by Lisa Daily
“Oh … Um, no, but thank you,” he stammers.
“I really don’t mind,” I say.
“Well, I would, but, um, unfortunately.…” He hesitates. “Uh, the pet hospital is very strict, they won’t allow any visitors who aren’t family…”
“They won’t allow anyone who isn’t family … of the ferret…,” I say. Finally light begins to dawn on me. I’m a crazy lady and he’s trying to get out the door.
“I’ll be sure to give him your best wishes. Thanks for … this,” he says, motioning awkwardly at the bar as he backs away toward the exit. “See you around.”
Oh gawd. Well, that was an unmitigated disaster. I abandon my drink, and try to pretend like I haven’t just been dumped at the bar by a complete stranger with the worst sick ferret story in history. Maybe no one will ever want me. Maybe Michael is just the first in a long line of men who want to get as far away from me as possible. The bartender drops off the check and scoops up the fifty-dollar bill. The tab is thirty-eight bucks.
“Keep the change,” I tell him, grabbing my bag and heading back to the ladies’ room to splash some water on my face before I start crying again. Inspecting myself in the bathroom mirror, I can see why Markmatics hightailed it out of the bar so quickly. My skin is all blotchy, my nose is ruddy, and my eyes are swollen and tinged with red. What a first impression. Well, that and the crying. My phone aah-OOH-gahs again, and I pull it out of my purse. There are eight more notifications I hadn’t heard, probably because of the noise in the restaurant and the fact that I’d lowered the volume. I swipe through the photos while I hide out in the ladies’ room, squatting over a toilet and waiting for my face to de-puff and my pride to heal a bit. The new Closr options are mostly no’s as well, except for one possibility. A blond man called HeartDoc. That sounds promising! I hope he is actually a cardiologist and not just the owner of a super-cheesy profile name. I swipe up for yes and Closr informs me we’ve made a match, which basically means that he swiped yes for me too. Closr instructs me to introduce myself, and asks if I’d like to meet HeartDoc somewhere nearby. How about Marina Jack? it suggests. You are 0.0 miles from Marina Jack,” the app informs me aggressively. Yes, I know. I’m right here in the ladies’ room.
A text arrives from HeartDoc almost immediately: Do you want to have a drink at Marina Jack, or somewhere on St. Armands, or maybe downtown? Closr says we’re both nearby.
I waver for a good twenty seconds, trying to decide if it’s tacky to have two drink dates in the space of an hour at the same bar. Maybe even the same bar stool. I weigh pros and cons in my head—upside: I’m already parked and I have enough time to make myself presentable before he arrives. Downside: two dates in one bar on the same night, what will the bartender think? I decide I don’t care, it’s worth the potential embarrassment to avoid the evening traffic, especially on St. Armands Circle, which would be jam-packed with tourists circling round and round and round in search of a parking space.
MJ sounds good, I text. When?
15 minutes? he responds.
See you then, I text back. Well, that’s easy. One date goes bad, another one is just around the corner. I reapply my lip gloss and put a wet paper towel to the back of my neck in hopes it relieves some of the splotchiness of my complexion from my little meltdown with Ferret Guy. Do-over, I think to myself. I deserve a do-over. I mentally review my date with Ferret Guy, thinking through each scenario and how I’d handle it differently in the future. Then, I give myself a quick pep talk, pull a brush through my hair, and vow not to cry again tonight, no matter what happens. No matter what.
About five minutes later, HeartDoc texts me again. Just pulled in. You?
I’m inside, I text back.
Ooh, sexy, he texts. I cringe a little as I read it, wondering what the hell he means.
I don’t want him to know I’m hanging out in the bathroom like a loser. I check myself over one last time in the mirror, and head out for the bar. After two or three minutes I see a guy headed in my direction. HeartDoc.
“Hi,” he says, smiling. “You’re here. I’m sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”
“Alex,” I say. “Nice to meet you. And your name?”
