Romantically Challenged

by Beth Orsoff

  “He’s a friend of Todd’s. They play basketball together.”

  Todd is Simone’s investment banker fiancé. He’s loaded, but an arrogant jerk. Not that I would ever say that to Simone. She goes for that type. I myself go for more of the sensitive, yet manly type. The kind of guy that likes romantic movies, but can still fix the leak in your faucet. My type seems to be harder to find.

  “But you’ve met him, right?” I asked.

  “Once,” she said. “At one of their games.”

  “For how long?”

  “Stop worrying. I wouldn’t set you up with a loser.”

  I hoped not since it was too late to change my mind. “How are the wedding plans coming?”

  “A nightmare. We can’t even agree on a date. I’m ready to elope, but Todd wants the big wedding. It’s his first time.”

  This would be Simone’s second wedding. Her first was when she was in her early twenties. She married a rock star named Roach from the Blind Alleys. The band was at its peak then and she and Roach had one of those ridiculous five-hundred person weddings at the Plaza Hotel in New York. The marriage lasted less than a year, but Simone received a nice settlement anyway. She swears she doesn’t care about money, but she always seems to end up with rich men.

  “I’m surprised he cares.” I didn’t think Todd was in touch with his feminine side.

  “I think his mother’s the one that cares. Since Todd’s sister eloped and his brother has finally come out of the closet, his mother sees this as her last opportunity to make a big wedding. Just like your mother.”

  “The difference is that my mother already made a big wedding—for my sister.”

  “Yes, but that was a long time ago.”

  A ray of hope. “Then maybe all I need to do is remind her and she’ll stop hounding me about getting married.”

  “You wish,” she said.

  And I did.

  * * *

  Ken called on Wednesday afternoon. He told me about his job as a bankruptcy attorney (a plus—he had a career, even if it was in law), his house in the Valley (a minus—nobody likes the Valley, not even the people that live there), and his dog (neutral—I would have to meet the dog and see if we got along). We clicked on the phone, so I had high hopes for the date.

  Which meant that I woke up Saturday morning in a panic. Naturally, I called Kaitlyn.

  “I have nothing to wear,” I said without even saying hello. “I went through my entire closet this morning. All I have are work clothes and jeans. No date outfits.”

  “What’d you wear on the last date?” she asked.

  “Sweatpants.”

  She laughed. “I forgot about that. What time is he picking you up again?”

  “Seven-thirty. I figure I need to be in the shower by six-thirty at the latest.”

  “It’s only eleven. Meet me at Nordstroms in an hour. That will give us six hours to find you a cute date outfit, plus some new makeup, and maybe one or two pairs of shoes for me.”

  “I need new makeup too?”

  “We can discuss it later. I’ll see you in the shoe department in an hour.”

  * * *

  When I arrived at noon, Kaitlyn was already trying on. In twenty minutes she’d purchased a pair of flats, a pair of heels, and was already debating between several handbags. She was my inspiration. I could spend all day shopping and still come home empty-handed. According to Kaitlyn, it was because I’m both particular and indecisive—a bad combination. I needed to work on that.

  In two hours we’d scoured petites, contemporary and individualist, but hadn’t found a pair of black pants that made me look thin, but didn’t need to be shortened (I had no time for alterations). We fanned out through the rest of the mall and finally ended up in Ann Taylor.

  “They’re perfect,” Kaitlyn said when I’d tried on the fifth and final pair.

  I pulled the tag out of the back to check the price. “I can’t buy these, they’re a size six.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m a size four. Buying these would be like admitting I’m fat.”

  “You’re not fat.”

  “Then why are all the size fours tight?”

  “Because you’re in petites. Petites always run smaller.”

  “Only in the length. These are all tight in my ass.”

  “That’s the style this year. You either show your panty lines or buy a bigger size.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better about being fat.”

  “No, I’m not. I swear it. I just bought a pair of size four pants last week and you know I always wear a size two.”

