by Brea Brown
We’ve arrived at the office building. My smile dies. “If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it,” I tell him, moving away from his touch.
“Same here about the other thing,” he says, still chuckling.
I know I can’t get into that elevator and walk into the office with him if I want to have any peace this afternoon, so I make up something about needing to look for my MP3 player in the building’s Lost and Found and tell him I’ll see him later. Thankfully, he doesn’t offer to help. Grinning, he stands at the bank of elevators and waits for the next available ride up while I slink over to the security desk, where I paw through the box of junk for a lot longer than it really takes to see everything in it.
Funny thing is, though, I think I found Jude’s missing key.
5
I wish Dr. Marsh would change the picture in that frame. Or at the very least, rearrange the items on that shelf so that I’m not always looking at the picture. I have the damn thing memorized, and I’m sick of looking at it.
On a whim, I tell him so. I want to keep him off the subject of LFW, anyway.
“Does that picture bother you?”
“It bothers me that I’ve been staring at it for five years,” I answer.
“I like that picture,” he says. “It reminds me of a really happy day in my life. Don’t you have any pictures like that?”
“No, I don’t.”
He cocks his head to the side, waiting for me to expound on the subject. I turn my attention to him. “You know I don’t.”
“Why not?”
He’s in full therapist mode today. Sometimes our sessions feel like we’re just two acquaintances (not friends, necessarily) having a conversation. But on days like today, it’s clear that he’s the head doctor, and I’m the head case.
I sigh, knowing it’s easier to answer his questions when he gets like this, even though he already knows the answers. “Because my parents never saw me graduate from college. There was nobody there to take my picture. And it wasn’t really a happy day, anyway. It was just… an end.”
“What about Hank?”
“What about Hank?” I retort, being intentionally difficult.
“Wasn’t your brother there to take your picture?” he asks.
I level my best you’re a moron look at him. “He was sixteen. And in a foster home. He wasn’t there.”
“That must have been lonely.”
Lonely. That word never fails to make me cry. It’s why I refuse to ever admit to myself that’s what I am. I say I’m “single,” or I call myself a “hermit.” I might describe myself as “by myself,” even. But never “lonely.” It’s such a black, plaintive word. And scary.
Annoyed by my automatic response to his saying that word, I roughly grab a tissue from the box on the table next to me, pressing it against my eyes before the tears can spill over. “Big deal,” I say, talking tough. “There are worse things to be.”
He pulls the corners of his mouth down in a contemplative expression. “I guess.” After a pause, he asks, “Don’t you have any pictures that you keep around that make you smile? Anything?”
I refuse to admit that I have a box full of pictures of Sandberg that I paw through every once in a while when I’m truly bored. Somehow that’s more pathetic than not having any pictures at all. “No. Where would I get these pictures? I don’t have friends; my brother lives thousands of miles away; I never go anywhere.”
“Any pictures of you and your boyfriends?”
I tap my chin and say sarcastically, “Let’s see… Have I ever had a boyfriend? A real one, that is? Whose picture I could take? Hmm, that would be a no.”
“How are you and”—he consults his notes—“Jude doing?”
I can’t help it. At the mention of that name, I feel my whole face brighten. “Oh, I have a lot of fun with Jude,” I state, not feeling ridiculous at all when I say it.
“What kinds of things do you do together?”
I think for a second. “Well, we go to baseball games. And the beach. He takes me for drives in his red MG convertible. He reads poetry to me.”
“Are you sexual?”
His question is so matter-of-fact that I’m almost tricked into answering it. My ferocious blush makes a verbal reply unnecessary anyway. Before I can recover and say something to bury my mortification, he asks, “And the real Jude? Still ignoring you? Or vice versa?”
“For the most part,” I reply. It’s technically true. If one were to add up all the time available for us to interact with each other and divide into it the time we actually spend interacting, it would be a very low percentage. Much less than 50%, for sure.
He closes one eye and gives me a skeptical look, but he doesn’t challenge me. Instead, he posits, “Why do you think it is that you’ve never had a boyfriend?”
“I’m boring,” I immediately supply. Then after I think about it for a minute, I add, “And average-looking. And I have issues.”
Steepling his fingers under his chin, he says, “‘Boring’ and ‘have issues.’ Those are things you don’t find out about someone until after you date them. You can’t see ‘boring’ and ‘has issues.’”
“Well, that’s where the average-looking part comes in,” I explain. “The cover of the book doesn’t lend itself to curiosity for curiosity’s sake.”
He writes something down. “Mm-hm. And what features of yours make you ‘average-looking’?” When I don’t answer right away, he rips a piece of paper off his legal pad and hands it to me. He digs in his desk drawer for a pen and tosses it to me. “Let’s do something. I’m going to start listing your physical features, and you’re going to write down a word you’d use to describe yourself. Ready?”
I nod.
“Eyes.”
I scrawl down, green.
“Nose.”
I jot, pug.
“Ears.”
I don’t think about my ears very much, so it takes me a second to come up with something. I settle on little, for lack of anything else.
“Teeth.”
They’re straight.
“Lips.”
I bite them, trying to feel them with my teeth. Smooth.
