to lose my keys in his classroom. He was very happy to help me look for them . . .”) is now just a wrinkled pile of rosaceous obligation, scotch-induced stomach bloat, and regret.
I reiterate: the dating age limit is seven years maximum, please. It’s not that it’s not sexy in the short term—it is! If you are just there to fuck the young or fuck the old, that’s fine. Do it! Intergenerational hookups are awesome! “Tell me about how a pay phone worked!” “What do you mean you never learned cursive because you always had a keyboard?” But things can happen. Feelings can occur, and you can start the long process of rationalizing the unrationalizable. (See above re: the less smart; see below re: the drunks.) It’s just that in the long term, in these two examples, the datee is either in a different place than you are emotionally or, in the case of the elderly, you are resentful. You’re quietly, passively rooting for their death, so that your life may begin.
6. No drug addicts or nonrecovering alcoholics.
It is totally fine to date or marry sober, nonpracticing drug addicts and alcoholics. Good for them for going hard and then seeking recovery. Their clear-headedness and ability to self-examine may actually service your relationship if you can handle all the shopping, gambling, emotionally driven rants, overly hurt feelings, and food- and sex-addiction that drug and alcohol deprivation stimulates. But for all the users, the too-heavy drinkers and drug lovers out there, just accept this excess as a red flag and move the hell along.
People who are “experimenting” with drugs in their thirties are no longer experimenters. They are time-proven and tested doers. Consider this as well: if you are an alcoholic, you don’t need someone else to party with you. Why would you want to take turns cleaning up someone else’s vomit or tucking someone else in, or worrying who is less drunk and actually slightly more capable of driving—when you could have a dedicated person doing it for you? Drunk people, date those who don’t drink, if you are able. They are a natural yin-yang to your disgusting excess. Don’t worry; they have a piece in the dynamic, too. They can take care of you while simultaneously judging you, so that they may feel better about themselves without examining why they are with a broken-down glutton like you.
But if you are not an alcoholic, you don’t want to spend your life marveling or complaining, gauging and feeling powerless about someone else’s self-abusive intake. So just don’t bother. If you can’t tell at the beginning of a relationship if she is or isn’t a drunk or druggie, ask if her parent/s like to drink and anesthetize to excess. If she complains about her boozy parents or crazy childhood, just stop dating this person. This shit is hereditary. Just avoid it. Move on before it snaps back at you. These fights and negotiations of chemical dependence soak up a lot of time when you could otherwise be fucking.
Chapter 4
Relationships
Wanting the Woman You’ve Got
“I’m staying in, guys. I’m finally getting the hang of how to intuit Zoe’s needs.”
The only thing you can trust about a woman is just when you think you’ve got her all figured out, boom! That’s when she’ll switch it up, wanting the exact opposite. You couldn’t have predicted it. You can’t ever stop learning; you may not relax behind a previous body of wisdom.
But, if you want to fuck the woman you are in a relationship with, here are the four key words that will consistently help you do it. Simply ask, “How was your day?” You may also add her personal name or “honey” or “baby” to the end of that interrogatory statement, if you wish. A comment that you may hear as complimentary, such as “Hey, have you lost weight?,” will only start a fight. She will hear, “Up until this very second, you thought I was fat!” I get it. This is why you don’t say much. You’re never sure what will set her off. How can you know these words (that you think are kind) are really the kindling to your entire night’s plan?
Goodbye SportsCenter, hello big fight culminating with going-to-get-her-toilet-paper-mostly-to-get-away-from-her-but-also-to-help-her-blow-her-nose-and-wipe-away-her-tears-because-why-does-she-have-to-be-the-only-one-to-think-of-buying-goddamn-Kleenex-around-here? And, okay, maybe you’re not a SportsCenter guy, but stop being so fucking literal, which is why she’s always mad at you. I’m mad at you right now just for suspecting you might say this. Look, you had a plan for your night. And now it’s gone, and you have to just pathetically look online for the score of the game because you missed it—because of the fight you could’ve easily avoided with the very simple “How was your day, baby?” That one tiny question is the key to watching live sporting events. (Or whatever, literal asshole!)
Always Ask for Her Advice
Another excellent fuck-helper is the little-used “Hey. I have this thing going on with _____ (my work, my boss, my hemorrhoid, my dad, your dad, the national debt—who cares; fill in the blank but eventually get to the following words) and I could really use your advice on it.”
