Romance Is My Day Job

by Patience Bloom

  I love living alone and have avoided the roommate situation. No one is snoring or having sex in the next room, there’s no coordination of bills, no one fights over whose food is in the fridge or the messy toilet issues. At my age, I’m petrified to live with a man. My father and brother were neat, took care of their hygiene, but plenty of people are slobs behind closed doors (like me). I’ve lived alone for so long that the odds aren’t good that this will work.

  Our first night and day have gone swimmingly. We’re happy to see each other, and, like most nauseating couples, we have to show how fabulous we are together. Should we go have a cappuccino at Mom’s? Of course, Sam insists. Meeting the parents on day number two would have given my past boyfriends hives. Not Sam.

  We trudge over five whole blocks to Horatio Street in the West Village. Here we go—this could end everything. I’ve introduced Sam to my entire family via pictures and anecdotes, so he knows what’s coming. We walk down the hall and open the apartment door to an airy, light room.

  “Why, hello, Sam. Nice to meet you,” Mom says in her unique way. She’s incredibly charming from the first second and makes him a frothy cappuccino.

  I keep hoping Sam will fall under her spell, because he hasn’t had a mother for a good thirty years, and my mother is game to expand her brood.

  Then Sam and my stepfather lock eyes. Yes, that stepfather, the curmudgeon who barks at dogs and people, loves his mysteries, and is stubborn. Time stands still as my new roommate goes to shake the hand of this befuddling intellectual historian. My stepfather doesn’t smile often, but this time he does. Maybe it’s the love he sees in Sam’s eyes or that Sam actually engages him in conversation. In fact, Sam hangs on Don’s every word and the connection builds from there.

  It’s a little twisted, this man-love. I almost start laughing outright at the strange hetero mating dance between men. Sam keeps watching my stepfather as if he’s a Sports Illustrated model, a beguiling creature you don’t quite get but want to keep looking at. Sure, the man is a genius, but he’s also a giant grumpus. What’s the appeal?

  “You don’t understand. He just draws you in,” Sam says as we walk home.

  “You’re in love with him.”

  “I’ve finally met the right person,” Sam says.

  I’m fairly sure at this point that Sam is a little deranged, but I can handle this. We return to our domesticity.

  • • •

  The most mystifying habit I notice right away is that Sam doesn’t eat. The first few days, we hang out on the couch. I swallow my penchant for bad television and read alongside him. This will be good for me. No more crappy reality TV. But then I pull out my bag of M&M’s and offer him some.

  “No, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,” he says.

  Uh, yeah, me too. I feel deep shame over my sugar addiction. How in the hell am I going to order pancakes every Sunday? Scarf that ice cream at eleven P.M. right before I go to bed? Perhaps I could restrict my junk-food habit to the afternoons—like secretly, when he’s not around. What would Elizabeth Gilbert say to this? I can’t be on a starvation diet. I’m a girl. I’ve tried this before and it never works.

  The hours go by on that first weekend. Mealtimes pass. Sam sits all skinny on the couch, reading smart books. No People magazine for him, so I hide mine behind the bookshelf. He can’t even tell the difference between Julia Roberts and Sandra Bullock, for God’s sake. The man wasn’t in this country for the Sex and the City craze either, which leaves us with little in common. Well, I can fix that. I put on the first episode of the first season. But the minute he hears that music, sees Sarah Jessica Parker in a tutu, his face is awash with disdain. He can’t bear the cackling, the chatter, the shopping, the stuff most of us girls adore. So, the potential love of my life doesn’t do anything that I like to do: eat, watch bad television. He might be more like Liz in Eat, Pray, Love, after all—a lover of travel, an observer of culture, a flaneur through marvelous sites.

  “Maybe we should get some fresh air,” he suggests on the second day of our new lovers’ weekend.

  This is the part I’ve dreaded—the outing, the walking around for hours—and if I keep up with his not-eating, I’ll die. Low blood sugar makes me insane. Let’s face it, M&M’s are not lunch. (They should be.) While I feel better when I eat well, I can’t stomach the idea of a carrot nibblet.

  This worry creates a snowball effect of panic, but I keep a bland smile on my face. “Sure. Let’s go!”

