Romance Is My Day Job

by Patience Bloom

  At least the scenery out the train window is beautiful: sun sparkling on the river, quaint towns, and the beginning of spring. This makes me smile. I’d like to live in the country someday, plant a garden. I’ll save up for a house, go to suburban book clubs, and drink wine again. That would be fun.

  More pretty landscape along the Hudson. But even this doesn’t erase the gorgeous problem sitting next to me. I can’t even muster words.

  In a romance novel, the weekend away cements the love bond. Usually the weekend away is an accident—the hero Jake Hunter’s grandmother is having bypass surgery and he needs his assistant, the lovely Cassie McBride, to come along so that his billion-dollar business will stay afloat. Only she can help him. Naturally, all the stress over Grandma—the woman who raised him after his parents died in a car crash—compels him to repeatedly remove her clothes and his clothes. There’s no Olive Garden in sight. Unbridled and constant sex ensues, followed by emotional intimacy and surprise pregnancy and marriage proposal (that doesn’t happen because of the pregnancy, but who are we kidding).

  Superman and I started out as Jake Hunter and Cassie McBride. Our Chemistry.com chemistry was immediate, and he is Mr. Alpha (which I love). Superman wears dashing suits to work and probably does fly over skyscrapers and rescue puppies and kittens from the subway tracks. The man never sleeps, which makes me suspect that he fights crime at night. As time passes, though, I note we are on different wavelengths. We don’t exactly fit. Also, he displays no interest in my life (which in Jake Hunter–speak means he’s secretly in love with me, but it’s too painful for him to communicate this).

  I need to wake up and stop sniffing Sharpie pens. The romance of this relationship is mostly in my head.

  In a novel, it’s so easy, because Cassie and Jake literally run into each other. She is walking too fast with a stack of papers and rams into his hard chest; he stops her from falling by grabbing her shoulders. They both feel the electricity of attraction running up their arms (rug burn?). He just happens to be the boss (and there’s a large conference-room table on which their love child will be conceived). These two lovebirds can’t help but meet.

  In real life, you have to make the encounter happen. I think about the stack of Brenda Novak novels sitting on my bookshelf, waiting for my perusal. She’s one of my favorite romance and suspense authors, to the point where I can barely talk to her at conferences. Her editor slips me her books, and I’ve hoarded them for the perfect emergency time when I can lose a weekend with her stories, a bag of Cheetos, and some Kit Kats. I will recover this lost weekend with Brenda.

  My mind sifts through memories of ecstatic times with my past Jake Hunters, though none resembles the intensely driven, likeable heroes of Novak’s stories. Nevertheless, my dating history contains a few dizzying love scenes. Some passionate kisses, but not under a full moon—more like in a sketchy park at two A.M. with Nathan, outside a deli with Barry, under scaffolding on a rainy street downtown with Rich but Still Worried About Money, all colorful in their own ways. There are a million restaurant moments, awkward silences, and great conversations that go on forever. So many apartments, some furnished, some not (See Charles the Brit), some messy (Nathan), some freakishly clean (Superman). An array of wardrobe preferences, from the grunge look to gorgeous custom-made suits. Some flowers delivered at work (Barry, Superman, Vanisher #342 who skipped out right before my birthday—I wound up secretly dating his brother) and the occasional present, just because.

  The Jake Hunters I’ve experienced tend to have non-damsel-rescuing jobs. They mostly worked with numbers, but not in the glamorous Richard Gere–in–Pretty Woman way. Many of them had side passions, such as music (I saw a lot of shitty bands), bird-watching (oy), food (with finger bowls), skiing (love the gear, hate the falling down), and hiking (a little afraid of heights). They each showed me entertaining sides of themselves. With Barry, I went places that had trees and slopes. With Nathan, I learned about wine and macarons. Superman taught me to enjoy stupid guy movies and unapologetically eat a pint of ice cream in one sitting. Gunther helped me appreciate classic movies and the finer points of filmmaking. Thanks to Zack, I started the healing process and immersed myself in simple pleasures. With Craig, I started to appreciate my life as a gift. Chris inspired passion in me, and he was that alpha male in many Harlequin novels.