“I’m Dr. Ryan,” he says, flashing a mouthful of the biggest, whitest teeth I have ever seen close up. Probably veneers. Is Ryan his first name? His last name? What kind of yutz introduces himself as doctor in a social situation? He looks at me like he’s expecting me to be impressed. The wicked part of me considers reintroducing myself as Dr. Alex. Or Dr. Wiggins. Just to be obnoxious.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Let’s grab a seat,” he says, and starts walking toward the back before I have a chance to answer. He waves to the hostess, the bartender, and several patrons as we make our way through. Apparently he’s a regular.
“You seem to know a lot of people here,” I say. He nods and flashes the veneers again.
We sit down at a table near the window, and I decide I should probably pace myself since I’ve already had a glass and a half of wine earlier in the evening. When the waiter arrives, Dr. Ryan orders bourbon, neat, and I ask for a white wine spritzer, a nice light drink for a warm evening with about half the alcohol of a regular glass of wine.
“So what kind of doctor are you, Dr. Ryan?” I ask. I can hardly bring myself to call him that, but it’s too funny not to.
“Ohmigod,” he says. “Did I introduce myself to you as Dr. Ryan?”
I nod.
“Jesus, I sound like a tool,” he says. “I spend half my day doing rounds at the hospital. All day long it’s ‘Hello, I’m Dr. Ryan, how are you feeling today? Hello, I’m Dr. Ryan, and how are you feeling today?’” He shakes his head and I laugh.
“Let’s start again,” he says. “I’m Brett Ryan, nice to meet you, Alex.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I say, and before I know it, the waiter is back with our drinks. We chat for a few minutes about the area of town where we live, his work at the hospital, and his favorite local restaurants. We talk about his paddleboard, and his gym, and the reclining chairs in his media room. He doesn’t really ask me many questions about me, which seems a bit rude, but is not altogether unwelcome. After Ferret Guy, I’m wary of oversharing again anyway. Occasionally he asks me a question, and then uses my response to immediately springboard into more details about himself.
He asks, “Are you a working girl?”
And I say, “Yes, I’m a doctor.” What kind of ass calls a woman over thirty a girl when asking about her job?
“Do you have the little white uniform and everything?” he asks, a little too eagerly. It’s only then that I realize what he means. Ew.
“I’m an environmental psychologist,” I say. “I don’t wear a uniform. Or a lab coat. Is that what you meant?” I expect he’ll show some embarrassment, but it seems to go right over his head.
He drains his drink. “You wanna get out of here?” he asks.
“What?” I ask in disbelief.
“I live on Lido Key, my condo is ten minutes away. Let’s get out of here. We can take my car.” He lays his hand on my leg and I smack my knees together in surprise. What the hell?
“I just met you,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” My brain sputters out half a dozen doomsday scenarios, from kidnapping and torture to Ultimate Fighting or league bowling. No thank you.
“You’re hot, I’m hot, we could be hot for each other,” he says, with a slick grin. Clearly not the first time he’s used that greasy line. And he isn’t that hot.
“Thanks for the drink,” I say, “but I’m not interested in a hookup.”
“Why are you on Closr, then?” he asks incredulously.
“What do you mean, why am I on Closr? To meet interesting people, get to know them, maybe fall in love someday. Why is anyone on Closr?”
“Closr is a hookup app. Closr, as in sex, as in ‘close the deal.’ What did you think it meant?”
“Closr, as in meeting people brings you closer togeth
er, you know, romantic relationships—closer.”
“It’s a hookup app. Are we gonna get freaky or not?”
“Not,” I say. He downs his bourbon and abruptly stands up from the bar.
“Bitch,” he mutters under his breath. Misogynistic jackass. Michael would never call someone a bitch.
“Compensating,” I say, loud enough for him to hear as he strides away. Not very polite, but enormously satisfying.
I am not cut out for this. Closr is for sex! This means that in less than eighteen hours, twenty or maybe even thirty men in my small beach town of Sarasota, who spend time in the places I spend time, who live or work near where I live and work—twenty or thirty potential clients or connections to potential clients—these men all think I’m looking for sex on some trashy hookup app. I am way, way out of my depths here. Which is bound to happen, considering the fact that I’m most likely the only person of my generation who has never dated online. My romantic life, which has been so carefully planned and cultivated since grade school, is now the Wild, Wild West. I can’t take the chance of humiliating myself again. I’m going to have to find some other way to fall in love, get married, and have a baby, or even just have sex with a nice man sometime before I check into the old age home.
