by Sarah Fuller
One day when I was getting ready to take Eleanor to a playdate, she burst into my room and said, “Mommy, can you wear real clothes today?”
I held up the faded T-shirt I was about to swap for my sports top. “I’m putting this on.”
She shook her head. “No, can you wear something besides yoga pants and a T-shirt?”
We’re going to play at the fucking park, right? The playdate hasn’t changed to Malibu Wines without me knowing, right? At Malibu Wines, the guys all dressed in starched khakis with their collars popped, and the girls wore poufy skirts and too much lip gloss. Everyone’s too cool for school.
“Sweetie, I like how I dress,” I countered. “It’s comfortable and fits my personality.”
Eleanor slumped with defeat. I’m absolutely certain that the universe gave me a child the exact opposite of me, not to challenge me in every way, but to try and save my horrible lack of fashion. As mentioned previously, I’m a tomboy. I’m pretty sure I didn’t brush my hair for a solid three years growing up, and there was maybe six months when I wore the same two T-shirts in rotation.
I did have a small stint in high school, when I was obsessed with Clueless, that I wore “preppy” clothes. However, for the most part, I’ve only ever worn jeans and faded T-shirts. And since becoming a full-time writer, my dressing habits have slacked even more, if that were at all possible.
Eleanor, in contrast, was born clinging to pink, frilly dresses. Accessorizing is just second nature to her. I’ve seen the girl spend an hour constructing an outfit with the same focus that a rocket scientist gives to creating a spacecraft. She disappears into her room and exits looking like Punky Brewster—there’s another timely reference.
Every now and then, I do try and surprise my daughter by throwing on a dress, but keep in mind she’s worth the effort. Dressing up for men, that’s another story.
On the weekends I don’t have her, I elect to wear pajama shorts straight after I get home from yoga. Then I lock myself away for two days, alternating between writing and binge-watching Netflix.
Well, that was the schedule, until I started this damn dating app.
One Friday night, one of the guys I’d matched with messaged me back. I’d taken Alisa’s advice and kept my initial messages to the guys brief. ‘Hey, how are you?’ was all I put most of the time.
It shocked me that this actually worked. I hadn’t told them anything about me, or described the reasons that I’d decided to swipe right on them, or explained anything about my moral philosophy. Yet, strangely, men responded to this ‘Hey, how are you?’ approach like it was at all a sufficient first communication.
The guy immediately asked me out to a movie that night. It was seven-fucking-o’clock. I looked down at my attire. I had on my pajama shorts. I was binge-watching The Office because, for some strange reason, I’d forgotten how Pam and Jim got together, then I got hooked yet again. I couldn’t go outside that night! And dammit! Who was this person who wanted to watch a movie at ten o’clock? Didn’t he know I’d be snoozing on my couch at that time, one leg over the armrest, and my cat lying on my chest?
I responded as honestly as I could: “I’m already out for the night. How about tomorrow?”
I was sort of ‘out.’ I was out of wine. I was out of energy. And I hoped to be out like a light soon.
The guy responded within a couple of minutes. “Okay, sounds good. It’s a date.”
Wait, what? I had a date the next day? My head started to cramp with unease, trying to deal with the fact that I had set myself up to meet a stranger the next day. That entailed way too many things that sounded exhausting. I was going to have to leave my house! I was going to have to drink in public! I might even have to fucking parallel park my car, depending on where the date was.
It’s important to note that, besides not being able to regularly park my car, I also can’t parallel park. I never learned how. And I get that it’s never too late to try, but it’s also never too early to throw in the towel. I don’t mind circling the streets of LA looking for a parking spot that I can easily slide into instead of doing some geometric equation to park. And valet is my friend. Yes, I’m giving them tens of dollars to do a relatively easy task, but it saves me from going back to Driver’s Ed, which would bring up really awful memories. I still can’t talk about the things I did to the Driver’s Ed car when I was fifteen.
