“The email said that they’re a print-on-demand publisher so it will be out in about six months, around October 10th they said.”
“I can’t believe it! My best friend is going to be a published author. This is so cool. Will you still have time for me while you’re on your busy book tour schedule?”
“Probably not. What’s your name again?” said Callie in total deadpan, causing both women to burst out laughing.
48
The Fussy Virgin Guide:
“When A Sign Is NOT A Sign”
When unexplained things happen in our lives, it’s how we interpret them that matters. Some of us let our imaginations run wild, spinning tales of what we want it to be versus what it actually is.
Let’s say you meet someone on a bus, and you later end up marrying them. Was it a sign from the universe that you both ended up on the same bus at the same time? Maybe. Or maybe it was simply dumb luck. What if something happens in your life and you give it added lift by assigning more meaning to it than you should? If you’re anything like me, you can spin a blanket out of a single thread.
It’s easy to let wishful thinking become your reality. Let’s say you like someone but aren’t sure if he likes you. He shows up at a party that he knew you were going to. You could interpret that as a crystal-clear sign that he wanted to see you. Why else would he have shown up at that particular party? You run with this line of thinking and for the next six weeks, you and your friends whip up an entire backstory about him and his motivations. Your squad’s theory is based entirely on conjecture and vivid imaginations from watching too many romantic comedy movies.
Before you know it, you’ve got an annual subscription to two different bridal magazines. Sadly, after you and your friends select the perfect wedding ensemble, you learn that the only reason he was at that party was because there was another girl there he wanted to go out with who is now his girlfriend. Him being there had nothing to do with you at all. Yet, before you learned about the other girl, you were convinced his presence at that party was an indisputable sign from the universe of his deep affection for you.
Bottom line—signs are a dubious thing and mostly subjective. My advice—stick with facts and forget about signs, they’ll almost always point you in the wrong direction.
49
May 2018
Though she would have much rather been out shopping for shoes or volunteering at her favorite animal shelter, Callie had resigned to spend that Saturday afternoon at the laundromat. Mounds of dirty clothes had piled up around the two already full gigantic laundry bags in her closet. With nothing clean to wear and fearing she might become a little fragrant, she succumbed to the inevitable—laundry day.
A month earlier, Lavinia Swan had put her foot down. While visiting the city she had refused to take her daughter’s dirty laundry home with her, which shook Callie’s world.
“What’s that big laundry bag doing by your front door,” Lavinia had asked suspiciously as she and Callie’s father were about to leave their daughter’s apartment on the Upper West Side. “It wasn’t there when we came in.”
“Oh, that,” said Callie, as if she had forgotten it was there. “I had a little dirty laundry and I thought since you and Daddy are coming back into the city next week to see that play, maybe you could run it through your washer and drop it off before or after the show.”
“My darling, dearest, favorite daughter,” began her mother while shaking her head.
“I’m your only daughter,” said Callie, sensing her mother was about to put the kibosh on the washing delivery service.
“That’s true, but you’re still my favorite daughter,” said her mother. “Don’t you think it’s time you did your own washing? You’re nearly thirty-one.”
“I’m only thirty which is practically in the twenties.”
Callie’s father chuckled from across the room as he watched the equally matched women face off.
“But I love the way my clothes smell when you do it,” said Callie, still angling for her mother’s housekeeping services.
“Mother’s Laundromat is closed,” said her mother as she gave Callie a kiss on the cheek and signaled for her husband to follow her out the front door. From the hallway her mother turned and faced her daughter, still standing in her apartment doorway.
“We’ll drop by after the play next week for a visit. I noticed there’s a very nice laundromat on the corner two blocks south of here. Maybe you should familiarize yourself with it. Love you, sweetie,” her mother said as she walked down the stairs with her husband right behind.
Callie made a very loud sigh.
“I heard that,” said her mother from the floor below while descending the stairs. “That won’t work on me, Callie. I invented the sigh.”
That heartwarming family scene had happened nearly four weeks earlier, and now Callie’s laundry had piled up to the point where she had gone out and bought new underwear because none of hers was clean. With no other recourse, on a sunny Saturday when she would have rather been doing anything else, Callie stood at the G & G Quik Wash on West 108th Street watching everything she owned go round and round in a swirl of soap and bubbles. With so much to be cleaned, she needed four giant washers to get it all done. Because it was a Saturday and crowded, she couldn’t get all four machines at once and had to take them one at a time which meant her laundry was going to be an all-day affair. She let out another exasperated sigh as she waited.
After two hours listening to the thundering drone of the machines, only a third of her washing was done. She couldn’t even leave to get a coffee because this was New York City and anyone could come in and walk out with her stuff. There weren’t any seats available because so many people were waiting. If there is a hell, this is what it looks like. She played around on her phone to kill time, texting back and forth with Jess trying to convince her friend to come down to the laundromat to hang out with her. Absorbed with her text chat, Callie didn’t notice him when he first walked in with a big light blue bag over his shoulder. He didn’t see her either—at first.
