Yes.
During the first week of a relationship, is it a good sign when the man sends you flowers, buys you a bauble from Tiffany’s, and invites you to Paris for Christmas, which is eight months away?
No! Beware! We approve of the flowers, but the Tiffany’s tchotchke and the trip to Paris may indicate someone with Narcissistic Personality Disorder.
What’s that?
A common misconception about narcissists is that they love looking at themselves in the mirror. But those with Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) are afflicted with problems far more serious and destructive. Narcissists cannot empathize with others, but they are excellent at pretending they can, using lavish gifts and grandiose promises to lure others into their orbit. Once the lover is hooked, however, the narcissist wants only to be worshiped and adored, and at the first sign of criticism or withdrawing from his affections, he suffers a “narcissistic injury,” seems to “come apart,” and turns on the lover suddenly and viciously.
And, make no mistake, this will happen—long before you get to Paris. Sadly, you’re likely to experience the first attack well before the flowers have lost their bloom.
How can you predict all that mental illness from a dozen roses, a piece of jewelry, and an invitation to Paris?
That’s why we’re here, to save you the trouble.
Just because a guy comes on strong—you’re labeling him a psycho?
We are merely suggesting that it is unwise to draw conclusions after the first week of a romance, even when that week is blissful. At the start of things, we advise you to “just say maybe.”
I’m sure I’ll have more questions. What if I can’t always reach you?
The Internet is a thriving democracy. Information is available to all, 24/7, regardless of education or training. Just go to your favorite search engine and type in the problem. Fast, easy, free.
What are the other problems I can learn about?
The dirty dozen: alcoholism, codependency, drug addiction, gambling addiction, sex addiction, passive-aggressive personality disorder, borderline personality disorder, histrionic personality disorder, manic-depression, depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and antisocial personality disorder. If there’s an affliction, believe us, there will be Web sites.
Are you saying that reading these sites, making our own diagnoses, will make us happy? Help us have better relationships?
Heavens, no. But understanding that your boyfriend has a personality disorder and is not just stubbornly unavailable may empower you to move on, instead of buying him Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus for Valentine’s Day. I think we’ve got time for one more question.
Do you ever yearn for the days when all we had to worry about was whether to call our mothers-in-law “Mom”?
No, never.
Don’t go yet.
It’s getting late.
But time doesn’t exist on the Internet. It’s always open. And you’re about to vanish. This is all so scary to contemplate on my own. Will I ever find a man who isn’t riddled with disorders and addictions? Are there any out there?
Of course there are.
How will I know if I’ve found one? Is there a secret handshake?
Your question indicates that you are well on your way. An ability to laugh at life’s leftovers is an essential ingredient in your search. Knowledge is power, and so is humor.
That’s it? That’s all you’re willing to say?
We think that is saying a great deal. Happy endings, my dear, are for fairy tales.
GREEN
By Susan Minot
1green ’grn noun [Middle English, from Old English grene; akin to Old English growan to grow] (13th century) 1: a color whose hue is somewhat less yellow than that of growing fresh grass or of the emerald or is that of the part of the spectrum lying between blue and yellow. 2: something of a green color. 3: money; especially: GREENBACKS.
2green adjective (before 12th century) 1: pleasantly alluring. 2: youthful, vigorous. 3: not ripened or matured: immature
“Will you-know-who be at the wedding?” Fran said.
“Yes,” Tom said, reading the paper. “She will.”
“You know?” Fran stood in the doorway that led to the narrow kitchen slot.
“Yes, she called me. The other day.”
“She called you again?” Fran came out into the room. The apartment had one other small room, just big enough for the bed. “She was the one who left you,” Fran said. “Why doesn’t she act like it?” Fran turned back to the kitchen. “She should act like it.”
“She did not leave me,” Tom said. “It was a mutual decision. Things had been over long before she left.”
“Did you leave?” Fran said.
Tom shrugged. “She just happened to mention it first.”
“I don’t see why she calls you all the time,” Fran said.
“She does not call me all the time.” Tom put down the paper.
“Enough, she does.”
“She’s a friend. We’ve known each other a long time.”
“A friend?” Fran said.
“Yes, a friend. That’s what it was like. That’s why it didn’t last.”
“Six years is a pretty long time for it not to last,” Fran said.
“We weren’t together the whole time,” Tom said. “We broke up, a lot.”
“And got back together every time,” Fran said.
“I felt guilty,” Tom said.
“Right.”
“I did. And we had a lot in common.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Reading. She liked books. Liked animals.” Tom hesitated—dangerous territory. “We got along well.”
“I’m surprised you let her go.” Fran stirred onions in a frying pan.
“Fran,” Tom said.
“Really. Getting along so beautifully—and liking to read. That is rare.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Tom said.
Fran was quiet. Tom came into the narrow kitchen.
