When I enter the park at Sixtieth Street I’m swept into all the energy and motion: skaters, bikers, and runners in brightly hued Lycra, and of course lots of pedestrians in the urban uniform—black. I see a hot dog vendor selling his steamy sodium nitrate-saturated treats. I decide to indulge in one, rather than worry that I’ll have to maintain the perfect body for the perfect man. The smell is fabulous, salty, and strong. I’m captivated by the spiciness of the mustard mixed with the sweetness of the ketchup. It is the absolute best lunch I have ever eaten.
I walk past a bench where a couple is engaged in hushed conversation, oblivious to passersby. With a surprising spring in my step, I smile. Rather than play the have-not, I realize I am a have, and what I have is so precious and has taken so long to figure out that I once again recall that last day of university. Only this time I remember the other set of feelings—the splendor of victory, the freedom, the feeling that you can have whatever you want in this world. And this hard-earned reality check of mine has left me with all of those gifts and more.
Normally, I find the rolling hills and wide-open lawn of Sheep’s Meadow a lonely place, sandwiched by couples pouring out nice wine and lopping off hunks of stinky cheese from pretty picnic basket arrangements, tossing around a Frisbee once they’re full. My eyes always skip over the single people sunning themselves peacefully, or snickering over a clever magazine article; I never make note of the smiles on their faces, the lovely serenity of their experiences. Instead I have always homed in with tunnel vision on the pairs, never considering that a solo venture could be anything but lonely.
But I’m not that girl anymore. As I do spot couples, I’m delighted in the knowledge that I’ve learned the secret they share. And as I watch them steal the last baguette round or chat away on cell phones while their partner rolls their eyes, I begin to grasp more and more what this is all about. There is no such thing as perfection. And while they may seem carefree as newlyweds right now—and probably some genuinely are—it wasn’t always so; they’ve lost jobs, weathered arguments, followed banal magazine advice to make their sex lives fulfilling. Perhaps one has considered cheating, maybe one already has. One (or both) has probably gained weight, lost hair, suffered illness, questioned their happiness, faith, choices, or wondered what else might be out there. At some point, though, anyone who’s going to make it through the long haul in a real relationship has to tuck their fantasy person deep into a drawer and throw away the key. They have to make sacrifices and concessions. They have to embrace that word I’m coming to think of as less dirty and more, well, romantic, in a way: reality.
Love is not the perfect dinner conversation or an all-out boink-fest. It is not ordering the chicest appetizer or saying the perfect words when you open the door. In short, it is none of the surface things you pick up from leading men who know how to keep the heroine dying for more. Love only happens when you are willing to forgo all of the stereotypes of perfection and exchange them for an appreciation and love of the unique things that your someone does, to the best of their abilities, to make you happy. And while I know it’s fruitless to revisit the relationships I’ve destroyed in ignorance of this understanding, the scenes play in my mind anyway, and I can only hope that in future scenarios, I will recognize the everyday wonders that fall outside the stereotypical mold.
With the death of the M&M, the power of happiness lies in my hands alone. And I have to wonder: will I be capable of discerning not only the good bits, but which concessions are the right ones to make? How much is too much to give up?
Although I’m glad to rid myself of my M&M, I have become so comfortable with him that the idea of leaving him behind for good seems daunting. Though I appreciate the fresh start, in many ways it feels like mourning. My black ensemble seems appropriate. I have carried and nurtured this dream and had it keep me company on many a solitary night, and now I have to let it go. I get the sense I should be tossing something into the river to start fresh, like when I was little and we celebrated the Jewish New Year by scattering bits of bread into the water. But what would it be? Liam springs to mind.
But really, I shouldn’t be angry with him. I now see I should be thankful that he showed me the world for what it really is. Despite the lies, he was just as sad and foolish as I was. It’s not so difficult to see how he got to that point—that very far-gone and ridiculous point. Was he really so much more far-gone than I? Was I not creating my own reality, just as he was? Perhaps I’d wished him into existence. If I hadn’t been so open to the whole scenario, it certainly wouldn’t have worked.
The lovemaking we shared was very much like two characters playing the roles they’d spent a lifetime creating. Had I not already created my own Liam the very first time we’d met? Had I not weaved together the pieces of his life as I wanted see them? I’d pictured his bathtub, his family, his home in Provence; I’d even fancied I could un-break his allegedly broken heart. I’d thrived on the drama. I’d pictured us making love before we’d even kissed. I’d outlined the way he would tug my hair. The way his kisses would start out slowly and build up with deep, hungry cries of passion. And the prophecy fulfilled itself.
It wasn’t real. I see it clearly now—the chocolate cake, the ravaging kisses. This was less of an exchange between two people and more of an act—what we both thought the script of love should read like. And when I think back to the compliments, the moans, each time my name followed the words, “Oh my God,” they are now empty, not for me, not even inspired by me. And that is what was missing from the puzzle: the fact that I could have been interchanged with any lovesick girl from central casting. Lane Silverman was never there.
