There Are No Men

by Carol Maloney Scott

  A knock at the door derails my thought train. “Come in!” This is the 2nd time I have said this today, and a little piece of me wishes it was Justin at the door.

  “Hi, Claire. Here for the annual fun and games?” He says this every time. Dr. Mason shakes my hand and sits down in his chair, and whips out his computer.

  I smile and say, “Yep, I really have no choice.”

  “So let’s see—your weight is down. How is your appetite?”

  “I guess I haven’t been eating a whole lot.”

  He peers at me over the top of his reading glasses. “A healthy diet is important. I also received your lab work and your cholesterol is high.”

  He goes on to explain all the different numbers, and basically they amount to the fact that I am a heart attack waiting to happen, even though I am roughly the size of a large sparrow.

  “Thin people can have high cholesterol, too. Your blood pressure is good, though. Claire, you need to take better care of yourself. Are you exercising?”

  “No, not really. I know I should.” I hate being shamed by my doctor.

  “You need to find some activities that you like doing—that’s the key. I’m assuming there have been no further issues resulting from the hysterectomy? My guess is that you’re not missing that uterus.”

  If any other doctor said something like that it would be creepy, but Dr. Mason is so funny. However, he has obviously momentarily forgotten my situation—most of his hysterectomy patients are much older and happy to kiss their uteruses goodbye.

  “No, in some ways I’m glad to be rid of it. It is nice not to have my period anymore.”

  He reads my mind, or at least my face. “Claire—I am so sorry. My standard hysterectomy joke is probably not appropriate in this case. I must be getting senile.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No. It’s not. It was unprofessional and I’m sorry. How are you doing with everything? Are you recovering emotionally?”

  “I’m getting better. Staying busy.”

  He can obviously tell I don’t want to talk about this. “Based on your blood work it doesn’t look like you have any menopausal signs, and since I left your ovaries you should have a number of years before that happens.”

  “So I won’t be turning into a man any time soon?”

  Dr. Mason laughs, and we steer the conversation towards lighter subjects, as his nurse Melanie comes in. That indicates it is time for the exam to begin. Dr. Mason proceeds to go through the “fun and games,” which I barely notice as he and Melanie chatter away about all sorts of topics.

  “Claire, have there been any new sexual partners? If so, I will check for STDs.”

  “Uh, no, that won’t be necessary.” I wish I could explain how elusive that has become, and I swear Melanie is giving me a sympathetic look.

  He asks about my bruised shoulder (my hair covers my bruised head) and I tell him I had a bad fall, but it looks worse than it is. He looks worried, and tells me to have it checked out if the pain lingers.

  “All finished. Melanie has some information for you on diet and exercise to combat the cholesterol problem. I would rather tackle it that way before we put you on medication. You’re young and healthy, and you’ve just been letting yourself fall into some bad habits. Let’s get you back on track.”

  I thank him and he’s off to the next patient.

  Melanie is sticking around. She usually leaves too, and I meet her out front to get any information or prescriptions.

  “Claire, I have the perfect guy for you.”

  I am a bit blindsided by this unexpected announcement.

  “Uh, really? That’s great.” I am trying to pretend that it isn’t weird to get a hook up from your gynecologist’s nurse while sitting virtually naked on the examining table.

  “Yes, a doctor I used to work for. Dr. Mason knows him too. Super nice guy. Never married, in his early forties. You two would hit it off!”

  “Why would a doctor need dating help?” And why do people assume that any two single people would “hit it off?”

  “It’s hard for doctors. They often only meet nurses and patients with their busy schedules. It’s unethical to date patients,” I would also say the same for nurses acting as pimps, “and a lot of the nurses are old, fat married ladies like me.” She chuckles at her little joke.

  “I guess you can give him my number. It’s on the chart.” I only agree to get Melanie out of here so I can get dressed and back to work. I can always ignore the call.

