I’d become so hopeful, in fact, that I forgot about my pathetic personal ad for three whole hours. It wasn’t until I was packing up for the day, and was about to turn off my computer, that I remembered.
I sat frozen at my desk for a minute. Should I check? Not check? Pretend like I’d never placed a personal ad, since Sexy Boy and I were obviously destined to fall into each other’s arms with an all-consuming passion that would last the next sixty years of our life? What if that didn’t happen? Shouldn’t I keep my options open?
Then, affecting a breeziness I didn’t really feel, I muttered, “Fuck it,” and logged on to Nervy.com. Who cared if those losers had responded to me or not? I had a date with SB this weekend after all! No one could take that away from me. It would therefore not hurt me to just take a peek—a little teeny peek—at Nervy.com before I went home for the night.
When I logged on, heart pounding a little harder than it should have, I found this message at the top of the page: “Nervy has been experiencing technical difficulties for the last twenty-four hours, and we apologize for any delays you may have encountered in sending and receiving your messages” followed by…
I blinked. Once. Twice.
That couldn’t be right, could it?
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I don’t think I approve of this. You can’t go flying with a stoner! Li’l Sis | 9/25/02—9:18 P.M.
Remember, keep track of the red flags!
Juliana | Homepage | 9/26/02—10:34 A.M.
So many men these days seem to suffer from a tragic passivity. I can’t speak definitively for this guy, but habitual pot smoking is definitely a sign of that. (Take it from someone who used to do it.) His hot-and-cold behavior would also seem to indicate a deep-rooted indecisiveness. You deserve better than that.
El Politico | Homepage | 9/26/02—6:56 P.M.
Flying? You’re gonna go flying with him? Oh, I bet I’m gonna get that red couch now.
Ambulance Chaser | 9/26/02—7:34 P.M.
Chapter Ten
Sunday, September 29, 2002
11:48 AM Breakup Babe
“So,” Sexy Boy was saying as we stood out on the tarmac of Wings Aloft, the wind whipping my hair around so that I could barely hear, “we’ll all be wearing the headsets, and that’s how we talk to each other.”
I glanced over at GuyPal #1, whose long black hair was contained in its habitual ponytail, and who, oddly, was wearing sports goggles instead of his usual black-rimmed glasses. He looked like he could barely contain his excitement. Next to him stood a surprise guest, whom we will dub “Jenny,” who was gazing at SB in either fear or adoration, I couldn’t tell. I’d been none too thrilled to find Jenny in the front seat of SB’s truck and GuyPal #1 in the back that morning when he picked me up.
Not that I didn’t like having GuyPal #1 around, but wasn’t this supposed to be a date? And who was this Jenny person, with her strawberry blond bob and tight Calvin Klein jeans? (Following GalPal #2’s advice, I’d opted for the striped cords, which were fashionable but not exactly tight. They were, perhaps, a size or two too big, because I could never buy pants without worrying that at any moment I would gain back those twenty pounds I’d lost.)
SB had introduced her, simply, as “Jenny.” As if, like Prince or Cher, I should know who the f*ck she was and why she was sitting in the front seat of SB’s truck while I was banished to the back with GuyPal #1, who wasn’t even supposed to be there in the first place.
During the ride to Boeing Field, I’d formulated numerous excuses as to why I’d have to bail out of the flight at the last minute. Truthfully, I was just plain terrified. And now that I knew I didn’t have a day of romance on San Juan Island lying ahead of me—SB and I frolicking on the shore! SB and I spotting whales with our binoculars! SB and I holding hands as we window-shopped in Friday Harbor!—I was much less inclined to squelch my terror.
These fantasies had danced in my brain the night before despite the running list of red flags I was now so sensibly keeping. Stoner. Flaky. Lived in a repulsive group house in a room littered with dirty socks. That was three right there!
Hope-a-noma had such a hold on me, in fact, that I hadn’t even responded to any of my Nervy supplicants, of which there were now about thirty. When I’d logged on Thursday night, prepared for more stony silence, I’d found, along with Nervy’s apology for their “technical difficulties,” thirty-two responses.
