I knew a woman in her midthirties who, much to her unwelcome surprise, suddenly found herself succumbing to a kind of blind panic when it came to relationships. She suffered from the prettiest-girl-in-high-school syndrome—which I personally think is the worst thing that can happen to a woman. It sets you up for a world of disappointment, a sad sort of determination that as an adult, all of your best years are behind you. Far better to be the geeky girl with glasses and braces. There’s nowhere to go but up. It reminds me of a gorgeous actor that I worked with. He was stunning. Cheekbones that could cut glass, olive skin, thick shiny hair. But strangely, his personality didn’t match his looks at all. He was kind and honestly humble, without a trace of disingenuousness. It intrigued me. One day I came right out and asked him. How could he be so good-looking and so, well…nice. He answered as bluntly as my question. “I had terrible disfiguring acne as a teenager.”
So the prettiest girl in high school grew up and spent all of her time trying to recapture the high that she felt when she was a teenager. All of her focus went into her appearance—making sure that she hung on to the only thing that she felt mattered. You could say that her choices in men became increasingly as shallow as her obsession with her façade. But only focusing on your appearance is a fantastic recipe for depression. Especially since as we age, we need to face the fact that our beauty changes. That’s not to say that older women aren’t beautiful; we are. We just don’t look like we did when we were teenagers. And depression leads to the very worst kind of decision making. My friend bounced around from one miserable relationship to another, eventually finding herself dating a man who collected Nazi pith helmets and owned two enormous female (and very possessive) potbellied pigs—which he insisted sleep in the bed with them at night. She told me that as she lay in bed at night, listening to the pigs snore, she wondered what had become of her life. How could her standards have fallen so low?
The imperative is not to get down on yourself, since that inevitably leads to the dreaded D&D (and I’m not talking about Dungeons & Dragons). The dreaded D&D are Depression and Desperation. Desperation is like the antipheromone. Men can smell it wafting off you like a bad odor, and it is a definite turnoff. The whole myth of men wanting to take care of us is just that, a myth. Not to say that in a perfectly healthy relationship, a man wouldn’t want to provide for you—but the key here is “healthy.” It isn’t very often that a man will meet a woman who is depressed and desperate and say, “Hmmm, a basket case. I want that!” More likely he’ll run for the hills.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?
The rules have definitely changed since our mothers’ generation. Just the fact that we are even writing about e-mail (which didn’t exist) and its attendant etiquette is evidence that it’s a brave new world. But while technology has radically changed, human behavior hasn’t. There is nothing quite as maddening—and maddeningly familiar—as meeting someone, liking him, exchanging personal contact information…and then waiting to see how it all plays out. If he contacts you first, then great. Mystery solved. But as we know, nowadays it is perfectly acceptable to make the first move. What happens afterward, what you do—or don’t do, and when—is where the trouble can often start. Here is a guide to help you decipher the intricacy of the male of the species and his primitive, habitually mystifying e-mail response. (Admittedly, since you have already read how I got together with my husband, this is clearly a case of “do as I say, not as I do.” I will say that I learned from my mistakes.)
TIME THAT IT TAKES FOR HIM TO GET BACK TO YOU AND HOW TO INTERPRET IT
ONE WEEK: Hopefully you’ve met someone else during this week, because on this guy’s list of priorities, you are beneath laundry and cable bills.
TWO TO THREE DAYS: Long enough to be discouraging, but not so long that you can definitely write him off. If you really like him, remember that anyone can get caught up with the exigencies of life. That being said, if there are a couple of these in a row, forget him.
NEXT DAY: He could be a guy who likes to take his time, which if you think about it, isn’t such a bad thing. Look carefully at the content. If it’s a long, newsy e-mail, it’s good. If it’s short and cursory, chances are he’s just being polite.
ONE HOUR: THE SWEET SPOT. HE CLEARLY DIGS YOU.
FIVE MINUTES: What, doesn’t this guy have a job?
ONE MINUTE: He’s a stalker. Run!
And if a man does seem to prefer you when you are down, then that should be a big red flag for you that this guy likes control. I once dated a guy who couldn’t have been happier when I was down—which forced me into the trap of downplaying my triumphs lest it bruise his fragile ego. Much better to be with someone who loves you all of the time but encourages the best part of you, rather than the worst.
Have you ever noticed how women are their most attractive just after they have fallen in love? There is something that happens that relaxes the face, you laugh more, you are happy, you emanate a warm confidence. When you’re single, the trick is to find that confidence in yourself before you fall in love. To do this, what you need—and this may sound corny, but it’s true—is to fall in love with yourself.
I know that I feel at my best when I am active both physically and mentally. As counterintuitive as it may seem at the time, when I work out I have more energy. When I write, even if I feel that I have nothing to say before starting a session, I end up with an enormous feeling of accomplishment, which in turn feeds my ego (and believe me, my ego likes to be fed). And I am happy when it is me doing the feeding, and not someone else. I have a nice love-hate relationship with my ego. I know what a pig she really is, but I love her anyway.
