Has Anyone Seen My Pants?

by Sarah Colonna

  What I did know from my texting conversations with Alex (I understand a gentleman should offer to call, but when they do I say, “Nope, text is good,” because I hate talking on the phone) was that he was handsome and charismatic and seemed to have a really good sense of humor—unlike most of the other men in his field (whatever that was). And much like me, he traveled a lot for work. So one night when we were innocently texting as usual, he suggested that I come to Chicago the following week—because he would be there, not because he just thought I needed more deep-dish pizza in my life. This was the moment I figured out that he had been flirting with me . . . or if he hadn’t been before he definitely was now. I think. Right?

  As had become the norm, I was going to be on the road doing stand-up the very same weekend he was suggesting I come to Chicago and have what I assumed was hot, dirty hotel sex. Why does sex always feel so much dirtier—in the good way—in a hotel? Even my married friends agree that when they have sex in a hotel it feels so much more exciting than at home. I guess it just makes it feel like you’re doing something that you shouldn’t be doing. Or maybe I just get really turned on by the thought of room service and fresh towels.

  “I’m going to be out of town that weekend, but unfortunately not in Chicago,” I texted in response to Alex.

  “Bummer,” he replied. “It would’ve been great to get to actually meet you.”

  I’d almost forgotten we hadn’t even met yet. We had now been friendly texting for a couple of months but we hadn’t met in person, which was kind of weird because he only lived about forty-five minutes away from where I lived, but we both traveled a lot, so I guess he figured meeting up in another city was the only way we’d ever actually meet.

  “Well, hopefully we can figure out another time for that . . . ,” I texted. As much as I am gone for work, I find that after I meet a man I’m interested in, once I’m out of town and unavailable to see him, he decides that I’m not interested in him and the whole thing is over before it even starts. So I did my best to let Alex know that I wanted this “meeting” to happen.

  “Definitely,” he replied.

  Mission accomplished.

  During this time, I had been working really hard on the television show based on my book that I’d sold to NBC. Alex took a lot of interest in that aspect of my life, and I appreciated that. Not to say the other people in my life, like my friends, family, and coworkers, didn’t take an interest in it; of course they did. But it was nice to be talking to someone who didn’t do what I did yet was very interested in what I did. And vice versa for him. I mean, he didn’t know I didn’t know exactly what he did, but he knew I listened when he talked (texted) about it, so that was good. I assume it’s like this for everyone, regardless of their job; meeting someone who in no way is in your field of work is refreshing and exhilarating. It brings new life into your own career for you—suddenly someone is truly interested in what you do, which in turn brings new excitement to it for you. So both personally and professionally, Alex was making me feel interesting and wanted. I liked Alex.

  My show didn’t end up going any further than NBC’s buying the script, which needless to say was incredibly disappointing. But it’s really hard to sell a show, much harder to get them to shoot the pilot, and even ridiculously harder to get it on the air. So after getting really hammered at noon the day I found out the bad news and waking up at six o’clock p.m. on my bed wearing only a pair wedges, I picked myself up and moved on. You have to allow yourself a day of mourning, but then you have to get over it. About four years previous to selling that show to NBC, I was bartending and barely making ends meet. I knew I had come far and I knew that things could always turn on a dime as long as you never quit trying to reach your goal.

  “I’m so sorry, I know how hard you were working on that,” Alex texted me when I told him the news about my show.

  “Thank you,” I responded, very touched/horny that he genuinely seemed to care.

  “So what’s next?” he asked.

  “Next I come up with another idea and sell that.”

  “I like your motivation. It’s sexy,” he replied.

  “I just drank a bottle of wine and now I’m watching Road House—is that sexy?” I asked. Sometimes when I’m nervous I try to be funny. I mean, I really was drunk and watching Road House, but I probably could’ve come up with something sexier than the truth.

  “It is if you’re thinking of yourself as Kelly Lynch and me as Patrick Swayze . . .”

  Oh, it is on! I thought. No doubt he was flirting with me now! HE COMPARED US TO KELLY LYNCH AND PATRICK SWAYZE.

  “I certainly am,” I wrote back coyly. “But not the part where he rips the guy’s throat out. That’s not sexy.”

  Silence.

  If I didn’t get into comedy I could’ve been a professional mood-killer.

  “No, it isn’t,” he wrote back about thirty minutes later.

  Note to self: stop trying to be funny or you’re going to die alone.

  The next day, I was texting with my friend Jackie and I told her what Alex had said about Road House.

  “He asked you to meet him in Chicago, and you think the Road House reference is when he really made his move?”

  “Well, that’s like the most romantic couple in the history of cinema,” I explained.

  “Patrick Swayze played a bouncer in that movie.”

  “Bouncers can’t be romantic?”

  “He ripped someone’s throat out with his bare hands.”

  “I specifically told him I was not referring to that part of the movie, Jackie. I’m not a moron.”

  “I feel like you have weird ideas of what is romantic . . .”