After fifteen minutes of clicking through them, though, my excitement turned to overload. How was I supposed to keep track of all these handles: Air_and_Water, Duke_of_Gville, HotelNeutral? And how was I, SeattleSweetie, supposed to make any kind of informed choice? What if Mr. Right looked just the least bit wrong in his photograph so I didn’t choose him?
So I responded by not responding. Instead I let the messages pile up in my in-box, checked them when I needed an ego boost, and spent most of my energy daydreaming about this moment with SB.
But now, as the sun played hide-and-seek and little drops of rain beat against my Windbreaker, I couldn’t see a single reason to risk my life for such a red flag–ridden man—if you could even call someone who lived in a group house at his age a “man.”
Unless…
Maybe Jenny was GuyPal #1’s date?
“The flight will probably take forty-five minutes,” said SB. “The weather is supposed to be pretty good, but—” He looked up at the darkening sky. “Well, I think it will be fine. The forecast was good. Each one of you has your own parachute in the plane, just in case.”
WHAT? No f*cking way. PARACHUTES? I was not going on this plane.
“Hey—” I started to say.
“Just kidding,” said SB. GuyPal #1 laughed. Jenny smiled. She turned to GuyPal #1 and giggled. Maybe she was his date.
“Yes, Miss R.?” said SB, looking over at me, smiling a dazzling grin that contained the sunshine of an entire Seattle summer in it.
“I—uh—” I have terrible motion sickness. I’m just not feeling well. I’m terrified of flying.
“I’m—um—just wondering which airport we’re going to, you know, since there are two on San Juan Island?”
“Roche Harbor,” he said. “Does that meet with your approval, madam?” He winked at me, and I knew, right then, that I would do anything for the attentions of this man, including climbing aboard this four-person death trap and flying into the Bermuda Triangle.
“Yes,” I said. It came out just above a whisper.
Thirty minutes later, we were two-thirds of the way toward San Juan Island. For the first fifteen minutes, I’d gripped the arms of my seat in sheer terror, and could not join in the seemingly unconcerned banter of the other three as the plane bounced through the sky and the cheerful blue blanket of Puget Sound spread below us.
After half an hour, the Xanax I’d taken was having its calming effect, I’d gotten used to the bouncing, and with only fifteen minutes left, what could happen? I was irrationally reassured, too, by how light the plane felt: as if you could crash in it, and not do much more than bounce once or twice, dust yourself off, and walk away.
Then the radio went out.
One minute there was a reassuring crackle of voices through my headphones, then there was silence.
“Shit,” said SB. “I forgot to—”
The plane jolted suddenly upward, my stomach down. And I realized I had made the worst mistake of my entire life getting on this plane.
“Well y’all, our radio seems to have gone out, but it’s nothing to worry about,” said SB, suddenly taking on a soothing Chuck Yeageresque southern drawl that—I remembered from reading The Right Stuff—had probably been drilled into him at flight school.
I turned for a glimpse of how GuyPal #1 and Jenny were taking this. Jenny, right next to me, had gone completely pale. GuyPal #1 had a half smile frozen on his normally beaming face, as if he were trying to decide exactly how to react: scream, or go on pretending everything was fine?
The plane swung to the left, as if pu
nched. We entered a thick veil of gray. “That’s just a little bit of turbulence,” said SB. “Also nothing to worry about. It looks like we’ve hit a bit of a cloud cover, but I expect that once we get through it, it will be clear”—sharp downward jolt—“sailing again.”
Oh, how I wished I’d called my mother back last night when she’d left me a message. I’d often say to her, when flying to or from Seattle to California, “My plane’s not gonna crash, right?”
“Right,” she’d say. “Your plane is not going to crash.”
“Do you promise?” I’d say.
“I promise.”
And for some silly reason, I always believed her. Now, however, it was clear that we were going to crash. All because I hadn’t asked her. I stared out the window, but all I could see was gray. I whimpered under my breath. Mommy.
“Hey P.,” SB was saying, his voice sounding more tense now, “there’s a switch right over there. Can you—”
WAP! WAP WAP WAP! The plane bounced—once, twice, three times, and seemed to skid.