One of the things that can really wear away at your sense of self is when you find yourself doing work that you can’t stand. If you are in a dead-end job that is killing your soul, then take steps to get out of it. It can’t happen overnight, it could take months—or even years, if it involves going back to school—but even doing research on what kind of job could make you happier is a step in the right direction. Getting on an exercise regimen when you are overweight and out of shape may seem like a lost cause, but it isn’t. You just have to remember to stick with it. If you do, you will begin to see results. There is no way not to. (Unless you cheat and eat a box of Ho Hos in front of the TV at night. When it comes to getting in shape, diet really does matter. There’s no way around it.)
Another way to fall in love with yourself is to become involved with a charity. Find something you feel passionate about, whether it’s homelessness, marriage equality, literacy, AIDS, it doesn’t matter, and see what you can do to help. There are plenty of worthy causes, so don’t just assume that there’s nothing that fits your type. It could be saving your local community garden. Being a Big Sister or Big Brother. Just find something that gets you out of yourself, that takes you away from your seemingly insurmountable problems. Even donating just a little of your time can go a long way—not only for the cause, but also for the wonderful feeling it can enkindle in you. Doing good for someone else is an incredible high. You may even find that you are so good at what you are doing, and you feel so great doing it, that it helps you find direction in your life. It might give you hints about a new career that you should be pursuing (if you are stuck in an unsatisfying job). The important thing is to immerse yourself in something other than finding love. Nine times out of ten, love finds you.
And when you do find someone who catches your eye, and who catches yours back, do yourself a big favor. Make sure that he isn’t married. Sure it’s possible to fall in love with a married person and actually end up together (after an alternately thrilling and miserable, guilt-ridden courtship), but this is the exception to the rule. What usually happens is that the unmarried person is strung along for as long as she allows herself to be, and then the guy tearfully confesses that he can’t leave his wife. Don’t invest in these junk bonds. Even if you do decide to make a go of it, the karma will surely bite you eventually—if not in this life, then in t
he next.
Another thing to watch out for is the casual hookup. Now I don’t consider myself an uptight, reactionary woman. I love sex. There. I came right out and said it. (Sorry, Mom!) I only suggest you hold back a little for strategic reasons. There is something so delicious about waiting. It’s foreplay! I will never understand why anyone would want to take away one of the best parts of courtship. And however much you think you would enjoy getting down on the first date, just imagine how great it would be by the third or the fifth. I’m not saying to hold out forever, but delayed gratification has been proven to reap many benefits. Look at the marshmallow experiments conducted by Walter Mischel at Stanford University. Scores of children were put into a room with marshmallows placed in front of them and told that if they waited and didn’t eat the marshmallow for twenty minutes, they could get a double helping after the wait was over. (If you haven’t seen the film, watch it on YouTube. It’s a classic!) The marshmallow experiment is pure torture for the four-year-olds, but it’s fascinating to see how they each handle it, the inventive (and to any adult, painfully familiar) behavioral strategies they come up with to fight the craving, whether it’s turning around in their chairs so they can’t see the marshmallow, or talking to themselves, or just angrily kicking the table in frustration. Years later Mischel followed up to see how the kids were faring as teenagers. The evidence was overwhelming. Every kid who was able to delay gratification was also more successful in every way compared to their marshmallow-devouring counterparts. Those who delayed gratification were found to have far greater emotional intelligence, did better on their SATS, and were generally happier. I think we can all learn something from this. Next time you find yourself falling in love—picture him as a marshmallow. Wait until at least the third date to sink your teeth in.
I took this principle to the extreme when I got together with my husband. Our courtship was delightful and almost entirely over e-mail. In fact, he is the first and only boyfriend with whom that happened. It was a truly modern courtship, yet there was something lovely and old-fashioned about it. We got to know each other through letters—it was downright Jane Austen-ish. Then I went and screwed it all up by panicking about the age difference and my need to extract a promise from him that he would be ready to have kids in a couple years. My thinking was that I didn’t want to invest in someone who was going to turn around after a few years and say, “You know what? Kids aren’t really on my agenda.” It makes perfect logical sense, but strategically it was a disaster. And if I’m being honest, I was a bit hysterical—and not in the fun, wacky Lucille Ball way, more in the Isabella Adjani Story of Adele H. kind of way. (Adele H., the daughter of Victor Hugo, became obsessed with a British naval officer, and her deranged stalking ensured that he would have nothing to do with her.)
During this difficult period, I waited by my computer and pressed the “refresh” button more times than I care to admit. If five minutes passed without a reply, alarm bells went off in my crazy brain and I fired off a frenzied e-mail to him, diagramming our relationship (mind you, we were still in the first six months). I harassed, harangued, cajoled, and emotionally blackmailed. He told me later that he spent so much time talking me down off my cyber-ledge that it was nothing short of a miracle that he didn’t get fired from his job. In my lunatic state, I don’t think I ever stopped to consider that he had a job. In short, I did everything that I would counsel a friend not to do. “Stop it!” I would tell her. “You’ll scare him away!” But it’s hard to see clearly when you are out on that ledge.
IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE, PLAY ON
We’ve all been there—probably more than once. There are few things worse than a bad breakup. There is nothing to do but pack everything is boxes (or burn them in a ritual ceremony if you really want to purge), call good friends, but most of all, listen to music really loudly, and cry, just as loudly. Here are some of my favorite breakup songs ever. They range from the knife-in-the-heart despair to the empowered “Guess what? I never loved you anyway”—all sentiments that you are likely to be feeling at the same time. Listen, wallow, and repeat.
BREAKUP PLAYLIST
“I’M LOOKING THROUGH YOU”—THE BEATLES
“I CAN’T TOUCH YOU ANYMORE”—THE MAGNETIC FIELDS
“NO CHILDREN”—THE MOUNTAIN GOATS
“GOOD WOMAN”—CAT POWER
“I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN”—QUASI
“THEY’LL NEED A CRANE”—THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS
“SO SAD ABOUT US”—THE JAM
“YOUR EX-LOVER IS DEAD”—STARS
“BABY, I DON’T CRY OVER YOU”—BILLIE HOLIDAY
“OH WHAT A DAY”—INGRID MICHAELSON
“CRY ME A RIVER”—(JULIE LONDON VERSION)
“THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKIN’”—NANCY SINATRA
“DORY PREVIN”—CAMERA OBSCURA
“MEANINGLESS”—THE MAGNETIC FIELDS
“WAITING FOR SUPERMAN”—THE FLAMING LIPS
“TRUE LOVE WAITS”—RADIOHEAD
“I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY NOW”—ELVIS COSTELLO
FALLING IN LOVE PLAYLIST
“DROP AND ANCHOR”—MATES OF STATE
“JANUARY WEDDING”—AVETT BROTHERS
“IF YOU FALL”—AZURE RAY
“ABSOLUTELY CUCKOO”—THE MAGNETIC FIELDS
“FRIDAY I’M IN LOVE”—THE CURE
“I’ve BEEN WAITING”—MATTHEW SWEET
“THE LUCKIEST”—BEN FOLDS
“FAMILY TREE”—BEN KWELLER
“MAKE YOU FEEL MY LOVE”—ADELE
“JUST LIKE HEAVEN”—THE CURE
“HAPPINESS RUNS”—DONOVAN
“THE WEATHER”—BUILT TO SPILL
“LA LA LOVE YOU”—THE PIXIES
“TO BE ALONE WITH YOU”—SUFJAN STEVENS
“I’LL BE YOUR MIRROR”—THE VELVET UNDERGROUND
“GREATEST YOU CAN FIND”—KEREN ANN
“IF I THINK OF LOVE”—LISA GERMANO
So what finally snapped me out of it? He broke up with me. Yep. It was the first time I’d been broken up with since my early twenties, when a director I was dating flew across the country to film a movie and promptly started an affair with an actress he’d just met. “Do you want to break up with me?” I asked the director point-blank on the phone, after noticing how many times she popped up in our conversations. I think he was taken aback by my bluntness, but nevertheless, he hedged, Clinton style. “Um…I just feel like I am…lost in the stars.” I italicize his reply because that is the way it sounded to me at the time. It was just so inane and clichéd—like when someone tells a story and makes the quotation marks with their fingers. “Don’t do that!” I want to scream. “You don’t need the quotes if you’re telling the story.” I sat on the phone for what seemed like a long time and listened to the sound of the long distance between us. Then I sincerely thanked my wayward director for making the breakup a whole lot easier. Yes, my ego was slightly bruised at the time, but it perked up a few weeks later when the actress dumped him and ran off and married his lead actor in the film.
This time, all those years later, there were no laughable sad clichés to make things easier. I couldn’t tell my friends that he was just a shallow jerk who wasn’t worth my time. My heart was broken, and the worst part was I suddenly knew that I had no one to blame but myself. He had sadly, but calmly, told me that he understood why I wanted all of the things that I did, but he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to give them to me. I backpedaled and tried to downplay every demand that I had lobbed at him during the past few months. He wouldn’t budge, having made up his mind. I was devastated. I remember riding in a taxi the next day and sobbing to my friend Victoria on the phone about how I had ruined everything.
“He loves you,” she assured me. “I know he does.”
“But how do you know?” I sputtered between racking sobs. “You think everyone (sob, sob) loves me, just because you do (sob, sob).” Sometimes when I talk to my friend Victoria, it is a bit li
ke talking to my mother. She has very little objectivity when it comes to her friends, just as my mother, like most mothers, believes that everyone sees in her offspring what she does.
She talked me into driving straight to her apartment so that she could feed me and put me to bed—I had been up the whole night crying. I hung up and told the cabdriver (who happened to be Greek) the change in directions.
He peered at me in the rearview mirror with dark sympathetic eyes.
“You OK, miss?”
I wiped my face. “Yeah. It’s just, my boyfriend just broke up with me…He’s Greek!” I blurted out, before promptly bursting into tears again.
“Hellenas!” he shouted. “Does he love you?”
“He…he said he did,” I sniffed.
“So he loves you. He says he loves you? He loves you.” He shrugged his shoulders like it was the simplest thing in the world.
“I hope so,” I said.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be back. Greek men don’t fall out of love like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.
“I hope you’re right.”
Getting the Pretty Back Page 9