The jerk left me with the check. I hand my credit card to the bartender and wait while he runs it. As I get up to leave, I feel my phone vibrating from the depths of my purse. After rummaging around, I finally locate the phone and pull it out just in time to see HeartDoc’s text: Here’s what you’re missing—along with a picture of his dick. Oh, good gawd, my first dickpic.
Or maybe it’s the poor ferret, bound for the grave.
Dating sucks, and my unfortunate encounter with Dr. Creepy only confirms my worst suspicions. It’s not just that no man will want me, it’s worse—the only man who wants me is a disgusting chauvinist looking for a sleazy hookup. If this parade of perverts and fake ferret owners is what I have to endure in order to meet someone, I’d rather get really comfortable with spinsterhood and a vibrator.
14
I’m loathe to confess it, but I’m completely lost without Michael.
I have no idea who I am without him. How is this possible? I have a career I love and am great at; I have wonderful friends. How did I let myself be so dependent on a man that I don’t recognize myself without him? My great-aunt Thelma, who marched with Gloria Steinem and burned her girdle in a demonstration in New York City, is probably rolling in her grave at the thought. Aunt Thelma surely didn’t let her organs decompress for a whole day just so I could let my life revolve around some guy.
I’m a disgrace to feminists everywhere.
In the five months since Michael’s bombshell and our nationwide humiliation, I’ve been trying to keep my business afloat despite the fact that my head is no longer in my work. I’m operating on autopilot. ESPN’s publicity department did a fantastic job of killing the scandal, and after twenty-four hours only FOX Sports was interested in keeping the story alive. It died out there a few days later, as the sports media all moved on to cover the outrage over an NFL player who had been arrested for the eighth time on domestic violence charges, without ever missing a game or even a day of practice.
I’ve been working seventy to eighty hours a week, and then falling into bed exhausted. My brain is somewhere else, and the truth is, I feel like I need the extra work hours just to make up for the mental deficit. I find myself avoiding home—everything reminds me of Michael. At least my work keeps my thoughts occupied.
Michael shows up on my doorstep every few days to try to convince me I’ve forgiven him, and I waffle back and forth from blind fury, to protective sympathy, to just flat-out missing him. At first I couldn’t wrap my head around forgiving him, but after months and months of being so angry and heartbroken and obsessively recounting every single detail of our relationship in the shower, talking to myself in traffic like a crazy person, ruminating over every mortifying detail when I’m supposed to be paying attention in client meetings, I’m drained of my juices and I need to shut my brain off. Michael’s gay, there’s nothing to be done about it, and I’m too exhausted to keep being angry anyway. I give up.
My resolve against him is melting, and I wonder if it’s time to just try to let go of all the hurt and anger I feel.
What is it costing me, what am I giving up, so that I can stay infuriated with Michael? I’ve essentially lost my oldest and dearest friend, I’m lonely, I’m not sleeping, I’m outraged all the time, I can hardly focus on my projects at work. Is it worth all of that, is it worth everything, just to be right? Yes, Michael screwed up and he hurt me terribly and he lied, oh, how he lied. But how much am I losing every day, reliving every betrayal in my mind, coddling my heartache and indignation to keep them strong? Staying pissed at Michael is keeping me paralyzed in my own unhappiness. I’m spending hours, days at a time, too much of my time reliving the unjustness of his actions. So much of my existence is being squandered on the destruction of our marriage, leaving nothing but wasteland and embers with which to rebuild my life. I’m not helping myself. I need to let go, or I’ll be mired in righteous misery for the rest of my life.
“I’ve always loved you and I always will,” Michael tells me the first night I let him come back to the house since Connecticut. “But I was in danger of completely losing myself. Obsessively wondering if my family and bosses and you loved me for who you thought I was, rather than who I actually am. I couldn’t hide who I was any longer—it was hurting more to keep my secret than to let it come out.”
“Was anything with us real?” I ask, afraid of his answer but desperately needing to know.