“Hey, stranger,” said Henry as he approached her.
Callie looked up. It took her a moment to realize who it was because he looked different. “Henry?” she said, smiling, genuinely glad to see him. “You grew a beard, I hardly recognized you. I like it. It suits you.”
“You think?” he said, blushing, while running his hands over his now hairy chin. “I wasn’t sure, but I’m getting used to it. Definitely makes my mornings easier without all that shaving every day. This is the last place I ever expected to see you. I thought you didn’t do laundry?”
“I do now,” said Callie with a pout. “My mother’s on strike.”
Henry laughed. “I told you that would happen one day.”
“You did,” said Callie now laughing too. “I’ve been forced into adulting before I was ready, but I’m surviving.”
A washer opened up and Callie raced over to grab it and put her remaining items in. A minute later another washer was available and Henry loaded in his clothes.
“I was going to run across the street and get a coffee. Can I get you one?” asked Henry.
Callie nodded. “Milk…”
“…no sugar, I remember.”
After Henry returned with the coffee, he and Callie found two empty rickety chairs over by the dryers and claimed them. They caught up on mutual friends and reminisced about some of the fun times they had when they were seeing each other. The conversation flowed easily and they were both having a good time.
“I miss this,” said Henry. “You and me.”
“I do too,” said Callie, surprised when she heard the words come out of her mouth.
“You think we should give it another shot?”
“You’re not seeing anyone?” asked Callie.
“No. You?”
Callie shook her head.
Each lost in their own thoughts, they sat without speaking for a few moments.
“I supp
ose we could try it on a strictly trial basis,” said Callie.
“Definitely on a trial basis.”
An hour later, when Henry walked Callie back to her apartment, he accompanied her inside under the guise of helping her get her two enormous bags of clean clothes up the stairs. Once in her apartment he took her in his arms and kissed her nervously but more tenderly than he had ever done before.
Callie felt light-headed, even giddy. I don’t remember him kissing me this way before, but I kind of like it.
The following week they got together for dinner and made plans to do it again two days later. Within three weeks, it was like they had never broken up. They drifted back to their old, comfortable pattern as if they had never been apart. At first the familiarity felt good to Callie, like a comfy pair of shoes, but soon little things started to grate on her. He still spent most of his time when he wasn’t at work watching sports and the television was always on. Even when he was at her place and she had music on, he’d flip on a game and lie down on her couch and not move for hours.
One Saturday morning at 9:30am, Callie showed up at Henry’s apartment as they had planned. The Ariom Marketing staff had volunteered for the Central Park “Clean-up” Day. Everyone was supposed to meet in Strawberry Fields at eleven.
“We’ve got to get going in thirty minutes,” Callie said while she made herself a cup of coffee.
“You know, I’ve had a crazy week at work. My clients were in town for four days and I’m played. I don’t feel like picking up garbage in the park today. I just want to kick back and relax,” said Henry, stretching out on the couch in front of the TV that was already on. “Can’t we watch a few games or a movie on Netflix.”
“But I promised we’d be there.”
“You go, I’ll take a pass,” said Henry, turning back to the game on TV. “Come back when you’re finished and we’ll order a pizza.”
That’s when Callie remembered why she had broken up with Henry before. He was a really nice guy, no question about that, but they had little to no interests in common. She understood he had a tough week. Going to pick up empty cans and bottles in the park was probably the last thing he felt like doing but he had committed and now he was backing out. At that moment, she knew for sure he wasn’t the right one for her. She also knew what she had to do and chastised herself for lacking discipline when she had agreed to get back together. Now, because of her recklessness, she’d have to break his heart a second time.
Finishing her cup of coffee, she did what she knew she had to do. Henry was fairly stoic about getting dumped—again. He held it together while she spoke which made her feel even worse. By 10:30, they had talked everything through and when there was nothing more to say, he walked her to his apartment door and opened it.
“Still friends?” she said, blinking back tears as she looked up at him.
“Sure,” said Henry. “We’re not going to do this a third time, right?”
“Definitely not,” said Callie with a rueful smile. “I wish we were right for each other because you’re going to make some girl an amazing husband.”
“You could be that girl.”
Callie smiled, stood on her tippy toes and planted a final kiss on Henry’s cheek and walked out for the last time.
50
The Fussy Virgin Guide:
“Breakup or Makeup”
He’s a great boyfriend—attentive, loving, and remembers your birthday. He lets you decide where to eat, which videos to binge on and what your weekend plans would be but there’s still something missing.
Part of you wants to keep the relationship going, hoping that one day a spark will flicker. In time, you feel trapped and start seeing all of Jack’s little imperfections and they begin to annoy you—a lot. Eventually, sweet, devoted Jack starts looking weak and pathetic and you cringe when he touches your hand. You know what you have to do but you’ve been avoiding it for weeks…okay, months.
