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I'm Not the One

I'm not going to be able to do a full post on this one, but I promised the friend of a secretary of a minion to certain important lesser demons and overlords that I would put up a little something and these aren't the sort of...entities per se that one lies to.

Rabid meets me in a bar on Thursday after work. She can tell that I have that "I'm on the jagged edge of having no sense of humor anymore" tone of voice when she calls me at work. She buys me two vodka based drinks before she goes off to meet her beloved parisian paramour. Not Tsarina. Tsarina is over, done, baked, last week's trash, already recycled. Tsarina is like bulimia "so 80's" that it would be an embarassment even to think about it. Now she's back to her original love, the Velveteen Rabbit-VR for short-the one I sent her to Paris for-the one I had to listen to bitching about for four months while I sat at my desk biting back tears about not getting into graduate school.

Now VR after a week of dalliance is telling Rabid that she loves her.

I am not the type of woman that men say "I love you" to, I am the type of woman that men emigrate to avoid. And no that's not just a joke. It was, but Eric-I was engaged to him- now in Japan-the Beast-nine months together-now in Boston-that nameless programmer from September for a month-now on the West Side.

Oh sure Henri told me he loved me last year. After how many hours? And how many glasses of kir? And how seriously do I take that? Let's start with not at all, not at all.

Rabid often has a way of making a bad day exponentially worse. She has been systematically telling me not to say anything about GHV in terms of Love. A month ago I told her I was in danger. I didn't even have to use the word before she said, "You better not fucking say it. You better not. It's a performative utterance. You know what that means?"

No, I spent two years in grad. school, and I somehow missed that one. So I didn't. I kept my trap shut. Because, as I said, I am not the type of girl men fall in love with. I am the type of girl men use to make their girlfriends jealous, I am the type of girl who turns herself inside out for a boy for two years so he can bitch non-stop about his miserable childhood in an environment he is comfortable in, and I am the type of girl men seduce to edit their novels, PhD theses, medical papers. I am a prop, background, the best unpaid therapist in the tri-state area, on a good day a piece of exotica, but I am nobody's idea of a love object.

I've spent today evaluating diagnostic exams. A full bushel full of essays written by 18 year olds about the forces that form an identity. And you know what? At eighteen most of them have had longer relationships than I have at almost twice their age. The majority of them start out their essays with, "When I was fourteen I fell in love." And then goes on to describe the long and fruitful love affair they had with their boyfriend during high school. I didn't even evaluate ten before I had to stop. Had to walk away. A bunch of idiots who can't even put together a sentence. Who can't even put a verb in every sentence never mind use the right form and in the right place have more experience of love than I ever will. Even in high school I wasn't a love object. I as the best friend, the kind of girl that male friends would say "You know I wish my girlfriend was more like you." But of course they never really meant it, or they would have dated me when they broke up with whatever dimwit they were dating. And in college, when everyone assured me my love life would perk up I spent four years hanging around with beautiful gay men. And although they loved me and I have no doubt would want nothing more than to make me feel wonderful and beautiful, it's not quite a recipe for sucess.

I decided to partake of some retail therapy when I walked into Dean Martin, an attractive man in his seventies recently a widower. Up to the point his wife died, Dean was always a gentleman. Now he gets a little more rowdy. He invites me in for a drink, always a mistake. In between telling me about his wife's cremation, he leans in and asks me for a pair of my panties. "The dirtier the better. I want you natural." This is a man who is older than my father would be if he lived. I knew his wife. He suddenly switches back. "Things are getting easier. I'll pack up her clothes tomorrow. We were married for ten years." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "You just say the words though. I have strong lips."

He leaves money for another drink for me on the bar.

More to come...

Bad Bunni posted at 7/09/2005 08:56:00 PM |

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