  “Me? You and Brandon go camping all the time, which, in my opinion, is something you suggest when you want to punish the other person.”

  “Ha ha, fine. I’m just saying, I think it’s pretty clear this guy wants in your pants so you don’t have to get hung up on a movie reference. Instead, why don’t you set a time where you can actually meet him and get some penetration? When was the last time you had sex?”

  “Ugh, like, eight months ago. I’m basically a virgin again. I’m afraid it’s going to close up like an earring hole does when you forget to put earrings in for too long.”

  “Can that happen?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, in that case I better go find Brandon, it’s been like a week. Wait, Alex lives here, right? Why can’t you just meet up with him in town?”

  “He lives north, like an hour away.”

  “That is a little bit closer than Chicago. Why doesn’t he just drive to meet you? Wait . . . are you sure this guy isn’t married?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m just saying, it’s kind of weird. If he really wanted to meet you, it seems like he could’ve by now.”

  “No, he isn’t married. He can’t be, he texts me all the time. And he certainly didn’t say he was married.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Was I supposed to? That seems like something people let you know right away.”

  “Well, not all people. Just make sure. Something sounds off.”

  I wasn’t sure. And now that Jackie had mentioned it, things did seem kind of weird. But seriously, is that how life was now? Had I been out of the normal dating game for so long that I didn’t get the memo that when someone asks you out on a date you have to first ask them to specify whether or not they’re married? Jesus.

  Clearly the easiest way to get an answer to this question would be to ask Alex whether or not he was married. But I decided to try to get an answer on my own. I had two reasons for not wanting to flat-out ask him: (1) If he was not, he would probably think I was a little insane for asking that out of the blue. (2) If he was, and hadn’t told me yet, who was to say he’d tell me the truth now?

  So I decided to launch my
own investigation. Unfortunately, his Facebook page was simply for work and revealed nothing about his personal life. So I typed his name plus “wife” into Google. Within seconds, I had my answer.

  According to Google, Alex was, in fact, married. So easy to find out that way, you’d think I would have done that before, wouldn’t you? Well, trust me, when I meet someone now, it’s the first thing I do.

  Since Alex isn’t in the public eye, I wasn’t able to get a ton of information. What I did get was a photo of him and his wife (who was very lovely) at an event about two years prior. I immediately called Jackie with my revelation.

  “Ugh, I knew something was fishy,” she sighed.

  “The problem is, all I could find was a picture of them at an event a couple of years ago. Maybe he’s divorced, which would mean he’s single, which would mean he isn’t doing anything wrong.”

  “The only way to find out is to ask him,” Jackie said. “You have to ask.”

  I knew she was right. It seemed so easy to just pick up my phone and send him a text that said: “Hey, quick question, are you married?” But it wasn’t that easy. I liked Alex. I know I hadn’t met him in person yet, but we had been talking for a few months at this point and I felt like I knew him. Every relationship in my life was being maintained via text, so I guess the one I’d formed with Alex didn’t seem that weird to me. He was smart, funny, and interesting. And he felt the same way about me.

  Although I was incredibly grateful that my career was finally growing into what I’d always dreamed it would be, I was traveling all the time, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t starting to feel the void of not having some romance in my life. I’d come home from a weekend on the road to unwind and find myself having one too many drinks on my balcony and staring at my cat. In short, I was pretty fucking lonely.

  I lay in bed that night, phone in hand, trying to figure out the best way to get the answer to what seemed like such a simple question. I didn’t want Alex to turn out to be an asshole. I’d worked so hard to not date assholes, to not settle. And if I was going to hang out with an asshole, it needed to be for sex and a good story, like with Baseball Player. Alex’s turning out to be married wasn’t a good story, especially since I actually liked him.

  I woke up the next morning, my phone on the floor next to me. I guess I’d overthought myself to sleep. When I picked it up, there was a text from Alex waiting for me.

  “I’m going to be in Seattle next weekend for work. Meet me there? I have the whole day and night free on Saturday.”

  Seattle made me think of those stupid sunflowers I’d sent Baseball Player and I made a mental note to unsubscribe from 1800Flowers.com again. Seriously, I was still getting e-mails from them.

  “Actually, I’m free next weekend,” I replied. “Sounds fun.”

  I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I say, “Sure, I’ll be there, as long as you don’t have a wife, LOL!”? But I wasn’t ready to ask him yet. I wanted to spend one day fantasizing about a romantic weekend in Seattle. I’d ask him tomorrow.

  Three days later, I still hadn’t asked Alex the big question. I booked my hotel, I booked my plane ticket, and I bought a new outfit (but I didn’t book any body wraps, so that’s progress). I was forging ahead with the idea that the man who was constantly texting me and had asked me on more than one occasion to meet him in other cities was single, as presented. But I couldn’t get the image of that photo stupid Google shoved in my face out of my head. So I decided it was time to find out.