You ask him to come over for dinner hoping that your cooking will make the breakup less painful. The night drags on as you delay pulling the trigger because truthfully, you’re a coward. Then as if the gods heard your prayer, he says something irritating and you get up your courage.
“These past few months have been great, but my job is taking up a lot of my time now (so pathetic) and I think maybe we should just be friends.” (Ouch.)
“What do you mean?” he asks, hoping he got it all wrong. “We’re perfect together. I thought one day we’d get married.”
He uses the M-word while you’re breaking up with him! Now, he’s forcing you into the weeds, which you really didn’t want to do. He’s going to make you list the reasons why you don’t want to be with him. He tells you why he loves you and recounts every meal you’ve ever shared. Your stomach is in knots, he’s not making this easy. He’s forcing you to be ruthless. Damn him.
By the time the evening ends, you’ve both cried numerous times, hugged, held hands, and opened a bottle of wine. He’s still hoping he can talk you out of it. He has tears in his eyes when you walk him to your apartment door for the final goodbye. He leans over to kiss you one last time hoping there will be some magical power in the kiss that will change your mind. There isn’t. You’re finally free.
Or so you think…
He calls you later that night because he feels awful. You two had been practically inseparable for the past few months, so you listen to him as any good friend would. You tell him you feel terrible too, because you do, but not for the same reasons.
You foolishly say, “Call me anytime.” He interprets that as you leaving the relationship door ajar and that he can turn this ship around.
He starts calling you more than when you were a couple. Soon, the calls morph from teary relationship conversations to ones that are interspersed with laughter. Two weeks later, he makes his move.
“Want to meet up for a beer tonight,” he texts.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you text back, inner alarm bells ringing.
“Friends meet friends for a beer,” he says.
You give in, even though you know it’s a bad idea because you feel sorry for him and because you kind of miss him. You tell yourself, only one drink.
That night it’s like old times. One beer turns into three and you wind up ordering a couple of burgers. After dinner you each have a bourbon and that’s when he makes his next move.
“I miss this,” he says. “You and me. It’s so easy.”
“I miss it too,” you say.
Uh-oh.
Now you’re trapped like a drunken rat. The alcohol has weakened your resolve and you had been a little lonely since you broke up. You leave the pub and when you get to the corner, he offers to walk you home. You’re a little drunk, and you regretfully accept.
He asks if he can come up to your place to use the bathroom. On some level you know it’s a ruse to get into your apartment, but you agree. When he comes out of the bathroom, he gives you what might be the best kiss of your entire life.
Within seconds, you’re all over each other. Two hours later, bodies intertwined, it’s like the whole breakup never happened. You have now moved into the makeup phase which is initially fantastic but not sustainable. The thing that made you break up with him is still there. For the next few months you play “couple” but you knew within a few days that the makeup was a big fat mistake. You can’t bring yourself to hurt him again so you play along a lot longer than you should. In the end, you inevitably break his heart a second time and now you feel like the world’s worst human being because—you are.
When you break up—DO NOT MAKE UP!
It always ends badly.
51
Carrying two paper cups of coffee through the reception area of his law firm after a mid-afternoon coffee run, Patrick overheard a middle-aged woman with short red hair pitching something to the firm’s receptionist.
“If I could leave you my card,” said the red-haired woman. “Maybe if any of your attorneys were
interested they could give me a call?”
Curious, Patrick stopped and eavesdropped on the conversation.
“Tell them that even a few hours a month would make a real difference in people’s lives. They can volunteer as much or as little time as they’re able.”
“I’ll let them know,” said the receptionist with a thick New York accent. “Don’t get your hopes up because I don’t think any of our attorneys do pro-bono work. This is a very busy law firm and our associates put in all kinds of crazy long hours.”
“Can I help you?” asked Patrick, insinuating himself into their conversation. “I’m an attorney here. What are you looking for?”
“I’m with The Vindication Project. Do you know who we are?” said the woman.
“Sure, I’ve read about your organization,” said Patrick, nodding, more interested. “You exonerate innocent people who you believe have been wrongly convicted and incarcerated for serious crimes. Right?”
“That’s exactly right and sometimes the crimes aren’t even that serious but they are thrown in jail anyway,” said the woman with a smile.
“What do you need from us?”
“We’re looking for volunteers. We need lawyers, paralegals, bodies,” said the woman. “We’re a completely voluntary organization, there’s no paid staff and we desperately need help. So far, we’ve been able to free fifty-three innocent people who would otherwise still be behind bars. Fifty-three people got their lives back but we could do so much more if we had some help. We’ll take whatever time you can give. Whether it’s one or forty hours a month, we’d be grateful for anything.”
Patrick nodded again.
“Interested in coming down to talk to us? I’ll show you around,” said the woman.
“I might be. I did a year at The Legal Aid Society when I graduated from law school.”
The Fussy Virgin Page 17