  “I’ll do that. I hope you like him. Now get dressed and I’ll drop off your paperwork at the front desk. Bye, Honey.”

  She’s out the door and so am I in the next five minutes. As I am riding down in the elevator, I realize she didn’t even tell me his name.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Back at work and fully clothed, I begin to work on Justin’s training project. I send him a pleasant e-mail about the logistics and I forward the Outlook invitation to all employees. Justin replies with an equally cordial thank you and attaches the slides for the presentation. My stress level is reduced now that I have that situation under control. We are both pretending we never had any inappropriate emotional conversations in the office.

  I do find myself daydreaming a bit about his firm hands and that crestfallen look in his eyes, when Rebecca comes barreling in my office.

  “So how did it go at the doctor’s? All your organs still in the right places?” I made the mistake of telling her that Dr. Mason said he has post-hysterectomy patients who are afraid their ovaries are floating aimlessly around their bodies once they are not attached to the uterus, as if they could get stuck under an armpit. She enjoyed that story.

  “Yes, everything is in place. Thank you for your concern. So what’s been going on here?” I don’t want to tell her about my cholesterol—she will yell at me.

  “Not much. I saw Justin. He looks like someone killed his puppy. One of his super models must have rejected him.”

  “I didn’t notice. I am desperately trying to find editor candidates.”

  “Yeah, I don’t envy you that one. I was involved in a dispute all morning over Paul’s display of a crucifix in his cubicle. Apparently people are complaining that it’s offensive.”

  “We are producing porn and now people are mad about Jesus. I say with all the filth we have around here, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have the Lord watching over us to balance things out.”

  “Speaking of which, are you going to your parents’ for Easter?”

  “Yeah, are you sure you don’t want to come? My mother will make a big ham and my father will have tons of wine selection.”

  “Absolutely. I use holidays like this to catch up on my reading and napping, and Saturday night I have a date with a guy I met at the St. Patrick’s Day thing. He is only forty-two so that makes me something cougarish—maybe a Lynx or an Ocelot.”

  “Absolutely, one of those. You’ll have to tell me all about it. Oops, I’m going to be late for my massage.”

  “Okay, but we still need to talk about that cruise!”

  I shoo her out, promising we’ll talk about it tomorrow, and lock up my office. I hope she has better luck with her date than I’ve been having lately. I’m planning a low key weekend with a night in on Friday for a movie marathon (“My Cousin Vinny,” “Love & Other Drugs,” and my all-time favorite, “Jerry Maguire”), Saturday night dinner with Jane and Mike, and a nice Easter dinner with my parents.

  I’m in a great mood as I stroll into Julie’s office, ready to let her expert fingers release my tension. Her receptionist is gone for the day, so I sit down and wait for her to come out to the waiting room. I’m enjoying the soothing nature sounds—birds, water flowing, and the candle scent. Is that lilac or lavender?

  “Hi, Claire. I’m so glad I had a session available for you.” Julie is tall—probably almost six feet, and has huge hands. I would be a useless massage therapist. I am only powerful enough to massage small mammals (Dixie would give me two
paws up). Julie also speaks softly—barely above a whisper. I wonder if she’s this way at home, or if she turns back into a normal person and yells at her kids to clean their rooms.

  “Me, too. My neck is incredibly tense, and I had a bad fall this weekend.”

  “You hold all your stress in your neck and shoulder area. Are you sure you didn’t sprain anything? You need to practice relaxation techniques on a regular basis. Have you done any meditation lately?”

  This reminds me of Daniel, and I would prefer to get that image out of my head before I go into my massage trance.

  “No, I’m just a little bruised on my shoulder and head. And I haven’t been meditating. I’ve been busy with a lot of work stress.” That’s sort of true.

  “Why don’t you get undressed and under the sheet now. Take your time and I’ll come back soon.”