  “Oh, hey, I was thinking: I’m performing here in L.A. next month, you should come down for it. I can put you and your wife on the list.”

  I know that sounds like a very strange way to ask, but it was all I could come up with. I figured if he wasn’t married, he’d say, “Wife? I don’t have a wife! I’m divorced!” Then I could say, “I know, I was just joking! Ha ha.” And if he was married, he certainly wasn’t going to ask me how I found out. (Look, I never claimed to have a degree in logic.)

  “Sounds good,” he responded.

  My stomach sank. I was four days away from meeting this man in Seattle and he had just confirmed, via text, that he was married. And not only did he not ask me how I figured it out, he didn’t even address it. Did he just assume that I knew all along? And if so, why? I stared at his text for like forty minutes, completely stumped as to how to respond to it, or if I should even respond at all. I mean, I guess I had my answer. Didn’t I?

  I came up with various scenarios in my head: He might be separated. But that didn’t make sense because if he was, he probably would have said, “I’m separated,” instead of, “Sounds good.” He might be in a green card marriage, but that didn’t make sense because if he was, he probably would have said, “I am married, but I just did it to help out a friend in need of a green card,” instead of, “Sounds good.” He might be a widower, but that didn’t make sense because if he was, he probably would have said, “I’ll just need one ticket to your show since my wife is dead,” instead of, “Sounds good.” The only scenario that made sense was that he was married, that he didn’t tell me, that he knew I’d found out, and that he was busted. So all he really had to say for himself was: “Sounds good.”

  I didn’t hear from Alex the rest of that day and honestly I figured I wouldn’t be hearing from him again now that the jig was up. But the next day, I got a text from him that said, “Seattle . . . tick, tock. Can’t wait.”

  I was confused and angry. Did I misread this entire thing all along? Did he just want to be friends and therefore my mention of his marriage didn’t change anything for him? The thing is, I know a lot of married people and they certainly don’t make new friends of the opposite sex and then have said friends meet them in other cities on the weekends.

  An hour later, another text came through from Alex. “Sorry I didn’t write you last night, someone was next to me most of the evening.”

  My stomach sank further. Then I got pissed. For months there had been no mention of a wife or a marriage, but when I found out and I let him know I’d found out, now he was all open about it? Did he think I’d think that was awesome? And as for the texting-at-night thing, where the fuck was she sitting for the past sixteen weeks? Because it didn’t seem to be a problem before. I had so many questions but instead of asking them I just stared at my phone. This was becoming a pattern.

  The day before I was supposed to leave to meet Alex in Seattle, I got a text from him asking me what time I got in.

  “I get in at 4,” I replied.

  “Great, text me when you land and I’ll meet you at your hotel.”

  I packed my bags that night. I shoved everything to the back of my mind and decided to just meet him in Seattle and get my answers there. Maybe he was in a bad marriage, maybe it was coming to an end. But these weren’t questions I felt like I could get answers to via text. I thought his “Sounds good” spoke for itself. The only way for me to know what this was between us and what exactly was going on with his marriage was to go to Seattle and find out. At least that’s what I told myself.

  I talked to Jackie that night, asking her what I should do.

  “I think you should stay in town,” she said firmly. “Some of us are going out to Malibu tomorrow for happy hour. Come get drunk and forget about this guy.”

  “I don’t know, Jackie. I want answers. I want to know what he’s been thinking this is this whole time.”

  “Think about it. You probably already know the answer to that.”

  I lay in bed that night with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling. When my alarm finally went off I’d probably racked up a whole forty-seven minutes of sleep.

  I got up, put a couple more things in my bag, and zipped it shut. Then I made myself some breakfast, sat on my balcony, and stared at my cat. So apparently I’m doing this in the mornings now, too? I thought as I contemplated completing the familiar routine with a c
ocktail. It was nine o’clock in the morning; I don’t even drink at nine o’clock in the morning when I’m on vacation . . . I always wait until at least ten a.m. so that it’s double digits on the clock when I start. It’s called being responsible.

  After about an hour of staring at Mischief, I grabbed my phone and texted Alex.

  “I’ve decided to stay home this weekend. Sorry.”

  “Whatever,” he replied.

  Not the most satisfying response, but I had already come to the conclusion that I was never going to be satisfied with any response I got from him. I knew what I needed to know: Alex was married. It didn’t matter if he was happily married, unhappily married, in a green card marriage, or in an open marriage: none of those were things I wanted in my life. If I thought I felt lonely now, imagine how lonely it would be to have a married boyfriend. I deserved better. And yes, I figured this all out while staring at my cat. He’s like a Buddha, if Buddhas jumped on your chest in the middle of the night and coughed up hair balls.

  I unpacked my bag and got dressed to go to Malibu. I’d been missing my friends and now I was finally home for a weekend to spend time with them. That was what I needed.

  At around five o’clock that evening, while I sat at a table with four of my closest girlfriends, drinking mai tais and laughing, I got a text from Alex.