  After trying on all the too--tight fours again and promising myself that next week I would join a new gym and go on a diet, I bought the size six. They weren’t perfect, but they’d do.

  In some ways, never being able to find the perfect pair of black pants was a good thing. It forever remained an unfulfilled quest to pursue on boring Sunday afternoons when, after flirting with the idea of going to a museum, you admit to yourself that culture is only something you seek out when you pursue abroad. It was just bad when you needed something to wear that night.

  After the pants purchase, Kaitlyn insisted we have makeovers. She ended up with $200 worth of new cosmetics, and I ended up with a new lipstick that I didn’t need but bought out of guilt since the sales lady spent half an hour trying to give me a new look. Kaitlyn and I figured that with all that trying-on and walking back and forth in the mall, we must’ve burned off at least five hundred calories each. Therefore, we practically owed it to our sugar deprived bodies to stop for cupcakes on the way out. Besides, I had to eat while I still could. The diet started on Monday.

  * * *

  Ken arrived promptly at 7:30. I opened my front door and stared. It wasn’t that Simone’s description hadn’t been accurate. It was that she’d neglected to mention Ken’s most distinguishing feature. The man had a forest growing out of his nose.

  It was like staring at a car crash—mesmerizing and repulsing at the same time. After a few seconds of gaping, I forced myself to look away.

  I couldn’t understand it. Even if he was one of those unpretentious guys that didn’t spend a lot of time in front of the mirror, he’d have to be blind to miss those nose hairs. They were practically down to his lip.

  Ken led me downstairs to his Lexus and held my car door open despite unlocking it with the remote. I gave him a point for gallantry, then double points when he told me he’d made reservations at several different restaurants so I could choose the type of food I wanted. I chose the Japanese restaurant near the water because I’d been there once years earlier and remembered it being very dark inside. Maybe I could forget the nose hairs if I couldn’t see them.

  It wasn’t until we arrived at Mon Sushi that I discovered it had been completely remodeled. Instead of dark and secluded, it was now bright and airy. I was still hopeful when the hostess led us towards one of the few dimly lit tables in the back, until Ken interrupted.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but when I made this reservation I specifically requested a table with an ocean view.”

  “I know sir,” the hostess replied, “but all the ocean view tables are filled. If you want one, you’ll have to wait.”

  He told her we would and led me towards the bar. “I hope you don’t mind,” Ken said as he pulled out my barstool. “I thought it would be nice if we could watch the sunset.”

  Successful, gentlemanly, and romantic. Damn those nose hairs.

  * * *

  When the hostess finally brought us to our ocean view table, all that remained of the sunset was a thin band of orange forcing its way through the clouds. Within minutes, the sky went dark and I could barely make out Ken’s face. The nose hairs were reduced to a shadow. Until the busboy noticed Ken struggling to read the menu and rushed over to light the candle in the center of the table. It was amazing how much one small candle could illuminate, especially when it was placed directly under Ken’s nose.
Instantly, the forest was back and my eyes were riveted.

  The wine helped. By my second glass of cabernet, I’d discovered that Ken had a small dimple in his left cheek that deepened when he laughed. If I focused on the dimple, I practically didn’t see the nose hairs. I spent the rest of the meal trying to think of something funny to say.

  * * *

  Two hours later Ken walked me to the door of my apartment building. I was contemplating whether there was any polite way to suggest to someone that they buy a nose hair clipper, when Ken bent down to kiss me. I closed my eyes as soon as I realized what he was doing, but it was too late. I’d already seen those prickly little monsters coming towards me and the image was branded on my brain. When I felt one brush my lip, I leapt back.

  “Sorry,” I said, turning my head so Ken wouldn’t see me wiping my mouth, “I don’t kiss on the first date.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.” He had a wounded expression on his face.

  The guilt was flooding my whole body. He was such a nice guy, so many good qualities. How could I be this superficial?