  My real-life heroes had imperfections, too, which I appreciated since I’m, well, a tiny bit neurotic myself. There were nervous ticks, bad haircuts, eating-with-the-mouth-open stuff, hygiene issues. On the page, Jake Hunter has no bodily functions, so real-life dating was a rude awakening for me, especially French kissing (WTF?) and eating in front of a guy. With my three-dimensional suitors, I got used to their long vacations in the bathroom.

  As for sex, who am I to complain? Sometimes it was great. Sometimes it wasn’t (Jake Hunter never takes Viagra). Real men are very sexy—and human, especially if an ex or a dead mother is plaguing the libido. I could relate to this, since I’m haunted by events in my past, too. A bad moment will flash in my mind and I’ll have to go “somewhere else.” On the outside, I may be hitting all the right notes in the love story. Inside, I could be a mess. Romance novels don’t always examine the complexities of swapping bodily fluids—or even mention these fluids.

  But enough comparison. Only half an hour left on this train with Superman. It’s hard not to keep looking over at him, because when am I ever going to date such an Adonis again? I’m a little embarrassed that I can see myself married to him, mostly because we’d lead separate lives and come together to watch Judd Apatow movies—not a bad life. Some marriages are made on less. I went out with physical perfection and several “soul mates” and none of them worked out. Do I have to start over again?

  That nagging voice urges me to take a few weeks off from dating and then get back on those sites, the way I always do. There will be hours spent watching television, editing my beloved books, impulsively buying makeup at Duane Reade, and crying while playing computer solitaire. A month will go by and I’ll get the urge to meet someone new.

  But I can’t envision another date or boyfriend. I don’t want to. These heroes are almost repulsive to me. Maybe I need a serious break, like forever. This crazy thought enters my head: I don’t ever have to date again.

  No laws will be broken if I stop dating. No one will mourn my love life. My family has long given up on my walking down the aisle and procreating. I don’t need to find Mr. Right. Not now, not next year, not ever. Maybe it’s time to love my forties as is.

  I can return to my own schedule, no primping or carving out those three hours for dinner, packing overnight bags, answering texts and e-mails. The idea of a break used to make me anxious with thoughts of how there’s not a lot of time left, what Mom will say, who will go to parties with me. Now the idea of free time makes me giddy. What a relief! I can knit all the time and run for my own enjoyment, not to look svelte. No more hiding that I love The Real Housewives (and the Kardashians).

  I should be sad to lose this gorgeous man. A part of me is. And for the last leg of the trip, I try to tune out sleeping Superman, only faintly wishing that he’ll say, “Let’s stay together, Patience. Romance does exist. You’re the prettiest and most interesting woman I know. We belong together.”

  This would be nice—a hero who tries to woo me back into love—but usually this hero reactivates his dating profile immediately. Superman can’t possibly be dateless for long. I will savor these last few minutes. I steal glances at him, snoring away openmouthed as the train whisks us along more breathtaking vistas. Even in deep slumber and with a hint of drool off the side of his mouth, he is hot. Thick fisherman’s sweater. Jeans. Perfect hair. Towering over me even in a train seat.

  I hope I’m dodging a speeding bullet and not giving up the fight.

  As the train comes to a stop, Superman’s eyes open and he stares straight ahead. I like to think he’s in agony also, over the d
isastrous weekend, what he could have done differently. Maybe he’ll have second thoughts and come back. Romantic heroes do that after the I-can’t-live-without-her montage.

  We walk side by side up the escalator, each carrying our bags.

  “Which way you going?” he asks, hair adorably mussed from the train ride.

  “That way.” I point toward the Seventh Avenue exit. He, I know, is heading toward Eighth. The message is clear. We are going in opposite directions in Penn Station and in life. He walks closer to me, gives me a quick kiss on the lips, and speeds away to the other end of the station. That’s it. No fuss.