“Jesus,” muttered SB. Something icy touched my hand and I jumped. It was Jenny, reaching to put her hand in mine. I took it, clutching it hard.
“What?” said GuyPal #1, his voice much too high. “What did you want me to do?”
“Never mind, brother,” said SB, clearly trying to keep his tone light, which only made me more terrified. “I got it.” He reached across the control panel and flipped a switch, in the process briefly letting go of the steering yoke. Like a toddler freed from its parent’s grasp, the plane skittered off to the left, then jumped upward, as if for joy.
I was going to throw up. I put my hand over my mouth and tried to stare out at the horizon. But there was no horizon. There were only layers of gray—some light and gauzy, some thick and ominous. I had never seen so many shades of gray.
So this was it. This was how I was going to die. A strange calm descended over me. My nausea disappeared.
“We just have to ride out this chop, guys,” said SB, over the headset. “It’s kinda fun, isn’t it?” None of us answered. “The radio should come back on soon. I forgot to turn the alternator on earlier, but it’s on now so the radio should come back and if it doesn’t, well, no biggie.”
No biggie? NO BIGGIE? For a moment, fury destroyed my preternatural calm. Then we hit another bump and the fury fell away. I didn’t have time for such emotions now. I had to prepare. I had to be optimistic yet ready for the worst. I had to review my life and give thanks for what I’d had. Determine what I’d do differently if I got another chance. Which would include never, EVER getting in a small plane with a womanizing flake again.
All of a sudden, a loud noise hissed in my ears. I jumped. A male voice started up. “—and turbulence right over Shaw Island…”
The radio!
“Whoo!” said SB, sounding noticeably relieved. “That was quick. Now the landing should be a snap, once I get down through this—”
The plane shook violently from side to side. Jenny gripped my hand even tighter. A dry bag fell from its storage place somewhere above us and landed with a loud thump, right next to one of Jenny’s rather tackily shod feet. “Oh my God,” she whimpered.
Then, as if the cloud had never happened, we were back in the sunshine. Blue all around us, the whitecaps of Puget Sound winking below. I continued to grip my armrest with one hand and Jenny’s clammy hand with the other, staring hard at the landscape I loved—islands, water, mountains—not daring to believe that we might actually survive this flight.
But the turbulence stopped, and in a few minutes SB was on the radio to announce his landing.
Jenny withdrew her hand from mine and gave me a strained smile. With a burst of euphoria, I thought maybe we’d be best friends forever now, bonded by our near-death experience, but then suddenly I remembered. Shit, who IS she? If she was Guypal #1’s date, shouldn’t he be the one in the back holding her hand?
I was taking the f*cking ferry back, I swear to God.
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Chapter Eleven
Monday, October 7, 2002
9:18 AM Breakup Babe
So on Friday night, I met a baby stud whom we shall dub the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy. The LRS (a private investigator by trade) is, I regret to inform you, a mere twenty-four years old. Ten years younger than me! But I have such a weakness for climbing boys. And this one was nice. And cute. And had big muscles. So—surprise!—I gave him my card, though I’m old enough to be his grandmother.
Now, I know what you’re thinking (besides “that perverted cradle robber!”). You’re thinking that after the Sexy Boy debacle, I’d take time to regroup. Recharge. Reconsider. Hell, perhaps even retreat from the dating scene for a while until I get my head out of my a*s, where it was so firmly entrenched through the month of September.
But you’d be wrong. Because two nights after I met the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy, I found myself on my red couch, dangerously close to having sex with him. He wore a baggy black T-shirt that I’d been dying to tear off for a better look at his abs. So far I’d restrained myself, because I feared what might happen to me if I actually saw them.
Bleary-eyed, I paused in my latest entry to take a sip of my double-tall-split-shot-no-foam-vanilla latte (extra hot) and glance at the uninspiring scene around me. This morning I’d decided to take a break from Drooly Couple Land (aka Victrola) and try Vivace, another Capitol Hill coffee shop. People raved about the coffee here. Their beans are the best, they’d say, in hushed tones. It’s a secret brand imported from Italy!