Bonus: you may even find her opinion insightful and helpful, because she’s used to analyzing every single nuance of every situation. Glean choice bits from what she says, and apply this concept to your problem. Without even realizing it, a piece of her advice may stick to you like an unshakeable piece of linguini at the bottom of the colander. Her opinion may actually register and remedy something, somewhere.
But that would only be a bonus; i
t’s not why you’re asking. By asking what she feels about any given matter, you are telling her that her opinion matters; that she matters. What she says is important to you. It also may convey to her that you realize you don’t have all the goddamn answers about every single thing. You are not the know-it-all-dick-head you appear to be.
It’s the old men-don’t-want-to-ask-for-directions-disease (an epidemic that has mostly been ameliorated in modern times with the invention of MapQuest. Progress! Millions of lost hours saved!). The very act of asking her allows that you don’t own all the solutions, but more importantly, that her opinion is valued and sought after. This powerful one-two punch will make her feel open to you emotionally and then, almost as if it were her idea, she may also be open to your dick.
This shit is subtle, too. Sometimes it can be gradual, so practice patience. She may have an accrued resentment; a thick emotional buildup from you not inquiring and not making these types of gestures for forever. So don’t despair if the first couple of times you use these tools, they fall flat and the vaginal gate doesn’t immediately open. It is most assuredly rusty. But, if you continue on this quest, asking and giving small considerations, she will invariably thaw. Practice these tips because not only will your life get way more livable via her happier attitude, but it will also include more sex—which in turn makes you way more livable. Ah, there’s that cute little infinity symbol: “∞.”
See, the thing is that men can sound tough and smell rough, but your egos are as fragile and sensitive as your testicles. The thing I recall about balls, is that they’re soft and easily hurt. Your nuts are as sensitive as our girl-feelings. Men need to feel connected through sexual intimacy in order to be emotionally intimate. And women—well, we need to feel emotionally close in order to fuck. So you straight people have a constant dilemma. Everyone is in pursuit of something, but no one really gets his or her needs met unless one of you makes an active compromise. So one of you must start somewhere, or neither of you will ever get anywhere. This solution is the emotional equivalent of an app like Waze.
With the same awe and interest you gave a vagina the first time you met one, you should wonder how to deal with the woman attached to it every single day that you’re in a relationship with her. I know this may seem excessive, but if you start taking it for granted, your attitude will backfire and start affecting the things you treasure most. I know you love her, but you also love what her happiness and contentment brings to you: consistent and pleasant access to the removal of semen from your balls. So making small allowances for her emotional needs will grant you a general pass of argument-free living and reliable vaginal admission.
You must put gas in your car. Sometimes you even wash the windshield or change the oil. You must do the equivalent of these things with your woman, or she will stop running. For the most effective and easy life, you must pay attention to her before the equivalent of her red dashboard lights go on. I’m not trying to be reductive of women, but we are built differently than you are. You want us not to notice you; you want to be left to your thoughts. But we want you to be sensitive to ours.
I Just Texted to Say I You . . .
You may get caught up in the everydayness of life and start taking this stuff for granted. Here’s a tip. Approach your woman as if you’re a scientist trying to ascertain something new. As if you’ve discovered an extraterrestrial in your bed. Study her discreetly so as not to make her aware that you’re studying her at all. What does she eat? What does she drink? What temperature water does she prefer to clean herself with? Maybe she enjoys a certain kind of creamy emollient to protect her alien skin. What kind of sleep habits does she have? How does she take care of her young? Does she make pleasant murmury sounds if you offer your services of helping her to rear her offspring?
Do not grow complacent. Be the iconoclast scientist that I know you can be. The stakes are huge. You must ask yourself, “How do I make her happy, so she doesn’t take over the (my) world?” Or even less cataclysmic: “How can we peaceably coexist on Earth?” Be aware of her needs, and see what secrets of the galaxy this consideration can unlock. You are good at different things; perhaps you can be of service to one another and live in harmonious accord. You should approach the entire population of women with this same level of awe and wonder. Because women are that different from you. She is studying you and your needs just as carefully, even though you don’t know it because she’s better at it than you. Update: she’s been doing it the whole time you’ve known her. You are only just learning about this now.
You think that in order to keep peace/have sex, you need to do little things like bring her flowers. Flowers are great, but you’re essentially giving us something else to throw away in five days. You will never notice the dead flowers or smelly, viscous, mildewy flower water that stinks up the whole apartment. So now we have to dump the rotten flowers, take out garbage, and decide whether or not to hold on to and wash the not-so-cute vase they came in. Essentially, you are giving us three annoying chores.