“Breasts.”
That one’s easy. Big.
“Weight.”
I tap the pen against my thigh. Average.
“Hair.”
I know it’s my best feature, since everyone’s always complimenting me on it, so I feel confident calling it nice.
“Okay, now make another list right next to the first. Those will be the words you think your fantasy guy would use to describe those same features.”
I quickly write down the eight words, hardly having to think about it. I mean, Fantasy Jude has complimented me a million times.
“Now, read me your answers,” he demands when I set the pen aside.
At the end of my list, he smiles but merely says, “Okay, now what did you think fantasy guy would say?”
Trying not to blush, I read them quickly. “Captivating, adorable, delicate, dazzling, luscious, fabulous, fit, and gorgeous.”
“Which list do you think is more accurate?” he asks.
“Mine, obviously,” I immediately answer. “I mean, the other list is based on what a person in a fantasy would say. If it was based on fact, it wouldn’t be much of a fantasy.”
“You’re selling yourself short,” he claims. “The truth definitely lies somewhere in the middle, I’ll grant you that. But it’s a lot nearer to his list than yours, I guarantee it. If I polled a hundred guys and asked them which list more accurately described you, I’d say the majority of them would pick the fantasy list.”
“Okay, so for the sake of argument,” I say, crossing my arms over my ‘fabulous’ breasts, “let’s say I’m a little above average. What good does that do me? Guys still don’t ask me out. So maybe you can see ‘has issues.’” My glare dares him to explain to me why I’ve never had a boyfriend.
He glances at the clock on his desk a
nd verifies the time on his watch. “I’m giving you an assignment between now and our next session. Two assignments.”
I groan like a high school student.
He grins. “Every single day, I want you to spend five minutes in front of the mirror and pretend you’re not looking at yourself, but at a friend, and I want you to compliment the woman in the mirror on one aspect of her appearance. You have to say it out loud. With feeling. Now, to keep you honest, I want you to write down the date and the compliment and bring them to me next time.”
I roll my eyes but agree.
“Be creative,” he urges me.
“Fine, fine! What’s the other assignment?”
“I want you to be more aware of the signals you send to men, especially men that you find attractive. And I want you to consciously try to be more approachable. Smile. Keep your arms away from your chest.”
I drop my arms, stick out my boobs, and give him a toothy grin. “Like thish?”
He laughs. “Maybe a little more subtle than that. And…”
“Wait! That’s already two assignments!” I object.
Holding up a hand, he says, “This is extra credit. If a man asks you on anything remotely resembling a date, you should consider accepting it.”
“Even if he’s a leering pervert serial killer-in-the-making on the El?”
“You know what I mean. Use your own discretion, of course. Maybe stick to guys you kind of already know; ones you’ve seen often at the store or… at work.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, standing up. “You’re really demanding today.”
“Just giving you your money’s worth,” he says. “I expect your compliments and a full report on the other assignment—and extra credit, if applicable—at your next session.”
6
It’s Day 6 of the Dr. Marsh experiment. This morning, I got up, got ready, and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door. I’ve already told myself over the past few days:
“You have shiny hair.”
“That shirt makes your eyes sparkle.”
“My, what clear skin you have!”
“What a stunning shade of lip gloss!”
“Hey, Legs! Have you been working out?”
Today, I turned this way and that before settling on “Nice knockers!” Take that, Dr. Marsh, I thought as I wrote the statement underneath today’s date.
The other part of the assignment isn’t going as well. I’ve noticed that I tense up every time I’m in the presence of a man. And that’s a lot, considering I work in an office full of them. I’ve tried to make myself relax and smile, but that’s attracted more questions than offers.
Jude asked me as I smiled at him while we were walking out of a meeting the other day, “Is everything okay? You look like you’re in pain.”
I’ve been working on my smile ever since. I hope to be able to tell my reflection someday, “Your mouth doesn’t look like a rictus.”
Today, I’ve come to the conclusion that I need help with this mission I’ve apparently chosen to accept. Dr. Marsh never said that was against the rules, so I’m going to ask Lisa and Zoe. I’m nervous, but after I give them a little (emphasis on little) background information (I tell them I’m trying to get into the dating game and need some pointers), I feel less tense.
“So far, I’ve tried to smile more and not cover my boobs with my arms,” I open the forum.
Lisa says, “You do have a nice rack. Let’s go out at lunchtime and buy you some flattering shirts.”
“Not low-cut,” I stipulate.
She sighs. “Fine. But form-fitting. Accentuate your tiny waist and big tits.”
Zoe giggles into her hand then offers, “You should start trying to initiate conversations with people, instead of always waiting for them to talk to you first.”
“That’s a good one,” Lisa says. “But don’t be the annoying person who volunteers too much information. Just start with ‘Hi.’”
Suddenly, I feel like I should be taking notes.
“But she shouldn’t be too closed off, either,” Zoe qualifies.
Lisa considers that and nods.
To me, Zoe gently explains, “You know, if someone asks, ‘How are you today?’ they’re generally looking for an answer like, ‘Fine.’ Don’t go into detail about your PMS or anything. But if you’re having a conversation with someone, and they ask you something like, ‘What’d you do this weekend?’ it’s okay to give a more thorough answer. Like, ‘I went to a ballgame, and it was awesome,’ instead of, ‘Nothing.’”