“It was all real,” he says, pulling me close to him. “I love you, you’re my best friend, you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever known. There’s nothing that’s ever made me happier than making you happy.”
“You just don’t want to sleep with me,” I say.
“I miss sleeping with you,” he says. “I just don’t want to have sex with you.” I feel myself deflating and he speedily corrects himself, “Not just you, any woman.”
“Aw, thanks.” I sigh. “That makes a girl feel special.”
“Put it this way,” he laughs, “of all the women in the world I don’t want to have sex with, you’re the one I find most attractive.”
“That’s no good,” I say. “That’s like saying ‘of all the blow-up dolls in the world,’ or ‘of all the sheep in the world…’”
“You’re beautiful,” he says, “and you have gorgeous hair and you’re a force of nature; you’re smart and funny and the best person in the whole world to hang out with. And I can personally guarantee that there are thousands of men in the world who would be delighted to have sex with you.”
“You won’t lose me,” I say, snuggling into his familiar arms. As for the thousands of men willing to have sex with me, I’ll have to pass on that. After Dr. Creepy and Ferret Guy, I may never date again.
Michael and I decide to try to get the divorce stuff out of the way as quickly and inexpensively as possible. I’m still in shock some days and trying to get my head around the fact that life as I’ve known it is over, but I also know that stalling won’t change anything.
He proposes we keep our own retirement accounts, and split the investment account and our savings account fifty-fifty. This is a better deal for me because my retirement account is about twice what his is. And screw him, I deserve it. I’ve been socking away money in my IRA since I was sixteen and had my first job mixing malts at Custard’s Last Stand. Plus, I earn more than he does—a thought that now gives me a modicum of glee.
I lay on the guilt about the fact that he has killed my chances of ever having a baby with his bullshit and lies, and demand five sperm donations from him to be frozen by a local fertility clinic for my future use. Michael is brilliant, ambitious, healthy, great-looking, and funny. Not to mention the hair. There are still days I’m so furious I can barely look him in the eye, but I’m a
planner and I don’t want to find myself single and staring down thirty-five with no hope in sight for motherhood. How many eggs do I have left? I wonder. Is there a person I can hire to count them? An eggologist, or something? Does being on the pill for the last ten years mean I have a few hundred extra, since it prevents you from ovulating? Or do they spoil like old yogurt?
If I’m going the frozen spermsicle route, I’d rather the donor be Michael than some anonymous Ivy League law student I pick out of a catalog. I’d rather cover my bases. And my eggs. He agrees, which is a little surprising. But maybe not. Michael always wanted kids. Maybe he’s covering his bases too.
I’m keeping the house. The only thing he asks for is the rest of his clothing and the garage full of sports memorabilia that he’s been collecting pretty much since birth, a few personal items, and a red leather chaise from our living room that he’s always loved and I’ve always hated. I’m glad he wants it. Otherwise, it will be the first thing I put on Craigslist.
Darcy and Samantha take me out for a spa day and dinner while Michael goes to the house to clear out the rest of his clothes, his sports stuff, and the ugly chaise. I’ve finally come to terms with all of this, but I can’t bear to watch him pack.
Because he just throws everything in the boxes and he doesn’t label anything.
What kind of sick person does that?
Darcy, Samantha, and I sit together in a cluster of pedicure chairs, sipping pink champagne. It’s kind of tart and frothy, like it maybe came out of a box. Or a soda machine.
“More champagne?” asks the attendant.
“Yes, please,” I say, holding out my glass.
“Are you doing okay?” asks Samantha. “Do you want to talk about Michael moving out? Or the divorce?”
“We’re having fun,” says Darcy, “don’t bring that crap up.”
“No,” I say, gulping down the rest of the champagne in my glass before the attendant brings me a refill. “I’m talked out. I’ve made a decision. I am not going to let this messed-up situation ruin my life. Screw that. He’s gay, I’m still reasonably attractive. I’m going to get my ass back out in the world, meet somebody great, somebody who likes women this time, and get the happily-ever-after I’m entitled to. I’m going to rebuild my life, grow my business, finally learn how to play bass guitar. This is not going to ruin my life. I’m taking my story back.”