by Liz Tuccillo
Serena is also a student of Hinduism. She believes in equanimity in all things. She wants to see divine perfection in all of life, even the fact that she literally hasn’t had a date or sex in four years. She sees this as perfection, the world showing her that she needs to work on herself more. For how can you really be a true partner to someone until you are a fully realized human being yourself?
So Serena has worked on herself. She has worked on herself to such an extent that she has actually become a human maze. I pity the man who ever attempts to enter the winding corridors and dead-end tunnels that are her dietary restrictions, meditation schedule, new age workshops, yoga classes, vitamin regimes, and distilled water needs. If she works on herself any more, she will become a shut-in.
Serena is that friend you always see alone; the one whom no one else knows. The one who, if you ever mention her in passing, prompts your other friends to say, “Serena? You have a friend named Serena?” But things weren’t always like this. I met Serena in college and she used to be just like everyone else. She was always a tad obsessive-compulsive, but back then it was a quirk and not a lifestyle choice. All through her twenties she would meet guys and go out. And she had a long-term boyfriend for three years as well. Clyde. He was really sweet and was crazy about her, but Serena always knew he wasn’t the one. She sort of settled into a nice routine with him—and if you haven’t guessed, Serena does enjoy her routines. So we encouraged her not to lead him along—never dreaming that he might be the last real relationship for the rest of her wheat-free life. And after Clyde she still managed to date—not aggressively so, but whenever something came up. But around thirty-five, when she never found anyone who truly interested her, she started focusing on other aspects of her life. Which, to be fair, is what many of the self-help books that I help publicize tell women to do. These books also tell you to love yourself. In fact, if you had to boil every self-help book down to two words, it would be “love yourself.” I can’t tell you why, but this irritates me immensely.
So Serena started focusing on other things, and thus began the classes and crazy diet stuff. Unlike Alice, at least in terms of dating, Serena decided to go quietly into that good night. It’s a slippery slope, the decision just to let go of the dream of love in your life. Because if done well, it can make you relax, enjoy your life, and actually allow your inner light to shine brighter and stronger than ever before. (Yes, I am talking about someone’s inner light—we are dealing with Serena right now, after all.) But in my opinion, that strategy, if followed incorrectly or for too long, can make your light go out, slowly, day by day. You can become sexless and cut off. Even though I think it might be extreme to quit your job to start dating, I don’t think you can ever just sit back and let love just find you. Love isn’t that clever. Love isn’t actually all that concerned about you. I think love is out there finding people whose lights are burning so brightly that you could actually see them from the space shuttle. And frankly, somewhere between the high-colonics and the African dance classes, Serena’s light went out.
But still, she has a calming effect on me. She is capable of listening to me vent about how much I hate my job, with the patience of Gandhi. Besides the books I have already mentioned, I have helped publicize such tomes as The Clock Is Ticking! How to Meet and Marry the Man of Your Dreams in Ten Days, How to Know if Your Man Really Loves You, and the runaway hit How to Be Lovely (it’s supposedly the secret to all feminine happiness).
I grew up in New Jersey, not so terribly far away, just a bridge or a tunnel from the city of my dreams. I moved here to be a writer, then I thought I might be a documentary filmmaker, then I even took a few courses in anthropology, thinking I might move to Africa and study the Masai warriors or some other almost-extinct tribe. I am fascinated by our species, and loved the idea of reporting on them in some way. But I realized I inherited a strong practical streak from my father. I liked indoor plumbing, and knowing I had health insurance. So I got a job in publishing.
But now, the novelty of being able to afford groceries had definitely lost its initial thrill. And throughout all my complaining, Serena listens quietly.
“Why don’t you just quit?”
“And do what? Get another job in publicity? I hate publicity. Or be unemployed? I’m too dependent on a steady paycheck to be that free-spirited.”
“Sometimes you have to take a risk.”