  Julie tiptoes out of the room. I get undressed and focus on serene thoughts. Work is going smoothly. Justin is going to let things be. Never mind, images of Justin increase my heart rate. Let’s see, Dixie is sweet and I have a nice family. Hopefully Brandon’s book will be good. I didn’t start to read it yet (I fell asleep early on Sunday after my tumultuous weekend), and that is causing some anxiety so I let it go. I get under the sheets and lay face up with my head in the neck cradle. I barely hear Julie’s knock at the door. “Come in.” I don’t yell it out this time. In this environment everything is turned down a few decibels.

  Julie asks if I am warm enough, and begins working her magic, as I drift off again, listening to the soft flute music and breathing in the faint scent of jasmine and vanilla. As Julie’s fingers press into my weary muscles, Justin and Brandon both drift into my dreamy consciousness. Justin is the taller and more masculine of the two. He has a strong jaw and his hair is more golden. Plus he has eyes the exact the color of emeralds or lush green grass after a rainy season.

  Mmm...I feel Julie’s hands and I momentarily forget where I am, and begin to slowly imagine substituting her touch for Justin’s.

  Just as I am settling into that warm sensation I see Brandon’s face with the stubble on his chin, his lazy grin and his boyish hips. Mmm…did I even look at his hips? His hair is sandier, and he is smaller than Justin in height and stature, but with brilliant eyes the color of the ocean viewed from the sky or perfectly ripened blueberries. His hands were firm and a little rough, and there was that little bit of chest hair peeking out of his shirt. Ahhh…

  Just as Justin’s hands begin to fade into Brandon’s my spell is interrupted by a loud motorized noise outside. I jump and Julie immediately tries to steady me on the table.

  “I’m so sorry, Claire. That was a loud truck. I never get noise like that in this room. Try to relax and put your head back down. It’s time to turn over.”

  I silently obey and nod. That scared the crap out of me and my heart is pounding. Is the startling noise responsible for my rapid heartbeat? Or the two young men competing for attention in my fantasy?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Monday night I went home feeling much better physically, but even more confused. There’s nothing wrong with a good fantasy that involves hot young men touching me, but why those men? It could be plain old sexual frustration, but my mind doesn’t usually wander to thoughts like this, and it wasn’t purely sexual, or sexual at all. It was more comforting, which is weird. And why both of them? It’s so silly because not only are Brandon and Justin too young and wildly inappropriate for me (a neighbor and a co-worker), they are not even my type.

  It’s hard to believe I have a type since I have veered so far away from any one type by dating old men and whack-jobs, but I do. Or I did. Ron was my type, at least physically. When I met him, I was too young to know any better, and I was lured by his strength and masculinity. He was broad, tall and dark. Blond men have always seemed youthful to me—almost childlike. They aren’t masculine enough. I don’t want a guy who is prettier than me. Light eyes are all wrong, too. I have always preferred soulful brown eyes.

  Now, of course Justin is pretty big and Brandon has that hair peeking out of his shirt, and logically they are grown men. Losing my ability to have children has skewed my whole world. I don’t know who is in my dating pool, and I’m drowning in all of them. Older men often have grown children, but I’m never attracted to them and we have nothing in common. Many younger middle-aged men are more attractive to me but they usually have kids at home, and I don’t want to be a stepmother. Everyone hates their stepmothers. Ron wanted to throw his father’s wife down the stairs. Younger men will want children, maybe even if they already have them. If they do have them it will seem like a million years until the kids are grown, and they don’t have daily contact with their exes about custody, visitation and money anymore. It isn’t that I would be angry that they had less to spend on me—it’s just that all of this causes tremendous conflict.

  Some days I think I might be better off joining a convent. I could get away from my men and work troubles. But I don’t like church, I swear too much, and I have improper fantasy thoughts about young men while being massaged by a woman, and to top it off—I’m divorced. Bad nun material.