If you’re just trying for adorable, one flower is kind of cute. Again, it’s “not the size of the bouquet, it’s what you do with it.” Also, if you go overboard, it’s like throwing away a few hundred-dollar bills. If you’re going to do this, I would personally prefer to own something more permanent (clothes, jewels, new technological equipment) or even an interactive experience that says you’re thinking about me. A picnic you pick out at the grocery store after you tell me that you’re going to handle dinner. Now you’ve done two nice things, instead of blowing a bunch of money on tomorrow’s floral garbage.
Whenever the phone rings and it’s you, know that she’s already suspicious. It’s (most likely) you calling to say you can’t complete something you’ve assured her you’ll do. Can’t make it home for dinner. Can’t be there to watch your son play “Three Blind Mice” with a plastic recorder at his Pumpkin Harvest recital. You are calling to report a deficiency of some kind. She’s learned to associate your name popping up on her phone as negative. You’re Pavlov’s dog that diarrheas all over her most expensive white rug. Sorry, but this is your fault. She’s scared to answer your calls because disappointing her is pretty much the only time you ever call her.
But life isn’t over yet. You’ve created this feeling, and you can just as easily change it. Call her just to say you miss her. This will blow her ass away. “Hey . . . I was just thinking about you and wanted to call.” “And . . .?” she will suspiciously wonder. She will undoubtedly suspect you of fucking her tittsiest friend, Gabby, who you totally “don’t get why everyone thinks is so hot.” (You do. Gabby’s totally hot; she’s got those massive tits.) But no, you’re just calling because you miss her. If you don’t have time for a conversation or are sensitive to the fact that she may not, just text “I miss you.” Or the even less effortful “Miss you.” I’ve even programmed custom typing shortcuts, “mu” and “ly,” into my phone to turn these simple letters into complex, life-sustaining emotions. For the limbless who still love to fuck, poke a heart-shaped emoticon into your phone with your nose.
The First Fight Is the Microcosm of All Future Fights
I have, thus far, avoided talking with any specificity about my own relationship experiences, because the ones I had before kids had such little stakes, and the one I had with kids meant too much in real life to discuss in any satisfying detail. I mean, no matter what, the person I had children with will always be my babies’ mama. But I can share what I learned from that relationship (which was way more about procreation than it ever was about fucking; should’ve been my first giant clue it wouldn’t work out). But the most amazing things came out of that relationship: my beautiful, genius son and my gorgeous, hilarious daughter. But my old relationship’s failure can serve you. Let me pay for your therapy with my own. Here’s the headline I gleaned from all of it:
WHATEVER THE TOPIC OF YOUR FIRST FIGHT WILL
INVARIABLY BE THE TOPIC OF YOUR LAST FIGHT.
With my baby-mama,
our first fight was “the kettle fight.” It happened in, like, month one or two. Who can remember—it’s stacked underneath so many bigger, huger, louder, crazier, cry-zier battles. Men, you may want to skip over this next part; the following fight between two lesbians doesn’t involve Catholic schoolgirl uniforms or titty pinching. No, this fight is frighteningly dry. It’s even worse than the very worst of any of your most banal straight-people fights. It may be the least sexy conflict in the history of conflict—frankly, par for that relationship’s course. But it is the trembler, the rumbling of the earth years ahead of the Big One. If only we all knew to pay attention to our own first fights, we’d either know how this shit was going to end or, even better, be ahead of it enough to work on the relationship.
Okay. So. Let me set the super-unsexy stage. I was hungry. I wanted instant oatmeal. Couldn’t find a kettle. So, I went out and bought a utilitarian kettle. It was metal with a black circley thing that set off a helpful reminder whistle when the water boiled. I heated water until it was hot. Poured and stirred. Ta-da, delicious oatmeal! I set my nice, new kettle down on the stovetop.
My as-flavorful-as-oatmeal ex—let’s call her Sarah—came in and was startled by the aesthetic choice I’d made regarding the kettle. “It’s ugly,” she said. “I don’t like it.” Me: “It’s a kettle.” “Cheap,” she added. Hey, I chose it. I paid for it. In my opinion, it was neither, but I said, “It served its function; it heated water. Now, my belly is full of satisfying oats.” She said, “Oh no, no, no, how could you buy this without my input?” Me: stupefied, truly not comprehending, “Huh . . .?” She insisted I should’ve consulted her. “This kettle sits atop the stove,” she contemptuously explained, as if I should also feel the stinging emotional slap still resonating on her cheek. “It’s a visual choice, so I should’ve been included in this matter.”