On Saturday night, the night of the date, I put on pants, combed my hair, and followed a YouTube video on how to put on eyeshadow without looking like a Hooker Shoes. Then I drove myself out to North Hollywood, known as ‘NoHo’ by the locals, aka the pretentious hipsters.
On the way to the restaurant, I called my friend Zoe. We had a rule that I was to tell her where my dates were, just in case the guy turned out to be an axe murderer.
“He’s an actor in North Hollywood,” I said over the Bluetooth in my car as I drove. “I sent you his profile.”
“Yeah, I see it now,” she answered back. “I’m trying to figure out where this red-carpet event was in his pics.”
It’s important to note that every goddamn person in LA has a profile pic of them at some red-carpet event. Okay, yes I’m exaggerating. I, of course, don’t have one because I’ve never been on the red carpet, unless the hostess area inside Red Robin counts.
“I’m not sure,” I said, weaving in and out of traffic. “Maybe it was for a movie he was in.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Zoe replied, not sounding so sure.
“What?” I asked, sensing her reluctant tone.
“I only wonder what restaurant he works at,” she said.
“Oh, come on,” I argued. “He seems nice. Last night, he wanted to take me to a late night movie in Santa Monica.”
“Yes, I’m just thinking of all those actors who go to late night showings on a Friday night,” she said smugly.
“Well, you just wait,” I said, pulling into the valet area. “I’m sure he just wanted to have the average-joe movie experience to see how his face comes across on the big screen.”
When I arrived at the restaurant, I was cautious as I strode across the floor, conscious that with each step, I was close to slipping and repeating my last dating experience.
Thankfully, I made it over to Mr. Actor without incident, and he had already found a shared booth. I’m a short girl who prefers average height men. Most guys get a little sassy in their profiles because women swipe left on them if they aren’t over six feet tall. I’m the opposite. I want someone just under that mark. However, when Mr. Actor stood up to greet me, and his height didn’t change, I did have a moment of shock.
In my hooker shoes, we were the same height. I’m five foot even in bare feet. You do the math.
I put on my best Girl Scout smile and took a seat, noticing that Mr. Actor had a shifty look about him.
He was nervous. It was a first date. I had moved like a robot across the floor. He was no doubt wondering if I had some muscular issue. Later, I might tell him about Hooker Shoes and karma, and then he’d understand. But that was only if the date went well.
We started off easy enough, talking about our careers. I almost felt a surge of victory when Mr. Actor told me about his agent and his ten years working in Hollywood. I was about to call Zoe and put her on speakerphone.
“So it sounds like you make a comfortable living doing what you love. That’s great,” I said warmly.
Mr. Actor’s face turned to one of vengeance. “I wish. Hollywood just doesn’t get me. They want me to conform. They want me to be something I’m not.”
I shrank back slightly. “So you don’t act for a living?”
He shook his head, his eyes narrowed. “I recruit people to screen movies.”
“Oh, like late night movies?” I asked. “Like last night.”
He nodded.
“But you love it right?” I asked hopefully. “I mean, as an actor, it’s got to be nice to work on the side at something that supports the industry.”
He narrowed
his brown eyes. “It’s the worst. I only get paid if screeners show up, and you know how many people bail out of seeing a movie, even though it’s free?”
I was guessing a lot, based on the angry expression on his face.
Thankfully, we moved on to other topics. I wish I could say more pleasant ones. The dude picked at his salad—which he was sour about not having any meat on it, although he didn’t order any, and it wasn’t listed on the menu—while he told me about how he and his ex-girlfriend met. Perfect first date conversation. I had so many questions about this woman! So glad she was all he could talk about. I learned how they met. How their relationship, full of dysfunction, progressed. And, of course, how they broke up. I didn’t have to ask my burning follow-up question, because he supplied the answer on his own, telling me what she was up to now and how much he hoped she’d rot in hell.