So here I was, and the coffee was good—much better than Victrola’s—but the people watching sucked. First off, there were no cute male baristas to flirt with, only one bitchy female whose role model in life was Courtney Love (pre-Hollywood transformation), complete with bleached blond hair and gobs of smeared black eyeliner. Immediately after I purchased my coffee, she disappeared into a back room. Oddly, there was no one else in the place except for a homeless-looking guy slumped over his fancy Italian coffee in the corner. Devo played a little too loudly over the sound system.
At least I was inspired by my subject today. I was still tired from my late night with the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy—but it was a good kind of tired. Not an “I-stayed-up-all-night-and-didn’t-even-get-a-stupid-kiss” kind of tired, but an “I-stayed-up-all-night-and-it-was-worth-every-second” kind of tired. I knew my readers were going to be titillated by the juicy details I planned to provide, but, judging from the newest comments on my last entry, I needed to wrap up the Sexy Boy fiasco first.
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Glad you survived! But what happened on the island? An orgy, maybe? Details, puhleeze!
Delilah | Homepage | 10/02/02—8:38 P.M.
As a pilot myself, I can say that forgetting to turn the alternator on is not such a big deal. You can fly without a radio too, if there are no clouds. Sounds like your flight was just fine; planes can handle a lot more turbulence than you can, so I hope you don’t break up with him over that.
Pilot Bob | 10/03/02—11:56 P.M.
Okay, how many red flags are we up to now?
Juliana | Homepage | 10/04/02—8:57 A.M.
Oh, I would say about 500!
Breakup Babe | 10/05/02—3:48 P.M.
The problem was now that Sexy Boy was off the romantic radar, I’d lost interest in writing about him. The whole thing still hurt, after all. I would much rather write about something new and promising than dwell on that misguided adventure. But my readers were right. I couldn’t exactly start a story without finishing it.
But wait! Before we go down that tantalizing road, I owe you an ending, don’t I? I guess we gotta get Sexy Boy out of our system before we move on, so here’s how it all played out.
For a moment, thanks to Delilah’s comment, I thought about finishing it all off with an orgy. A vodka-soaked foursome in a Friday Harbor hotel room. I could steer my blog into the realm of fiction right now and never look back. Think
of all the hot men I could conjure up for myself, the steamy nights, the exotic locales! Hell, if I wanted to, I could tell my readers that I was a best-selling author and fabricate tales about life among the glittering literati! Free from the shackles of Empire and the ghost of Loser, Breakup Babe could roam the world with her laptop, soaking up adoration and cranking out best sellers. My increasingly far-flung readers would never be the wiser!
But no. I was too truthful for that. And maybe I knew, somewhere deep down, that my real life was about to get plenty interesting. I took one last, lackluster glance around Vivace, and set forth to chronicle the dreary end of my “relationship” with Sexy Boy.
As soon as we landed on San Juan Island, the weather turned worse. Sexy Boy, GuyPal #1, and Jenny voted to wait out the storm by getting drunk in a bar in Friday Harbor. For me, however, drinking heavily in my current emotional state—which had morphed from terror to euphoria to depression all within a half an hour—would be a fatal mistake. I’d probably end up weeping on the barroom floor or getting into a fistfight with Jenny.
So I excused myself after one drink to go to the whale museum down the street. There I drowned my sorrows in the deep blue waters of the whale photos, and in reading about the whales’ endurance.
Each year humpbacks migrate from the South Pacific Ocean to their northern breeding grounds. It’s a huge trip—about 7,500 miles. During this migration they don’t feed at all, yet they have enough energy to calve and mate and to swim over 1,000 miles per month.
If a whale can go six months without food, I thought, trying to hold back the tears, I can go a few damn months without having a boyfriend. Why in the world had I allowed my hopes to balloon out of control like this?
But the tears did start falling, so I went into one of the dark audio booths where you could listen to whale sounds on a headset. For half an hour, I listened to orcas talking to each other in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. As their soulful calls echoed through the water, I cried.
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