“What if I really did nothing, though?” I ask, suddenly worried about the ‘boring’ part of my personality and life.
Lisa eagerly adds, “Tone of voice is important, too. There’s a difference between, ‘Nothin’ much! How ’bout you?’ and ‘Nothing. What’s it to ya?’”
“Do I sound like that?” I put my hand to my chest, then drop it again for fear that it will lead to defensive arm-crossing.
“Sometimes,” Zoe admits, wincing. “Maybe not to us, but definitely to some of the guys.”
“Boop-boop!” Lisa signals, busying herself with some papers on my desk. “Here comes Jude. Practice on him,” she prods.
“No!” I object, suddenly experiencing performance anxiety. “I’m not ready!”
“Do it!” Zoe hisses before sliding across the ‘hallway’ to her own cube.
Lisa takes the papers with her and slips into her own space, but not before whispering, “Don’t be a wuss. It’s just Jude.”
I lick my lips, cross and uncross my arms, and try to relax my face into something more inviting than a scowl. “Hey, Jude,” I say, then kick myself as soon as the words are out there.
Barely breaking stride, he rolls his eyes and responds, “Nice. That’s a new one,” before going into his office and closing the door.
I hear Lisa giggling on her side of the partition. Zoe leans back in her chair, her face sympathetic, and says, “You had the right idea…”
“Just the wrong words,” Lisa wheezes. “Nice Paul McCartney impersonation.”
I drop down into my chair and put my hot face in my hands. “He probably thinks I’m a combination of a nerd and a bitch, if that’s possible.”
“You can be a nerdy bitch,” Lisa confirms. “Or a bitchy nerd. It’s possible.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Zoe insists. “It was only Jude anyway.”
The novelty—if there ever was any—has definitely worn off with Zoe. He’s just another one of the guys. Lisa still looks wistfully at him sometimes, but most of the time she treats him like a kid. And Leslie’s convinced he’s gay, probably because he hasn’t asked her out yet. None of them knows about Fantasy Jude, and I know my behavior toward Real Jude lately doesn’t make them suspect I’m attracted to him on a level deeper than that he’s nice to look at.
Because I’m not. Of course. It’s Fantasy Jude I love, not the loner workaholic divorcé who drives my dinky car’s doppelganger and plays in the mud with guys on Thursday nights. Not the Jude who graduated from a college I’ve never heard of (probably the equivalent of a community college here) and whines about the other guys not liking him. And definitely not the Jude who probably doesn’t know a sonnet from a haiku. He didn’t even notice when I had ten inches of my hair lopped off. Walked right past my desk without a word.
I’ve taken to imagining that Fantasy Jude and Real Jude are identical twins who have polar opposite personalities. Fantasy Jude definitely has the better of the two.
Just last night, Fantasy Jude said the sweetest thing. What was it? Oh, it was so cute! What was it? Shoot! It’s going to bother me until I remember it. It’s on the tip of my brain…
“You’re my cuddly Cub.”
Yep, that was it. Get it? Because I like the Cubs. And we were cuddling on my bed, watching the game. Aw… it was adorable.
Anyway, I bet Real Jude leaves his socks and underwear on the floor. If his car’s any indication, his place is lik
ely disgusting. And he probably doesn’t even know how to boil an egg. Fantasy Jude cooks for me all the time. And we eat by candlelight.
Screw Real Jude.
7
“Your teeth are exceptionally white today.”
“Thank you,” my reflection tells me. “I’ve been using a whitening toothpaste.”
“You’re welcome. And it’s Friday. And hotter than hell out there. How about we forego the pantyhose today? Your legs are awesome enough without them.”
“Well, that’s two compliments in one day! Make sure you write them down for Dr. Marsh.”
I don’t really know how talking to myself in the mirror is supposed to make me less crazy and less (*gulp*) lonely, but I have to admit, I feel pretty good after my morning “conversations” with me. The little pep talks are getting longer, too. I’m kind of enjoying them. Not that I’m going to tell Dr. Marsh that.
Yesterday, I was able to tell myself that I have a pretty smile. It felt so great that my smile got even prettier.
People at work are starting to feel less uneasy around me, too. I actually had a conversation with Jamie from accounting about Kit Kat versus Twix in front of the vending machine the other day. Then he said, “Hey, I was wondering…” and I noticed when he leaned closer that he had horrible halitosis, so I pretended I heard my phone ringing and rushed out of there with my Kit Kat before he could finish his thought.
I straighten my wrap dress and tighten the tie-belt, being as objective as I can about how I look. It’s the first time I’ve had the guts to wear this dress since Lisa picked it out for me and persuaded me to buy it. It’s really pink. No matter. I don’t have time to find a different outfit and change, so here goes.
When I get to work, Lisa whistles at me. “See? I told you! You look hot.”
“Probably because I’m sweating,” I grouse, lifting my hair off my neck and fanning myself at my desk.
“You know you’re gorgeous, so shut up.”