If Serena was thinking I was in a rut, I knew things must be really bad. “Like what?” I asked.
“Like—didn’t you always say you wanted to write?”
“Yes. But I don’t have a big enough ego to be a writer.”
In my professional life, I was a bit stuck. My “voice of reason,” so relied on by others, only caused me to talk myself out of pretty much everything. But every Friday, Serena would listen to me bitch about my work frustrations as if it were the first time I was bringing it up.
So I thought, why not? My friends have always been curious about her. Why not try to convince her to go out?
“The chances of any of us going out tomorrow night and meeting the man of our dreams is practically zero. So why bother?” Serena asked as she took another bite of her tempeh burger.
In terms of the facts, Serena has a point. I have been going out at night in the hopes of meeting the one guy that’s going to adore me for the rest of my life. Let’s say I’ve been doing this for two or three times a week for, oh, fifteen years. I have met men and dated, but clearly, as of today, not the guy that gets written down in my big book of life as “The One.” That adds up to a hell of a lot of nights out not meeting the man of my dreams.
I know, I know, we weren’t just going out to meet men. We were going out to have fun, to celebrate being single and being sort of young (or at least not yet old) and alive and living in the best city in the world. It’s just funny how when you finally do meet someone and begin dating, the first thing you both do is start staying home to snuggle on the couch. Because going out with your friends was simply that much fun.
So I couldn’t really argue with Serena. The whole concept of “going out” is somewhat flawed. But I continued my plea. “We’re not going out to meet guys. We are just going out to go out. To show Georgia that it’s fun to just go out. To be out in the world, eating, drinking, talking, laughing. Sometimes something unexpected happens and sometimes, most of the time, you just go home. But you go out, you know, to go out. To see what might happen. That’s the fun of it.”
The argument for the benefits of spontaneity and the unknown was usually not the way to Serena’s heart, but for some reason, she agreed.
“Fine. But I don’t want it to be anywhere too smoky or too noisy. And make sure they have a vegetable plate on the menu.”
How Ruby Is Single
And then, there’s Ruby.
It was Saturday, at two in the afternoon, and I had come over to Ruby’s apartment to try to recruit her into going out that night—and because I knew she might not have gotten out of bed yet.
Ruby opened the door in her pajamas. Her hair was severely matted, almost in a predreadlocked state of knots.
“Did you get out of bed today?” I asked, worried.
“Yes. Of course. Right now,” she said, offended. She proceeded to walk back into her bedroom. Her apartment was impeccably neat. None of your cliché telltale depression signs, such as moldy ice cream cartons, half-eaten doughnuts, or weeks of dirty laundry strewn around. She was a very tidy depressive. It gave me hope.
“How are you feeling today?” I asked, following her into her bedroom.
“Better. When I woke up he wasn’t the first thing I thought about.” She crawled back into her very fluffy, downy, flowery bed and pulled the covers around her. It looked really comfortable. I was starting to think about taking a nap myself.
“Great!” I said, knowing I was about to hear much more than that. Ruby is an adorable, long-haired brunette, a perfectly curvy, feminine creature of soothing tones and tender words. And Ruby lik
es to talk about her feelings.
She sat up. “My first thought this morning was ‘I feel okay.’ You know what I mean—that moment before you remember who you are and what the actual facts of your life are? My first thought, in my gut, in my body, was ‘I feel okay.’ I haven’t felt like that in a long time. Usually, you know, I open my eyes and I already feel like shit. Like in my sleep I was feeling like shit, and waking up was just an extension of that, you know? But this morning, my first thought was ‘I feel okay.’ As if my body wasn’t, you know, housing any more sadness.”
“That’s awesome,” I said, cheerfully. Maybe things aren’t as bad as I thought.