“Listen, I’m sorry she calls me. I can’t do anything about it.”
“You can’t?” Fran turned astonished eyes on Tom.
“What?” Tom said. “You want me to tell her not to call?”
“I’m not going to tell you what to do.” Fran went matter-of-factly back to the onions, pushing them this way and that.
“If you want that,” Tom said, “you should say so.”
“I just don’t like it,” Fran said. “Isn’t it all right just to not like it?”
“I’ll tell her not to call,” Tom said, giving up. He looked over the rooftops. “But she won’t understand.”
“Of course she’ll understand,” Fran said. “Not that you should do it. She just doesn’t want to let you go.”
Tom regarded Fran with pity. “She’s not like that. She’s not as sensitive as you are.”
“Men like to think women aren’t sensitive, at convenient times.”
“Maybe I know her better than you do,” Tom said.
“Are you saying she doesn’t have strong feelings?”
“Come on, honey.” Tom stood behind Fran and pulled her to him. “Why are we talking about this? I love you.”
“I just don’t understand how you could have been with that person all that time,” Fran said softly.
“It’s pointless to think about,” Tom said into her hair.
“It’s not voluntary,” Fran murmured. “It’s a feeling.”
Sunlight filled the windows of the chapel, and light-green leaves threw a leafy pattern over the empty pews in front.
“You know all these peo
ple?” Fran said.
“Mostly on Buster’s side,” Tom said. “Some of the bride’s.”
“A lot of blonds,” Fran said.
“A lot of marriages,” Tom said. “Buster’s family alone could fill this chapel, if you included all the divorces.”
“What’s with that guy?”
“Mr. Harris,” Tom said. “He hasn’t had his daily ration of cocktails.”
Fran watched people entering the church. She turned abruptly and faced front. “Guess who,” she said. Tom glanced back. Fran toyed with her skirt hem. “Where’s she sitting?” she said.
“Don’t worry,” Tom said. “Way back on the other side.”
“I’m not worried. I’m just wondering.”
After a few moments, Fran shot a look over her shoulder. “Oh, she looks good. Carefully avoiding our direction. Who’s with her?”
“That’s Heidi and Hilary. They’re all friends of the bride.”
“Old-home week,” Fran said.
“They’re nice, actually. I like Heidi and Hilary.”
“I’m sure you do,” Fran said.
“Honey.”
“What?” Fran took Tom’s hand into her lap. “I just feel a little out of it. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”
“I wanted you to.”
“I wanted to, too. But you know what I mean.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tom said.
The music changed as the groom appeared at the front of the chapel, biting his lower lip. The bridesmaids passed down the aisle, smiling stiffly, balancing garlands on their heads. The bride followed.
“What’s that thing sticking out of her rear?” Fran whispered.
The sermon focused on the sacred qualities of marriage. The trembling of the bride’s tulle veil could be seen from the back of the church.
The organ whined a jaunty tune when the couple flew out the door. Outside, the late afternoon was tranquil and bright. Tom and Fran strolled down the lawn to watch the members of the wedding party rearranging themselves in front of a photographer.
“Tommy Stanwyck!” A woman with a wide-brimmed hat engulfed Tom in polka dots. “Where are your parents? So naughty of them not to have come. Is this your girlfriend? Fran? How nice to meet you. Didn’t I see your old flame up there, Tommy, coming out?” The woman winked at Fran. “I’ve got two exes here— two out of four! Don’t let it worry . . .” the woman sputtered away.
Fran glanced up toward the church. “Maybe we should go say hi to her. Get it over with.”
“Okay.” Tom took her arm and they started up the hill.
On the way to the reception, they followed a car. In the backseat were Heidi and Hilary, with a familiar head in between.
‘That was the shortest dress I’ve ever seen,” Fran said.
“It looked ridiculous,” Tom said, hands firmly on the steering wheel.
“If you’ve got the body, why not?” Fran said, weakly.
“To a wedding?”
“You know,” Fran said, “I thought she looked sort of sad. My heart sort of went out to her.” Fran watched the placid countryside go by.
Tom drove, eyes straight ahead.
“She seems different from how you talk about her,” Fran said.
“You may not be the best judge,” Tom said.
“I don’t think she seems hard at all,” Fran said.
‘I didn’t say she was hard. I said she wasn’t that sensitive.”
“She looked sensitive just now,” Fran said. “I’ve never seen anyone go so white.”
“When?” Tom said, but something was bothering him.
“Just now. At the church. She looked terrified.”
“She was a little embarrassed,” Tom said stiffly. “It’s understandable. I don’t think anyone would think it strange for it to be a little embarrassing.”
“What did you think?” Fran said. “Here’s a person I spent six years of my life with?”
“I didn’t think anything.” Tom bent to turn on the radio. “It was a little awkward is all.”