  On the walk to Chelsea, I can’t even summon the will to cry over another failed romance. Sandra Bullock would wail like a banshee—and she’d look so pretty. This time I’m not going to wail (and I know I wouldn’t look as good while I was doing it). This time I’m completely stoic, no tears, no whimpering, no self-pity. Just tired . . . and excited about my no-dating policy. Romancing Superman was fun. Every heroine should date a gorgeous god.

  The minute I return home, I put up my feet, order my favorite takeout—cheeseburger, fries, cookie, no salad—and start Brenda Novak’s creepy romantic suspense novel Watch Me, which happens to be my new theme song in life. I relish this alone time and settle in to live the “single girl” cliché: television, cats, junk food, books that help you forget where you are.

  Maybe there is one weak moment when I smell Superman’s shirt, the one he left, the one I washed, starched, and ironed myself. But that’s it. I’m done with romance, let alone love.

  Two hundred and twenty pages of a Harlequin romance don’t cover these kinks. From now on, I intend to soak up my independence. Cassie McBride would totally do this, too.

  I throw the gooey chocolate doughnut in the trash.

  • • •

  It boggles the mind that four months could go by in such a blur. Suddenly, it’s July, my forty-first birthday, and my family has congregated at a table in a fancy French restaurant around the corner from me. I’ve long grown out of wanting birthday fanfare, but I know my mom would be unhappy if I stayed home, ordered takeout, and worked on knitting projects. For her, I muster up an appetite and wear a dress. When I don my usual jeans and shirt, she winces and thinks I’m depressed, which is not the case. She’s a little scary, like the all-knowing mom who yanks you out of bed when she senses you’re in a funk. But I’m doing okay, I assure her.

  Cassie McBride doesn’t have to deal with an overbearing mother because she’s an orphan (her parents died in a car crash). If anything, she’s raised by either animals in the woods or a kindly grandmother who then kicks the bucket and leaves Cassie a huge house with a wraparound porch and fully stocked kitchen so that she can whip up cookies to bring to her neighbors or the office. Also, given her natural tendency to be beautiful, Cassie would never wear her college clothes. Cassie is all about the sundress.

  Luckily, I’m wearing a sundress, too.

  “I’m fine, Mom. Really. It meant nothing.” Superman is a distant memory. I even sent his shirt back. Three Brenda Novak novels later, and I’m cured. Perhaps Mom had a little crush on Superman. He came close to Colin Firth’s godliness. She and I will salivate over many romantic comedies in the future. There will be more birthdays like this, with her worrying about me, me telling her I’m fine.

  It occurs to me that a year ago, I was sitting at this same table, fresh from another breakup, on that scary precipice of forty. Now I’m turning forty-one—yikes, can’t go back now! My situation hasn’t changed much. I definitely feel better about my life. Same job. Same apartment in Chelsea—at least for the past four years. A few more gray hairs. Who am I kidding, Cassie McBride would never be this old. Plus, she embraces all moments with family—that is, if she has one, usually long-lost brothers who own a ranch and have long-lost male half brothers who have an even bigger ranch.

  I decide to embrace this moment even though I would rather be at my own studio-size ranch. Being out with family is probably a good idea for me.

  “We’re going to party!” my mother says excitedly. She’s really into this. You can tell by her hip phrases. It’s kind of funny, actually.

  There’s a new addition to the table, my brother’s adorable boyfriend, Carlos. He is a dark-haired, brown-eyed Peruvian man, both an intellectual and a comic book geek, who is getting his master’s degree in nonprofit management. Patrick is happy, relaxed, more active than I’ve ever seen him. For as long as I can remember, Patrick has been my rock, the one who helps me make big decisions, who drives people to the hospital and protects us all from evil. He’s become our true patriarch. I thought I’d be jealous when he settled down, but his boyfriend had me at “I have Kylie Minogue on my iPod.” Carlos has brought sunshine to our family. He encourages Patrick to cook instead of eat at restaurants, to visit family as much as possible, and to soak up life. As I see it, my family has expanded.