  It’s lunchtime on Tuesday, and I go home to bring Dixie to the vet. She’s due for a couple of shots, and I gave her sedatives before I left for work. Yes, Dixie suffers from extreme “veterinary phobia.” It’s ridiculous that this is an actual disorder, as if any dog loves to go to the vet and get stabbed with needles and have things stuck up their butts. After a few unfortunate incidents I was told she had to be sedated before they would treat her. I don’t see how they can’t control a nine-pound dog, but it does make it easier and less stressful for her to be woozy when she goes in.

  I come in and pick her up and she looks so cute and sleepy. I take her outside first, and she walks around the yard like a little drunk on a Friday night (just like Mommy!), but finally waters the lawn. As I get her seat in the car, I see Brandon walking my way. It must be nice not having a real job and being home at lunch time every day.

  “Hey, Claire. What’s up?” He has that stubble on his face again. Doesn’t he own a razor?

  “Hi, Brandon. I’m taking Dixie to the vet. For some shots.”

  “Aww, look at her in there.” Brandon bends down to look in the car at Dixie in her car seat. “She looks so tired.” I am staring at his chin and it takes me a moment to respond.

  “I have to drug her. She is scared to death of the vet.”

  “That’s funny. Does she bite him?” He laughs at the suggestion of little Dixie being fierce.

  “Let’s just say she’s not happy there and she shows her displeasure. She’s a little angel when she’s all sleepy like this.” I smile back and continue to stare like an idiot. He should never shave.

  “I can see you’re on your way out. I just wanted to ask if you’d like to come to my party. It’s kind of a birthday/get to know the new neighbors party.” He smiles. His parents must have spent a fortune on his teeth. I can’t decide if his teeth or eyes are brighter.

  “It’s your birthday?” What an intelligent question, Claire.

  “Yep, the big 2-8! At least I’m not thirty yet.” He blushes and looks down momentarily because he obviously realizes that I am in the unfortunate over thirty group. “I’m inviting the neighbors, a bunch of friends, and the people in the band.”

  What band? “That sounds good.”

  “So here’s an invite I printed up. I also wanted to send out messages about the party. Can I add you to the e-mail list? I only have your work e-mail.” He hands me the invitation and grabs his phone in anticipation of the information.

  I give him my personal e-mail and phone number, and he stores them in his phone.

  “And can I have Jane and Mike’s too? I haven’t been able to connect with them.”

  I’m deflated. I know he wasn’t asking for my personal contact information for any reason other than the party, but it makes me a little sad. But Brandon is way too young for me, and now he may be in a band
? He probably has groupies, especially with that amazing facial hair. To him I’m just the quirky neighbor lady with the cute dog. I give him Jane’s contact information and stuff the invitation in my purse.

  “I really hope you can come. It should be a lot of fun.” Brandon’s hands are in his pockets and he looks down at the ground, playing with a stick with his foot.

  “We’ll all make it, thanks. I need to get going. See ya later.”

  I climb in the car and close the door. He leans down by the car window. Before he says anything I add, “I’ve started reading your book. It’s good. I’ll send you some feedback soon, I promise.” I smile and back down the driveway. Out of the rearview mirror I see Brandon watching my car until it’s out of view.

  Of course—he wants to know if I read his book. I keep forgetting that I have that power over him. I could pass his manuscript along to important people who can help his career. That’s his interest in me. Duh. Claire, get your head on straight!

  Later on, Dixie is home sleeping off her traumatic afternoon, and I’m back in the office. I sit down and open up Brandon’s book. I have not started reading it—I lied. I hope it is good or I’ll feel pretty silly.

  I e-mailed Tim and Frank, and scheduled a meeting with them to explain my strategy for the editor positions. Tim is still on vacation—in Las Vegas. Nothing says holy week pilgrimage like a jaunt to Sin City! He is either not Catholic or didn’t grow up with a mother like mine. The guilt was laid on extra thick the week leading up to Easter. “Claire, you’re going out partying when Jesus was nailed to the cross?” How do you argue with that?