  I’m still sporting my perfect makeup and hair, though I have dialed back wearing contact lenses. Even over our long-distance courtship, he did see that I am incredibly nearsighted and don’t wear contacts all the time.

  Overnight, the snow must have come down, blanketing the city as we were sleeping. It’s almost as if Christmas arrived just for Sam (who is Jewish). We go outside and the snow is deep, to the point where there are snowbanks all over Manhattan. Surely Sam and I won’t walk far. Maybe a few blocks, then turn around. We’re old, after all. Of course, I conveniently forget that Sam spent the semester climbing mountains and therefore has excellent endurance. That and not eating make him an enigma.

  Bundled up in our snow gear, we trudge through the snow, and for several blocks, I’m fine. We won’t be long out here in the white winter wonderland. It’s freezing out, my tootsies are already numb, and in my head, my diva complaining has begun. But then I remember my BFF Rachel, who is pregnant for the first time. We grew up together and now she’s embarking on this new journey (without an epidural). That must be hard. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton spends half her life on airplanes and meeting people, being out and about, eating bad food, and trying to live on fumes. She wouldn’t be a wimp about walking a few blocks. Really, I’m so spoiled.

  We wind up walking two miles to Central Park. Low blood sugar has hit, thanks to Sam’s manorexia and my trying to keep up with his no-eating regimen. He goes over to get some cider, which I’m not into. Summoning my inner Julia, I remain stoic and sparkling, not complaining once (maybe a couple of times). I just want for him to think I’m a cheerful girl, up for anything—which I’m not, let’s face it.

  I do enjoy the moment, though, relish that happiness that will build if I keep up with Gretchen Rubin’s maxim to carve out time to do what makes me happy (I even make lists, as she suggests). I like being outside. This snowy weather is heaven to me. I like and love Sam. The bottom line is that I’m with the man of my dreams. We’re soaking up the sun and lovely snowy weather. It’s a gorgeous day even if he just threw a snowball at me. I’m such a lucky girl. A year ago, I was in such a different place.

  Sam and I take pictures. In each one, I have a big smile on my face and I feel it clear through. We frolic in the snow, laugh a lot, and take the subway home. By the time we arrive back in Chelsea, I’m ravenous. There’s no time to waste with this not-eating thing. Sam also gives up his manorexia and we order greasy burgers and fries.

  The next hurdle is unveiling my shelf of DVDs (I’ll leave the Duran Duran stuff for another time, when he’s locked in). Though I hide the more embarrassing ones, he’s bound to discover my obsession with Steven Seagal movies, romantic comedies, Queer as Folk, The L Word, and 95 percent of Julia Roberts’s repertoire.

  I start out slow, convince him to watch a benign romantic comedy. Being on his best behavior, he is amenable to watching Maid in Manhattan. I love my Jennifer Lopez in movies, so he has to adore her, too. No reason why he shouldn’t since she’s infectious and her smile lights up those somber halls in the hotel where she works as a maid (the romance tropes and stereotypes are cringe-worthy, but it’s J.Lo and I have to watch).

  Although Sam seems interested in the movie, he asks after twenty minutes, “Wasn’t this nominated for an Oscar?”

  Ha ha, so funny.

  But he succumbs to J.Lo’s magic. I look over and see tears running down his cheeks just as Jennifer gets fired from her j
ob cleaning Ralph Fiennes’s hotel room and defiantly tells her mother she’s not going to clean houses.

  Total wuss. I might be able to do this. Finally, we find a show we both love, The Closer, which oddly enough stars my brother’s friend (my former embarrassing crush from Equal Justice) Jon Tenney as Kyra Sedgwick’s long-suffering boyfriend. Each time JT comes on the screen, Sam screams out, “Jon Tenney! He’s so hunkalicious!”

  Lesson learned: Never tell someone everything about your life. . . .

  • • •

  By the end of our first week together, it’s clear that Sam will stay longer. We get along great but disagree enough to keep things interesting. The original plan was for Sam to leave on Christmas Eve, but now he will experience my family during the holidays.