  Then I looked up and saw those nose hairs. I knew there was no way I could get past it so I stopped chastising myself and said goodnight.

  Chapter 12

  Look Who’s Coming To Dinner

  The next morning I met Kaitlyn for breakfast at Bread & Porridge, the always crowded café around the corner from her apartment. Since Scumbag had left, Kaitlyn and I had a standing Sunday morning breakfast date which could be canceled by either one of us if we were out of town or just found something better to do. We rarely canceled.

  “It just seems like such a shame to let a good guy go over nose hairs,” Kaitlyn said, still sipping her Starbucks. The waiter hadn’t yet brought us the coffees we’d ordered.

  “You wouldn’t say that if they were coming out of Billy’s nose.”

  “Sure I would. I’d just tell him I loved him, then buy him a nose hair trimmer for Christmas.”

  “Easy to say when you’ve been dating the guy for four years.”

  “Five,” she said. “Next weekend’s our anniversary.”

  “Oooo, that’s a big one. Are you thinking ring?”

  “Maybe,” she said, but the huge grin on her face told me “yes.”

  “Does that mean you two have finally agreed on where you’re going to live?” It had been a non-stop debate since Billy had been transferred to San Francisco late last year.

  “I’ve been giving that a lot of thought,” she said, “and I’ve decided it makes more sense for him to relocate. He hates his new boss and was planning on looking for another job anyway, so it’ll be just as easy for him to find one in L.A.”

  Somehow I didn’t think Billy would see it that way. “And have you told him that?”

  “No, I decided it was better to have that conversation in person. I’m flying up next weekend. By the way, what are you doing Sunday night around nine?”

  “Spending quality time with my Tivo. Why?”

  “Do you think I could talk you into picking me up at the airport instead?”

  “Sure. Although I’d rather you flew back on Saturday night. Then I’d have an excuse to blow off Scott’s birthday party.”

  “I thought you liked Scott.”

  “I do. I just hate going to parties alone.” It meant I would have to spend the entire evening either interjecting myself into other people’s conversations or standing along in a corner like a complete loser. Neither scenario was appealing. “I suppose I could lie and tell him you’re flying in on Saturday night. He’d never know the difference.”

  “Absolutely not,” she said. “Parties are a great place to meet men.”

  “Not when they’re thrown by married couples. I’ll probably be the only single person there.”

  It really was an amazing phenomenon. Whenever a single friend married, along with their new spouse, the friend instantly acquired an entire set of previously unheard of couple friends. The newlyweds would then spend their weekends with all the other couples, and stop socializing on weeknights altogether. We single friends were relegated to the occasional lunch, if convenient. If not, we were completely disowned. Scott worked in the office building next to mine, which was why we were still friends. I was still a convenient lunch date.

  “All you need to do,” Kaitlyn said, “is call Scott’s wife and tell her you’re coming alone. I guarantee you she will find at least one eligible bachelor to invite to the party.”

  “Why would she do that? She hardly knows me.”

  “Because the last thing a new wife wants is for her husband to spend his entire evening chatting up the only single woman at the party.”

  * * *

  When I walked into Scott and Emily’s recently purchased three-bedroom suburban house the following Saturday night, I was surprised to discover that this was a sit-down dinner party. I didn’t even know Scott owned a dining room table, let alone twelve matching plates. The last time I’d been to his place he was living in a 500-square-foot studio apartment three blocks from the beach and drinking out of plastic cups.

  I’d hadn’t even wished Scott a happy birthday yet when his wife Emily pulled me into the kitchen, handed me a glass of red wine, and said, “I want to tell you about David.”

  “Who’s David?” I asked.

  “Your date. And he’ll be here any minute, so we don’t have a lot of time.”

  I didn’t know whether I wanted to kill her or thank her. “Emily, you told me there would be other single people at the party. You didn’t tell me you were fixing me up.”