“I think she has a certain dignity about her.” Fran stared at the car in front of them. “With that long neck. Isn’t there something sort of regal about her?”
“I don’t know.” Tom found a station playing music and left it on.
“Haven’t you ever noticed that?” Fran turned down the volume.
“No.”
“Makes me feel like a dwarf,” Fran said.
“Stop it,” Tom said sharply.
“I mean it. If I were you, I would rather be with her.”
“You’re insane,” Tom said, angry. “I’m not in love with her.”
Fran looked out the window. “I can’t imagine why not.”
“You don’t need to,” Tom said. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”
“She’s been with you so much longer than I have,” Fran said. “I hate that.”
“Why do you want to make yourself unhappy?”
“I don’t,” Fran said. “What were you like with her?”
“That has nothing to do with us.”
“What if I found out you were a member of the Ku Klux Klan before I met you—wouldn’t that have something to do with us?”
“You’re losing your mind,” Tom said.
“Wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Why won’t you answer me?” Fran said.
“Because it’s the question of an insane person.”
They rode along in silence, past stone walls crumbling in the slanted light and ponds with green, glassy surfaces.
“You never had fights like this with her, did you?”
“No,” Tom said matter-of-factly. “It wasn’t like that.”
“How could you not have fights?” Fran asked. “Was she too above it?”
“I don’t know,” Tom said wearily.
“You must think I’m so—so petty compared with her.” Fran took some combs from her hair.
“Please,” Tom said.
“I’m just letting out my feelings.” Fran tried a few times to set the combs right. “I don’t know what else to do with them.”
“Keep them in,” Tom said. After a moment he added, looking at Fran’s stony profile, “That’s a joke.”
Night fell over the reception. Tom and Fran stepped down from the terrace onto the golf green. At the edge of the light, figures strolled into the darkness.
“So how do you know that lawyer guy?” Tom said.
“Who, Alex?” Fran said. “From around.”
“Do you always kiss guys you know from around?”
“Well, I sort of . . .” Fran’s voice trailed off.
Tom halted in his tracks. “Did you go out with him?”
“Sort of.” Fran laughed. “Brief thing.”
“You went out with that jerk?”
“Tom, you don’t even know him.”
“Yes, I do. Everybody knows him. He’s a complete slimeball. How could you go out with him?”
Fran didn’t answer.
“He’s known for getting dealers out of jail and screwing models!”
“It didn’t last long,” Fran said. She looked through the windows of the clubhouse and saw Buster, the groom, at one end of the room and his bride at the other. “It was a short thing.”
“But what were you doing with him at all?” Tom had become shrill.
“Let’s drop it,” Fran said.
“Oh, we can talk about my past but not about yours?”
“I thought you didn’t ever want to hear anything about my past,” Fran said.
“I don’t.”
“Good. Then drop it.”
“Okay.” Tom folded his arms. “As soon as you tell me what you saw in that greaseball.”
“Jesus,” Fran said. “Believe it or not, he did have some good qualities.” Then she shook her head. “Listen, it never should have happened.”
“You’re so gullible,” Tom said with dis
gust. “All a man has to do is say a few complimentary things, and you completely fall for it. Women are such fools.”
“Excuse me, but I don’t recall ever having told you what went on.”
“I know what guys like that are like.” Tom faced into the darkness.
“Okay. It was a mistake.” Fran stood in front of him. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”
“Not with a slimeball,” Tom said.
“Come on,” Fran said gently. “Let’s stop. Let’s go in and eat. See how Buster is.”
“Who’s hungry?” Tom said.
They left the reception after ten.
“Are you going to sulk all the way home?” Fran asked.
“If I don’t talk, does that mean I’m sulking?”
“No.”
After a while, Fran said, “So, did you have a good time?”
“Yup.”
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
“I had a fine time,” Tom said. “Leave me alone.”
They drove for a while.
“Can I ask you if you talked to her?” Fran asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, how was it?”
“She slapped me,” Tom said.
“She what!?”
“She slapped me. Across the face.” Tom began to look happier.
“Why?” Fran asked with astonishment.
“I don’t know. She must have been angry with me.”
“Obviously,” Fran said. She gazed at Tom, waiting, but he didn’t speak. “So?” she said finally.
“So what?” Tom said innocently.
“What did you say to her to make her hit you?” Fran enunciated each word.
“Don’t know.” Tom shrugged. “I guess it was something about her dress.”
“What was it!?”
“I told her she looked like a hooker.”
“You didn’t.”
Tom nodded. “Then she slapped me.”
“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say,” Fran whispered.
“She didn’t seem to think so either,” Tom said. “Oh God, now what? Are you crying?”
“It upsets me.”
“Why?”
“It just does!”
“Okay, okay. Calm down.”
The Dictionary of Failed Relationships Page 8