  Christmastime is special to the Smith/Kelleys because it’s Patrick’s birthday and there is a present exchange that can only be described as wrapping-paper carnage. We’re gathering on Christmas Eve, with another family dinner the next day. I’m not sure how Patrick does it, but he manages to keep his birthday going for weeks, with a minimum of two parties to celebrate his arrival into the world.

  I should be worried about Sam and Patrick meeting for the first time. I want them to like each other, but I’m too used to Patrick’s guardedness. He doesn’t want anyone to hurt me, which I understand. I haven’t had great judgment in the past. In contrast, Carlos already loves Sam, so I rely on his gentle coaxing to win over my brother.

  On the day itself, Sam and I accidentally both wear blue and we don’t notice until we get to my mom’s apartment. As we walk in the door, Don looks up from his latest mystery. He puts his book aside to stand, smiles, and gets up to shake Sam’s hand. That’s what people in love do. It’s clear that Don and Sam have a special connection that I’ll never understand.

  I know that as we walk home, Sam will talk about Don for the rest of the evening: “Did you notice how Don lovingly put the salt around his margarita?” or “I like how he tells Bonnie no and then does what she says. Did you see that?” He’s terribly infatuated. Not a day goes by without his asking about Don, his health, his interests.

  Patrick and Carlos are usually late, but once they come in, I can feel electricity—not tension as with other times when I’ve brought people home, but a sense that this is the best person I could possibly introduce to my family.

  As Patrick and Sam shake hands, I soak up the moment. Their smiles, the playful jibing. When Patrick punches Sam in the arm—as one would a little brother—I know my brother is sold.

  • • •

  Sam loves being around family—his own, mine, and any other related people he can find. He and his brother, Warren, talk every day at least twice, to the point that I can predict when the phone will ring—when Warren is on his way to work or home, when Sam comes home from the gym, or at seven forty-five A.M. The Blooms also visit one another often, planning last-minute trips to New York or Orlando, where his brother and his family live. Sam’s family is eager to meet my family, or at least to see what Sam is getting himself into.

  Within a couple weeks of Sam’s descent into New York, his brother, sister-in-law, and two nieces arrive from Florida to meet most of the Smith/Kelley clan. My mother and I nervously make arrangements to dine at a West Village restaurant. Patrick and Carlos can’t make it.

  As usual, I need to pop a tranquilizer, because you never know how these things will go. Will everyone get along? Will my stepfather behave? How bored will the nieces be? Does everyone hate me? Will my mother bully me into ordering an appetizer? (If she doesn’t, something’s wrong.)

  The older niece, Kyra, feels under the weather and stays at the hotel, leaving Gaby, a blue-eyed, light-brown-haired teenage cherub, to deal with the adults. Gaby is poised throughout the entire meal, even when my stepfather uses the F-word. It doesn’t faze her one bit, and she goes back to texting her friends. My mother is a dynamite conversationalist and keeps it all going, talking with Elise, Warren’s wife, who resembles Gaby. I don’t think I eat anything during the entire meal, but I feel a deep satisfaction that everyone is getting along. Later that night, we meet up with Kyra, a beautiful brunette with a love of theater. We’ve all met now, and it doesn’t seem to be killing the relationship so far.

  • • •

  There are those moments in a relationship when you truly clash, even if it’s in a nice way. In the books I edit, couples mesh beautifully during times of forced proximity. If Jake Hunter has to use Cassie’s house in order to spy on the evil neighbor (whose landscaping business is a front for selling busloads of heroin), they live together harmoniously—maybe bicker a little, which masks their burning attraction. In small ways, they surprise each other. He knows how to make an omelet (all heroes do, oddly enough) and she is easy to love.

  For our first few weeks, we settle into our blissful cohabitation and acknowledge that our relationship has no time limit. Sam miraculously finds a teaching job for the spring semester and has a few days to prepare for class. I have my own work, thus making us an employed couple. We’re the easy-to-love Cassie and Jake, until reality sets in. Sam snores his face off at night. I have to tap him and tell him to turn over. Sometimes he yells at me that he won’t do it. Sometimes he’s complacent.

  With his no-eating regime abandoned, Sam eats my yogurt, my leftovers, and my packed lunch. I buy groceries; they disappear fast. He eats my food without apology. So I learn to buy two of everything. Still, it disrupts my harmonious landscape.