When I get home, I decide to create my own rebirth ritual. Rather than sit on my couch and go through tape upon tape of movies that have helped fuel my ridiculous existence, I decide to do a little house-cleaning. Since I am going to start a new life, I need to rid myself of the artifices I’ve employed in the past to propagate my deceitful life.
I start with my bookcase. After two hours, I have lots of clean shelf space available and four boxes packed with love stories. I am not going to throw them away. These books are not bad, after all. It is I who did not know how to put them in their proper place. What I am going to do is put them in the basement storage area until I am ready to revisit them.
Next up is my collection of films. Lifting each one, I see hours of time wasted— weekends, days I could have spent working, living. I can’t blame fate for the days I squandered jealously watching, crying and considering myself unlucky. And with each successive movie packed away, I laugh a little lighter. This whole time I’ve been tricking myself, hiding them in drawers like an alcoholic locking a liquor cabinet, rather than admitting to the problem.
“I’m Lane and I’m a love-a-holic.”
I haul the books and files to the basement feeling confident I will have no need to look at them again. And once the superintendent locks them behind the storage room gate, I feel light as a feather. I’m taking a step I should have taken long ago. I know that in the future I will be able to revisit my cherished books and movies, but not for fulfillment; merely for entertainment. But before that time comes, I have a lot of living to get around to.
When I return to my apartment, I don’t get that lonely feeling I normally do on a weekend without plans. I’m not saddened by the single place settings of bowls, glasses, and plates stacked in my cabinet. My single-servings of Ziploc sealed chicken cutlets and hamburgers tucked away in the freezer do not inspire tears, reminding me of the gulley between me and those couples walking hand-in-hand across Thirteenth Street. I feel no need to sit at my window, counting those whose fortunes outweigh my own. I have not resigned myself to the fact that I will never love. I have merely realized that I hold the key to love—that I’ve held it all along.
Eighteen
A Painstakingly
Researched Article
Monday rears its head. I’m at home, having taken the day off to begin my article. The pres
sure of this assignment has mounted so that I can barely bring myself to sit down at my computer. There’s no way around it: this whole experiment has blown up in my face. I have learned something, but at the expense of sabotaging my article. The pressure of finding my M&M, of having to truly think about what it takes to be with someone forever caused me to realize that I was not equipped with the realistic notions required. If I had taken a step back I might have seen what was really going on—the perfectly good men I was tuning out because they did not send tingles up my spine at first sight were probably worth a thousand Liams. If it hadn’t taken such an outlandish disaster to make me realize that, perhaps I could have done what I set out to do. But it had. Outlandish. Disaster. These are not the words of modern romance.
And another thing is clear now the rubble has settled: despite what I had originally thought, it’s not your geographical environment that enables you to meet The One. It’s the environment within your heart, your mind; it’s your willingness to take someone for good and bad, your willingness to exchange fantasy for reality. If you can do that, then you can find happiness in love. If you can’t, then you’ll always find some excuse as to why not—geography being only one of them.
But the fact remains that I have an article to write. I feel like a fraud, having posed as a real, experienced writer, when, if you really think about it, I behaved like a stupid little girl. If I have any hope of fixing things, now I have to act like an adult. And fast. And the only thing an adult in this situation could do is to take her experiences and write the best article she can think to write and convince her editor that this is, in fact, the better story. In fact, it sounds like something Karen herself would say in this situation.
Only I’d tried to change the assignment before, and it hadn’t gone so well. After all, magazine editors are not in the business of helping Lane Silverman to find out the truth about love. They are in the business of getting the story—no matter what the price.
I try some meditation to clear my mind, only I don’t really know how to meditate, so I make due by sitting in what I hope is the lotus position, with my fingers on my knees and my eyes closed. Far from being relaxed, all I can think about is the fact that I am about to toss aside the biggest career opportunity of my life.
After five minutes of this, I get up and decide to just jump in. I’m unsure of whether this means the mediation worked or not, but I am sure of something: I must write the best story ever, and convey the magnitude of what I’ve learned and experienced. It’s my only chance of things turning out okay in the end. This has to work. It’s the only way.
I haven’t even finished typing in the file name in the “save” window when a tiny envelope appears at the corner of the screen. I am sure it can only be some kind of bad news, probably an alert from the New York Times online that there are now ten women to every man in Manhattan—now that I’ve come to my senses it’s too late to do anything about it. But it’s from Lisa, successful Lisa who probably never had to dash her hopes and dreams to bits just for an article assignment.
Lane,
I am just getting back from a week at the Cape, and I’m glad to hear that the article you’ve written about me is to your liking. If I think I know you at all, I’m sure it’s fantastic. Congratulations on the Cosmo gig, but darling, from what you’ve written, I feel I need to give you the sort of advice that only experience can provide. Never, ever put such unnatural stakes on something as organic and wonderful as love. I know it does all seem impossible to find sometimes, but believe me, honey, once you’ve opened your mind to delight in each smell, taste, and sensation of that heavenly emotion, you will see that it is not something you can just will into being.