  “You knew it was a dinner party.”

  “I thought that meant buffet.” The only people I knew who hosted sit-down dinner parties were my parents’ age.

  “Too messy,” she said. “Have you ever tried to clean lasagna off a chenille sofa?”

  I admitted that I hadn’t and Emily assured me it wasn’t easy. Then she filled me in on David: thirty-three, divorced, no children, originally from Chicago. Then the doorbell rang. She looked out into the living room and said, “That’s him, so the rest you can judge for yourself.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, temporarily halting her sprint to the living room. “What did you tell him about me?”

  “I didn’t. David doesn’t like set-ups, so don’t be obvious.”

  I didn’t have to. Emily took care of that herself. But what she didn’t realize was that we’d already met.

  Chapter 13

  Third Times A Charm

  Emily orchestrated the table seating with me and David, the ER doctor I’d almost puked on, to her right. The rest of the guests automatically sat down next to each other in pairs.

  “Julie, I think you already know Jean and Chuck,” Emily said and pointed around the table. “This is Christine and Ted, Bill and Anne, Marshal and Lois, and David.”

  I was thrilled to see David again when I wasn’t vomiting and was actually wearing make-up. It wasn’t every day I met single Jewish doctors with thick brown hair and dimpled cheeks. Unfortunately, David didn’t appear thrilled to see me. Actually, I don’t think he even remembered me. I attempted conversation anyway. I had no choice. If I tried to talk to Emily or her friend Christine, who was sitting across from me, they would just ask David a question to draw him into the discussion. It was obvious Christine was in on this too. Every time David and I spoke to each other, she and Emily exchanged meaningful glances.

  When I thought neither Emily nor Christine were listening, I asked David how he knew Scott.

  “I don’t,” he said, “I just met him tonight. I work with Emily.”

  That made no sense. Emily wasn’t a doctor. She was a conference planner for a firm downtown. Hmmm. Perhaps the reason David didn’t remember me was because we’d never met. Maybe he just looked like the doctor I’d seen in the ER. I had taken my contacts out both nights I ended up in the emergency room, and I was extremely near-sighted without them.

  “So you’re a conference planner too?
” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “I’m a doctor.”

  Now I really was confused.

  I must’ve looked it, because he added, “Emily planned a conference for my hospital—emergency medicine in an age of austerity. I was really surprised when she invited me here tonight. I hadn’t spoken to her in months.”

  I wasn’t. He was probably the only single guy she knew. Kaitlyn would be so pleased to know she was right. I was just pleased to see him again when I didn’t smell like vomit or have an ice pack on my head. And if he didn’t remember our previous encounters, so much the better. This way we had a fresh start. Although even after an evening of pleasant, if not scintillating conversation, he still didn’t ask for my phone number.

  * * *

  With Kaitlyn out of town, I decided to skip the fattening Sunday breakfast and headed to the gym instead. Falling on the treadmill had been embarrassing, but buying size six pants was traumatic. I’d joined the gym by the office on Monday. This would be my fourth workout of the week.

  I’d just stuffed my purse into the locker when my cell phone started to ring.

  “It’s me,” Kaitlyn said when I answered.

  “Where are you? I can barely hear you.”

  “Boarding the plane. I’ll be at LAX in an hour. Can you come and get me?”

  “I thought I wasn’t picking you up until tonight.”

  “I can’t explain now, the plane is about to take off and I have to turn off the phone. Will you be there?”

  “I’ll meet you in baggage claim,” I said before the line went dead. Then I turned in my locker key and headed to the airport.

  I found Kaitlyn resting on a bench near the luggage carousel. She had dark circles under her eyes, and no ring on her finger, but with her red hair swept up off her face and her slightly sunburned nose and cheeks, she still looked beautiful. I watched more than one man take notice of her.

  “Billy and I broke up,” she said.

  “How the hell did that happen? I thought you were getting engaged.”

  “We did. For about a day.”