  My mom, of course, continues to be the queen bee over all events. This doesn’t fade one iota, though I notice how much I rely on her for my entertainment, even if I hate going to restaurants. There are the little things I crave seeing, like how her nose flutters when she finds something hysterical, or the way her head swivels if she eats something particularly delicious. I tell her everything, and she listens, even if it’s a bit of an overshare. Then there’s her work ethic, as in work until you can’t stand it anymore; I get that from her. Everyone loves Bonnie. In the past few decades, she’s given up her dark brown hair for a short pixie style, frosted, like she’s trying to be a blonde. Basically, my mother is still a goddess. She’s also a mother and, as such, sometimes calls me five times a day to remind me of absolutely nothing. I’m not sure how I’d cope if she stopped doing this.

  Don remains unchanged, continuing his role as the smartest one in the room, along with his penchant for making cutting remarks, rubbing his beard, and walking away in the middle of a sentence. Since spending more time in Manhattan, he’s also taken to barking at dogs on the street. I remind myself that he’s allegedly famous in his field and one of the world’s great thinkers. Mostly now he’s eyeing the red wine, his forbidden lover since he experienced some health problems and retired from academia.

  Because forty-one is no big deal, I proposed staying home on my birthday, having a Queer as Folk marathon while I sink a fork in birthday cake topped with peanut M&M’s and Cool Whip. My mother wasn’t having it, though, and she’s the boss.

  So here we are: out in the open, muggy July air at a French restaurant, me popping an Ativan just as the waiter brings us our menus. Family dinners make me a little nervous and so do restaurants—something about the cluster of tables, an imposed time frame to sit still in one place. It’s just how it is. My appetite dies slowly as I review the list of specials.

  “Oooh, look, they have kidneys!” Mom shouts. She loves to read aloud every item on the menu. “Beet salad! Look at that delicious salmon terrine. What are you having, Patience? Maybe a little duck confit?”

  “I’m not that hungry. Maybe the hanger steak.” This is my typical response.

  Mom winces. “You’ll get an appetizer, too. A little salad?”

  “It’s my birthday. No appetizer.” I know full well she’ll order an appetizer for herself and give half of it to me. This is part of the routine. Now that we live so close to each other, it happens a couple of times a month. But the people around this table are my family, and I love them desperately. The banter is the same as it’s always been. Our dynamic is one I’m used to and it comforts me. I still need a tranquilizer. It’s my birthday.

  “Hey, I’m a prime number this year,” I say.

  Patrick and Carlos raise their eyebrows. They don’t quite get my A Beautiful Mind obsession with prime numbers. Only Don does, because he’s insane.

  “That’s right!” my mother says, playing along, though she doesn’t really care about numbers. “It’s going to be
a great year!” She loves the word great. Everything is great. Did you see how Bessie organized her flower beds? They’re great. The percussionist who makes so much noise next door, she’s great.

  The waiter comes around and takes our order. The bottle of wine goes fast. My mother orders a Sauvignon Blanc, telling the waiter that if he brings her Chardonnay, she “will vomit.” I watch the waiter to make sure he fully digests this information, since if my mother vomits later, I might hear about it the next morning as I’m stuffing my face with pancakes. Though I love it when my mother confides in me, I can’t let anyone ruin my dessert foods.

  “And now I’m going to tell the story of Patience’s birth,” my mother announces, like clockwork.

  Apparently, I was an easy birth, though a month late—for which my father was probably thankful since he didn’t need to miss the ’68 student riots in Paris—and I had to be induced. I didn’t want to come out. Imagine that?

  As I look around the table, I’m content. I could easily devote the rest of my days to social events with my family. They are wonderful people. Nothing needs to change. I’m in a good place.

  And yet, all the books with their happily-ever-afters are ingrained in me. There’s a better way to live, isn’t there? I am allowed to dream. Maybe I can do that again, even though I’m exhausted right now. Cassie McBride would never indulge in this BS. She’s up to her eyeballs in customers at the diner where she now works as a waitress (the knitting store was not lucrative). She has no idea that Jake Hunter can’t stop staring at her, that he comes in for black coffee and a slice of pie every day. No, Cassie goes about her business, doesn’t expect more, doesn’t even want it. I should keep doing what I’m doing, which is work and family.