“Cool, cool,” I said, wishing I could take bigger sips of wine in order to end this date earlier. I’d been smart enough to decline food, which I knew would only drag things out longer.
“So you and your ex-husband? Why did you divorce?” Mr. Actor asked.
I had to give it to the guy, he wanted me to kick him in the balls… hard. However, I’m too mature for that and, much like redheads, I’m hardly ever offended, unless I’m in traffic.
I gave him some canned answer and then relished in the silence that followed. All we had to do was get the check, and then I could go home and binge-watch Michael Scott doing awful things.
“There’s something I need to get off my chest,” Mr. Actor said, leaning across the table.
Important note: there is never anything that one needs to get off their chest on a first date. Okay, I take that back; maybe that you don’t have a penis, or are a convicted felon. Everything else can wait for date number two, if you make it to that round.
Mr. Actor tied his hands into his napkin, chewing on his lips. “My brother died last year from a heroin overdose.”
I gasped in horror as this poor man relived every second of his brother’s death, telling me EVERY SINGLE DETAIL. It was a sad story. One that I seriously sympathized with him for, having lost my own brother at a young age and very suddenly. However, it is not a story for a first date. Not even a second date. Maybe not even…you get the idea.
I stared at Mr. Actor, not knowing what to say.
Thankfully, he had the good sense to sit back and say, “I think I need therapy.”
And there it is. That’s exactly what dating is not.
I’m not your therapist. I can’t help you with your ex-girlfriend issues or the loss of your brother. And I know we’re all connected, but I really don’t want to be the ringmaster of someone’s circus—not at this stage in my life. I was married to a monkey, and I don’t want another one.
I agreed that therapy could help Mr. Actor, and he paid the check and gave me one of those bro hugs, where you pat the other person on the back. We both knew there’d be no second date.
However, as I drove home at nine o’clock on a Saturday night, I wasn’t thinking how much I couldn’t wait to veg out on the sofa. No, the thought predominating my mind was, I fucking put on pants for this date.
My hair was done, something that only happens every fortnight. I was wearing heels, which could be a good or bad thing. I’d watched a YouTube tutorial on how to do my makeup. And most importantly, I was wearing pants.
As I drove back to my house, I had a crazy idea. What if I was bold, courageous and practical? What if I used my time wisely, capitalizing on the fact that I was already dressed for a night on the town, even though my date had gone poorly?
Most of my friends have small children… The other lot of them are old and were already in bed, cuddled up with their Labradoodles. There was no depending on them on that night.
So I made the decision to go to a club all by myself—like a superhero in the dating world.
Chapter Nine
Will You Be My Wing Man?
Now’s a good time to get this out of the way, because it’s a major flaw in my character that we will revisit many times over: I’m horrible at turning guys down. It’s why I was in a relationship for six years that I should have ended after the first six weeks.
I know I’m an asshole. You know that. Every driver who has ever shared the road with me knows it. However, most of what makes me an asshole is the voice in my head that I keep quiet in polite company. Outwardly, I’m a nice person who is sometimes overly concerned with other’s feelings. For instance, if a guy asks me out, I’m going to say yes; it doesn’t matter if he’s overweight, bald, poor, tattooed, redheaded, or a Republican. There. I think I offended at least half the population with that.
My last serious boyfriend said, “You’re my girlfriend now, I’ve decided.”
Notice there wasn’t a question there. And although I wasn’t opposed to being his girlfriend, it wouldn’t have mattered if I was. If I didn’t want to be his, I still had no choice, like the women who were considered claimed property back in the day, unable to even vote.
Since I’m into blaming, I’m totally pinning this behavior on my mother, who stayed in a fifteen-year marriage purely out of convenience, even though she despised my stepfather.
Again, I’ll offer some of the sage wisdom my mother passed onto me at the young age of thirteen, when I was just starting to explore romantic relationships.
