Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  “That’s so nasty, about the hair,” I said. So much for my determination to stay out of the conversation. “A guy can’t help it if his hair falls out. It’s not his fault.”

  “Uh, Hair Club for Men? Plugs?”

  “Do you know how much those things cost?” I argued. As if I cared. “Over twenty thousand dollars, something outrageous. Hank, from the office, checked into it.”

  “If he’s really rich, he’ll be able to afford it,” Maggie pointed out.

  “But what if he doesn’t want to get plugs?” I said. “What if he’s happy with the way he looks? What if he thinks any woman who loves him should accept him for who he is? Bald and all. That’s what we want, right? Someone to love us for who we are, not for what we look like.”

  Strangely, no one had an answer to this question for a full minute. A full minute is a long thing.

  Then JoAnne changed the subject.

  “What do you do if a man asks you to change something about yourself?”

  “What’s to change?” Maggie quipped. “I’m perfection!”

  “Ha ha. Every man asks a women to change something about her appearance. Without fail. If it’s not hair color it’s hair length. Or clothes, that’s a big one. They want you to dress more sexy.”

  “They want you to dress like a slut,” Maggie amended.

  “A guy once asked me to cut my nails,” I told them. “Can you imagine! I’ve had long nails since I was twelve! It’s part of who I am. Oh, yeah, Erin. She’s the one with the perfectly manicured long nails. I mean, nobody would have recognized me with short nails! I wouldn’t have recognized me. I shudder to think.”

  “Weight.” Maggie.

  Communal groan.

  “Why is it that men you hardly know at all feel perfectly free asking you to lose ten pounds?” she went on. “Or gain ten pounds. Even if you’re healthy and happy and think you look just fine. I mean, the nerve!”

  “The balls!”

  “What gives them the right!”

  “And then ask them to lose ten pounds or beef up or change their hairstyle, whatever,” JoAnne said, with what sounded very much like a harrumph. “Forget it. He’s gone.”

  “Women have to wait until they’re married before they can ask the guy to change his appearance. It’s a proven fact,” I told them. “My friend at work, Maureen, totally dresses her husband, head to toe. She won’t allow Mark to pick out a pair of shorts on his own anymore. She said before the wedding he was a slob. The week they got back from their honeymoon, she surprised him with a new wardrobe. It went on from there.”

  “And he goes along with it?” JoAnne sneered. “That sounds kind of wimpy.”

  Maggie answered for me. “That’s how it works. He’s got a wife. She’s agreed to have regular sex for ‘free’ till death do them part. He’s grateful. He’ll put up with almost anything for the sex.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maureen said Mark never liked shopping anyway, so she’s doing him a favor all around.”

  “Hey, I just thought of something funny,” JoAnne said. “What if this guy looks so good now that his wife’s dressing him, other women start coming on to him and it goes to his head and he has an affair! He could argue it’s all his wife’s fault for dressing him too nicely.”

  “Mmm,” I said. “That would be one way of looking at it.”

  While JoAnne and Maggie chatted on, I wondered.

  Did Carol choose Doug’s wardrobe? Did she buy him socks at BJ’s Discount Warehouse? Was it her choice that he wear boxers and not briefs?

  Underwear, the great leveler. I’d been touched the first time I’d seen Doug put on his boxers. It’s a humbling thing, dressing in the presence of your loved one, watching your loved one dress.

  Suddenly, the intimacy of marriage seemed so terribly unattainable.

  Suddenly, I didn’t feel much like eating.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  E—when am I going to be a grandma? girls here have babies by 16. how’s that job going? M.

  Maureen and I went shopping at lunch one day for baby clothes.

  “Infants need a certain type of T-shirt,” she explained.

  “Their belly buttons are all sensitive at first, so the shirts have to tie at the side, not snap anywhere. Ties are less irritating than snaps.”

  “There are so many things to think about,” I said. “How do you keep all the information straight?”

  “I don’t,” Maureen admitted. “That’s why I have so many baby books at home. And why I spend so much time highlighting. Whenever I can’t remember something, like how often you’re supposed to bathe an infant, or when I realize I have no idea how to suction a baby’s nose when he has a cold, I just look it up.”

  “It’s like being back in school,” I said, “except the stakes are so much higher.”