“Yeah, well, of course, once I remembered everything, then I started crying and couldn’t stop for three hours. But I think it was an improvement, you know? It made me see that I was getting better. Because Ralph can’t stay in my memory so strongly, he just can’t. Soon I’ll wake up and it’ll take me three whole minutes to start crying about him. And then fifteen minutes. And then an hour, then a whole day, and then I’ll finally be through this, you know?” She looked as if she was going to start crying again.
Ralph was Ruby’s cat. He died of kidney failure three months ago. She has been keeping me updated on the physical sensations of her profound depression every day since. This is particularly difficult for me because I have absolutely no idea why anyone would pour all their emotional energy into something that can’t even give you a back rub. And not only that, but I feel superior about it. I believe anyone with a pet is actually weaker than I. Because when I ask somebody why they love their pet so much, they invariably say something like, “You just can’t believe the amount of unconditional love Beemie gives me.” Well, guess what. I don’t need unconditional love, how about that? I need conditional love. I need someone who can walk on two legs and form sentences and use tools and remind me that that was the second time in a week that I yelled at a customer service person over the phone when I didn’t get my way and I may want to look into that. I need to be loved by someone who can fully comprehend that when he sees me get locked out of my apartment three times in one month, that that may very well be the Thing About Me That Is Never Going to Change. And he loves me anyway. Not because it’s an unconditional love, but because he actually truly knows me and has decided that my fascinating mind and hot bod are worth perhaps missing a flight or two because I forgot my driver’s license at home.
But that’s not really the point right now. The point here is that Ruby refuses to step out for a cup of coffee, go shopping, or even take a walk with me, because Ruby is a disaster at handling disappointment. Particularly of the romantic variety. Whatever good times she has with some fellow, it will never be worth the amount of pain and torture she puts herself through when it doesn’t work out. The math of it simply doesn’t add up. If she dates someone for three weeks, and then they break up, she’ll spend the next two months driving herself and everyone around her crazy.
Because I’m an expert on the emotional MRI of Ruby, I can tell you exactly what happens during her descent. She will meet someone, a man, say, as opposed to a feline. She will like him. She will go out with him. Her heart will be full of the possibility and excitement that comes with finally finding someone you actually like who is available, kind, decent, and who seems to like you back.
As I said before, Ruby is attractive; very soft, very feminine. She can be inquisitive and attentive, and a great conversationalist. And when she meets men, they like her for all these reasons. Ruby is actually really good at the dating part of dating, and when she is in a relationship, she is clearly in her element.
However, this is New York, this is life, and this is dating. Things often don’t work out. And when they don’t, when Ruby gets rejected, for whatever reason it may be, and however the bad news is delivered, a process begins. She is usually fine at the Moment of Disappointment. Like when this guy Nile broke up with her because he wanted to get back together with his ex-girlfriend. At the moment of impact, she is philosophical about it. A burst of sanity and self-esteem washes over her, and she tells me that she knows that it just means he wasn’t the one, and she can’t take it personally and it’s his loss. And then a few hours go by and time will push her further away from that moment of clarity and she will start to slip into the Crazy Pit. Her beloved, whom she once saw at normal size, starts growing larger and larger and larger, and in a matter of hours he becomes the Mount Everest of desirability and she is inconsolable. He was the best thing ever to happen to her. There will never be anyone as good as him ever again. Nile did the most powerful thing he could do to Ruby—he rejected her and now he is EVERYTHING and she is nothing.
I’ve gotten so used to watching Ruby go through this, that I make a point of being around her during those critical few hours after a rejection, to see if I can stop her at the top of the stairs down to Crazy. Because, let me tell you, once she goes down, there’s no telling when she’s going to come back up. And she doesn’t like to sit there alone. Ruby likes to call up her friends and describe in vivid detail, for hours, what it’s like in the basement of broken dreams. The wallpaper, the upholstery, the floor tiles. And there is nothing we can do. We just have to wait it out.