“Sarah, you’d better get this straight now, or you’re gonna have a lot of heartache throughout your life,” my mother told me one day, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth as she filed her nails. “There’s no such thing as romantic love. You go looking for it, and you’ll be forever disappointed. There’s only practical love. It’s what counts in life. It’s what pays the bills. It’s the only thing worth taking a risk for.”
And that’s why I’m so fucked up.
So when I was sixteen, and this giant named Skyler asked me out, I said yes. Yes, he had a full sleeve of tattoos, a face full of piercings, listened to Pantera, was overweight, and was considered a bit homely-looking. However, he had a great job. Skyler was a computer genius and had a pleasant enough demeanor (when he wasn’t in the mosh pit).
I wanted to say no when he asked to take me out, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Who I really wanted to go out with was Joey, the average-sized athlete who was smart and handsome. However, he didn’t have a job because he was busy studying to get into an ivy league college. And more importantly, Joey didn’t ask me out. My life would look very different right now if he did. I’m not blaming Joey for the fact that I spent six years in a relationship with Skyler, who I was utterly not attracted to…okay, I sort of am.
My mother was thrilled about me dating Skyler because she’d just gotten a divorce and a brand new computer, and needed someone to help her with her AOL email. To this day, she still calls it ‘the intermet.’ That’s what it’s for, right? To help you meet eligible doctors?
“Don’t you let this one get away,” my mother warned me. “Well, unless someone else better comes along.”
That’s why my mother finally ended her marriage—because something better came along. Not a person, mind you. Something better. A giant inheritance. Why keep the cow if the dairy just sent you a one-year supply of milk? Well, it should have lasted longer than a year, and also sent me to college, but the fifteen acres around our house needed to be landscaped. We will discuss how my mother spent her and my inheritance another time. Right now, we’re talking men, and they’re almost as important as money (according to my mother).
It took me years to tell Skyler that I wasn’t in love with him. I broke his heart. I still remember seeing him curled up on the carpet in the middle of the living room, sobbing like a giant baby—a giant baby with tattoos and a mohawk. It was awful. To this day, I have a recurring dream that I’m in a relationship with him. The entire time, I’m thinking, No, no, no! I broke up with you! How did I get back in this relationship?
And then I wake up, and I’m lying next
to my ex-husband and I continue to freak out. No! I divorced you! What the fuck?
And then I wake up again, but this time for real, alone in the middle of my queen-sized bed. My subconscious is a fucked-up place that tries to torture me, as you can tell.
It has taken all of my adult life, but I think I’m better at telling men ‘no’ and putting my feelings first. At least, I’m working on it.
After my horrible date with Mr. Actor, I somehow mustered the courage to go to a nightclub by myself. I was ready for a night out and didn’t want to waste my efforts even if I were alone. I found myself at a swanky club where college kids and cougars mingle and dance on the weekend.
Sad fact: the cougars in LA are inbred. I’m not referring to the sixty-year-old women who prey on young college boys. I’m actually referring to the big cats. When the city of LA put the 101 freeway through the county, it intersected the Santa Monica mountains, restricting the breeding territory for big cats of all types, including mountain lions, bobcats and cougars. The result, decades later, is that we have inbred animals.
However, to clarify, the cougars at the clubs aren’t inbred, as far as I know. They are probably from a prestigious bloodline, with children as old as the guys they dance with. They have moves like Jennifer Lopez and a rack their ex-husband bought but didn’t get to keep in the divorce.
After leaving my car with the valet at the club, I strode up to the bouncer, a wide grin on my face. I flashed him my ID and said, “Tonight, I’m coming to the club by myself.”
Not even glancing at my ID—he probably didn’t even need to see it—he nodded. “Good for you, honey. Have a good time.”
Wait! Don’t I get a fucking gold star? I’d never gone to so much as a restaurant by myself. When I travel for business, I always get takeout and eat in my hotel room while watching House Hunters International. I fucking love that show and need to go on it!