It takes time to appreciate the subtleties that make someone the love of your life. Even those who are victors in the game of love at first sight, when ticking off the reasons they love someone, will never mention a beautiful face or a great pickup line. Love is in the subtleties—and two months’ time is very brief to reveal that sort of thing.
Your predicament is confusing and worrying, but my best advice is to listen to your heart. No matter what lessons you’ve learned, please don’t ever forget the mysterious power of fate. Love, although possibly not the ideal you’d imagined upon embarking on this venture, does, above all else, have a mystical element, and happens when you least expect it. You can quote me on that.
Please give a ring if you need anything at all.
XOXO,
Lisa
It’s no wonder Lisa has done so well for herself. She is one smart woman. Without even telling her how the whole scenario worked out, she knew what would happen. But she did bring up one thing I’d tossed away with the rest of my romantic notions—fate. Am I still willing to believe in this? Is Fate Avenue a dangerous one to turn down? The idea of this “mystical element” does take some of the control from my hands and at present that is a frightening notion.
I type the word atop the blank document on my screen in capital letters.
FATE
I bold it.
FATE
I look it up in the dictionary.
fate (fat) n.: The supposed force, principle, or power that predetermines events.
It’s too massive an idea to think about at the moment.
I erase the bolded, capitalized letters and table them for the future. For now I need to know that my future is in my hands. I need to write an article saying so, for all the world to read.
The only thing I can bring myself to chalk up to a higher power at this point is the fact that Lisa has offered her services just when I’ve made up my mind to change the direction of the article. I know that I’d asked Karen for a thesis change when (wince) Liam was once lying in my bed, to receive a rather definite no. But if Lisa believes I can do such a thing, than I am sure she can help me to convince Karen to see it through her eyes. I pop her a quick e-mail asking for her opinion and advice. Within moments she responds: it turns out Karen is actually a good friend of hers. She’s sure we can work this out. She tells me to pour my soul out into this article, finish it up, and then we’ll present it to Karen together. She even points me to two distinguished writers who do wonders with this kind of first person work. I follow and read the links she offers, taking notes. This eases the pressure enough to get my thoughts flowing.
With the idea of doom somewhat at bay, and the opportunity to publish the article and keep my career moving in the right direction shining brighter, I should be happy. However, positive life-changes or not, the fact remains that this is not the happy ending I’d hoped for. Couldn’t I have learned the lesson and found someone anyway? It would have made for a much better story, and, let’s face it, a happier me.
Fate: The word comes to me again. I try to resign myself to fitting this idea into my hard-earned understanding of love. But I can’t quite comprehend where it might go. I’m holding a single piece of a gargantuan puzzle and no matter which angle I look at it from, which side of the table I try to work it into, it doesn’t seem to fit. If love is about finding the ability to love someone for who they are, doesn’t that mean it really is all up to you? Haven’t I tried to twist—in reality—the hand of fate with very dire consequences?
Perhaps fate is angry with me. Is it possible this is the reason I haven’t met anyone—because I’ve played with fate, attempted to control it? If fate can bring two people together, doesn’t it hold true that fate can also decide that you will never find true love, no matter how much you open your mind and alter your expectations? This idea brings me back to worrying about the future, perhaps not with the same intensity as before, but worrying all the same. Maybe Lisa, as smart as she is about most things, is wrong here. For now, I’ll have to make myself believe my original thesis and carry on as planned. Love can only be found when you learn to see—and love—people for who they really are.
DIARY OF A WORKING GIRL
Once upon a time, in a borough called Queens, I was a little girl with long pigtails and a w
ardrobe of plaid, pleated skirts. Like most girls my age, I amassed and coveted a comprehensive collection of Barbie and Ken dolls. But probably a bit unlike most girls my age, I spent hours working out how best to pair the couples. Now I know what you’re thinking. They all look exactly alike! And you are one hundred percent correct.
But, early on, someone very wise taught me that it wasn’t what was on the outside that mattered, but what was on the inside. So, after I’d spent long hours working out the life story, personal challenges, career and family goals of each Barbie and Ken, I decided which male candidate matched-up perfectly with each female candidate. I named each one: Sally, a wilderness girl, lover of animals, and any type of adventure sport in which she could defy death yet again, had dreamed about finding a man who knew how to make life exciting every second of every day. He would always have a fantastic excursion planned for the two of them. After a hard day of white-water rafting or climbing Mount Everest, he would never be too tired to think of a wonderfully romantic way to express his love for her. Rather the opposite, all the while they were paddling with all their might, or scaling a rock wall, he would compose love poems in rhymed couplet in his bead, and when they lay in the sun, sipping mint-infused iced tea and staring into each other’s eyes, he would recite to her these words of love. Sally, therefore, was paired with Marco, who, graced with strong limbs and nerves of steel, was an aesthete adventurer, and because he was raised by a widowed mother who’d spent her days spinning tales of her romantic late husband and speaking of how true love never dies, even after your lover has left this world, was a romantic soul like no other.
Diary of a Working Girl Page 24