So you can imagine that after a few years of these ups and downs, whenever I get the call from Ruby that she has “met this great guy” or the second date went “really, really well,” I’m not necessarily jumping for joy. Because, again, the math is simply not promising. If three weeks can add up to two months of tears, imagine how terrified I am when Ruby celebrates her four-month anniversary with someone. If she ends up breaking up with someone after a few years of living together, well, I don’t think at this point there are enough years left in her life to get over him.
Which is why she decided to get Ralph. Ruby was tired of being disappointed. And as long as she kept her windows closed and doors not ajar, Ralph would never leave her. And Ruby would never have to be disappointed again. But Ruby didn’t know about feline chronic renal failure. And now, well, now Ralph was the best cat there ever was. Ralph made her happier than any animal or human could have ever possibly made her and she has no idea how she will ever live without him. She still manages to work. She’s got her own business as an executive recruiter, and she has clients who rely on her to get their asses jobs. And thank God for them, because she will always get out of bed to help someone in need of a good nonlateral job placement. But a Saturday afternoon is much different. Ruby isn’t budging.
Until I told her about Georgia. How her husband left her for a samba instructor and she’s devastated and wants to go out and feel good about life. Then, Ruby understood completely. Ruby understood that there are moments when no matter how badly you feel, it’s your duty to get out of the house and help deceive a newly single person into believing that everything is going to be okay. Ruby knew, intuitively, that this was just such a night.
How I’m Single
Let’s be honest. I’m not doing it any better. I date, I meet men at parties and at work, or through friends, but things never seem to “work out.” I’m not crazy, I don’t date crazy men. Things just don’t “work out.” I look at couples walking down the street and I want to shake them, to beg them to answer my question, “How did you guys figure that out?” It has become the Sphinx for me, the eternal mystery. How do two people ever find each other in this city and “work out”?
And what do I do about it? I get upset. I cry. I stop. And then I cheer up and go out and be absolutely charming and have a great time as often as I can. I try to be a good person, a good friend, and a good member of my family. I try to make sure there isn’t some unconscious reason why I’m still single. I keep going.
“You’re single now because you’re too snobby.” That’s Alice’s answer every time the subject comes up. Meanwhile, I don’t see her married to the handsome gentleman working at the fruit stand on the corner of Twelfth and Seventh who seems to have taken quite a shine to her. She is basing this judgment on
the fact that I refuse to date online. In the good old days, online dating was considered a hideous embarrassment, something that no one would be caught dead admitting to. I loved that time. Now the reaction you will get from people when they hear that you’re single and not doing some form of online dating is that you must not really want it that bad. It has become the bottom line, the litmus test for how much you’re willing to do for love. As if your Mr. Right is definitely, absolutely guaranteed to be online. He’s waiting for you and if you’re not willing to spend the 1,500 hours, 39 coffees, 47 dinners, and 432 drinks to meet him, then you just don’t want to meet him badly enough and you deserve to grow old and die alone.
“I don’t think you’re really open to love yet. You’re not ready.” That’s Ruby’s answer. I’m not even going to dignify it with a response—except to say, I didn’t know that finding love had become something equivalent to becoming a Jedi Knight. I didn’t know there were years of psychic training, metaphysical trials to endure, and rings of fire to jump through before I could get a date for my cousin’s wedding in May. And yet, I know women who are so out of their minds they might as well be barking like dogs, who still find men who adore them, men whom they, in their madness, feel they are in love with. But no matter.
My mother thinks I’m single because I like having my independence. But she rarely weighs in on the subject. She comes from the generation of women who didn’t think they had any other option but to get married and have children. There were no other choices for her. So she thinks it’s just dandy that I’m single and that I don’t have to rely on a man. I don’t think my mother and father had a particularly happy marriage and after my father died, she was one of those widows who finally got to come into her own—the classes, the vacations, the bridge and book clubs. When I was still just a girl, she thought she was doing me a great service, giving me this wonderful gift of reminding me that I don’t need a man to be happy. I can do anything I want, be anyone I want to be, without a man.