  It’s soon obvious to him that I have trouble sleeping, that my habit is to stay awake forever, and to get myself to sleep, I often resort to clubbing myself in the head with a horse tranquilizer. This doesn’t always work. Sam is dead to the world within five minutes of hitting his pillow. He wakes up at two A.M. to read, then falls back to sleep. He says he can function with five hours of sleep, but let’s be serious: He gets eight a night, plus an afternoon nap. This is not fair. Cassie and Jake never experience such discord in their sleeping patterns.

  I take a shower every day, sometimes two. Sam will take more than that. He loves showers, cleanliness, sweet-smelling hair, and an empty sink. He’s obsessive about his towels, soaps, and face-scrubbing lotions. I don’t wash my hair for three days in a row because it’s so damn thick. Sam wrinkles his nose at me after the second day. My candlelit bubble baths are now done in secret since Sam witnessed one and said, “You’re basically bathing in your own filth.” Nice. Jake would never say that. It’s obvious that Sam knows nothing about girly indulgence.

  After eating, I let the dishes sit until, you know . . . a few days go by. Sam has to pick them up before he does anything else. I barely cook, preferring to have food brought to me, which often means no dishes. Sam cooks pad Thai from scratch and really should be a chef. He’s so talented that my mother gets uncomfortable when he comes into her kitchen. But she loves eating what he cooks.

  Before Sam arrived, I cleaned my apartment from top to bottom once a week. Now, with the endless cups set down, food eaten, dust accumulated, bed unmade, laundry piled high, I let it all go. I can’t clean and work and be in a relationship. I mean, I can, but I don’t. We do the best that we can with this, but it’s difficult. We don’t invite people over because we’re slobs. To add to this, we have no interest in interior decorating, which means we live in a pit with shabby furniture from twenty years ago.

  Each day, I live more spontaneously, loosely, but it feels good. We don’t have to be as perfect as Jake and Cassie. Sam and I take our preferences in stride. I try to be tolerant, and he’s the most easygoing person ever. We get along great, until the night he goes out with his friend Reid from Taft.

  I grew up with noises waking me up in the middle of the night. City sounds, people fighting or talking loudly, parties, usually my own nightmares rousing me, a weird phone call at three A.M. My bad dreams make me lie awake shaking for a good hour afterward. Now that I’m in my forties,
I hate for my sleep to be disturbed.

  Because I’m in this new relationship, still acting as Cheerful Girl, I am so happy that Sam wants to hang with a friend. Why not? He needs to have a fun boys’ night out and blow off steam. Maybe since I have to go in to work the next day, he could be in by midnight? Sure, darling, no problem. We embark happily on our separate evenings.

  Toward the end of the night, I wait and wait. No word from Sam. Finally, I put myself into a coma, hoping that he won’t wake me up, but if he does, I’ll be fine with it because I’m more relaxed now about everything.

  At about two A.M. the door opens and in walks Sam, very quietly. He barely speaks, immediately takes off his pants and coat, and gets into bed, lying unmoving for the next few hours. I can tell he’s beyond smashed out of his brains, mostly because he’s so quiet and careful. I almost laugh, except I hate this kind of thing.

  On the one hand, he should party if he wants. On the other, is this a habit?

  I don’t talk to him for about a day because of how neurotic I feel, waiting for him to come home, wondering if he’s a crazy drunk, and why can’t I loosen up and let him have a fun night out with a friend? All my worrying ruins my day. Also, there’s the fact that he was inconsiderate, never thinking that such a late arrival would upset me. If we had a separate bedroom, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Do I want to get involved with someone who goes out until two A.M.? I’m really a square and only a brain transplant will change that. He knows I hate this middle-of-the-night coming home. Why did he do this?

  Luckily, this happens only once and my revenge occurs as I watch him go to teach his French class at nine the next morning. He is miserably hungover.

  • • •

  I knew Sam was truly the One early on—maybe with the Facebook declaration with the Swiss saline solution. During the first few weeks and months of our living together, he prods me ever so gently out of my shell—getting me to be more social and less of a tight-ass, laugh more. But then . . . something happens that might be the deal-breaker.