  “I know. If you fail at being a good mommy, you just can’t take the class over. The kid’s a mess, end of story.”

  “Are you scared?” I asked then, as we rode the elevator in Macy’s at Downtown Crossing.

  Maureen laughed. “What do you think? I’m petrified. But I’m also so excited I can hardly stand it.”

  “How’s Mark handling everything?” I asked.

  “He’s been great. I mean, what’s his option? He loves me, he’s totally psyched to be a father, he’s already talking about another kid after this one.” Maureen patted her belly. “I told him, fine, we can have another baby, as long as you go through the morning sickness for me.”

  “Wouldn’t that be wonderful,” I said.

  Yes, I thought, as I flipped through a stack of baby undies, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a man so happy about building a family with me. If Doug and I ever married ...

  No, I couldn’t allow myself to think about that. We’d never discussed having children together because we’d never discussed our being married. And if Doug hadn’t wanted to have children with Carol, would he ever want to have them with me?

  Point is, Reason said, he’s married. And if you continue to stay with a married man, it’s highly unlikely you’ll ever be buying T-shirts for your own baby.

  I waited, but Romance seemed to have been taking a nap.

  Maureen and I spent fifteen minutes combing the baby department and came up empty, though I did buy the baby a mint green onesie with an adorable little frog on the chest. I couldn’t help it.

  “You still have some time,” I said as we rode the elevator back to the first floor. “I’ll keep an eye out for the T-shirts.”

  “Would you? Thanks, Erin. I’m so tired some days, and others, I feel totally energized. It’s odd.”

  It’s a miracle, I thought, tears suddenly pricking my eyes. New life is a miracle.

  After work the following day I went to Lord & Taylor’s baby department to look for the T-shirts with a tie, found two packages, and bought them.

  On the way home, I decided to stop at the bookstore in the mall. My bedside reading pile was getting dangerously low and if I didn’t have a good book to read at night, I was unhappy.

  Once there, I began to browse through the tables piled with recent trade editions and the shelves stacked with hardcover bestsellers. I must have been engrossed in the selection because suddenly I realized I didn’t have the bag from Lord & Taylor.

  I glanced around, hoping I’d put it down somewhere close by, but I could find no bag.

  I was angry and also sad. Those two packages of T-shirts had been the last in stock. Sure, I could go back to the store in a few weeks but ...

  “Excuse me.”

  A tall, nicely built man, maybe about thirty-five, dressed in a blue suit with the tie loosened, was standing there in front of me. And he was holding my Lord & Taylor bag.

  He had a very nice smile.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I found this over in the next aisle and I think I saw you with it earlier.”

  He’d seen me with it earlier? So, he’d been looking at me, noticing.

>   I smiled back and said, “Whew, thanks! Yes, it’s mine. I’d just realized I’d lost it.”

  “Something special?” he asked and I noticed his eyes were a lovely shade of green.

  “Yes,” I said. “T-shirts for my friend. Well, actually, for her baby. Which isn’t born yet. But infants need a special kind of T-shirt and we couldn’t find them and ...”

  Mr. Helpful did not look bored.

  “I didn’t know infants needed special T-shirts,” he said.

  “There’s a lot to learn, I guess, when you’re having a baby.”

  “I bet.” Mr. Helpful handed me the bag and said, “By the way, my name is Brian.”

  “Erin.”

  “Hi, Erin. Um, I wonder ... Well, I was noticing you before and I kind of wanted to come up and talk to you but I hate just bothering someone, but then your shopping bag gave me an excuse to say hello.”

  He was adorable. I smiled again.

  “So,” he went on, “would you maybe like to get a cup of coffee or something? If you’re busy now, I understand, maybe some other time ...”

  I felt rooted to the spot. Here was an attractive guy, a nice guy, asking me for a cup of coffee. But I couldn’t accept his invitation.

  Of course, you can’t! Romance cried. You’re committed to Doug. You’re in love.

  Maybe, Reason said. But that relationship is going nowhere, fast. This guy is single, as far as she knows, and seems nice. Why should she pass up an opportunity to talk?

  Because Erin is faithful to her soul mate!

  Is her so-called soul mate faithful to her? Correct me if I’m wrong, but he gets into bed every night with another woman.

  Stop it, the both of you! I cried. I ...

  The truth was I wanted to have coffee with Brian. And the truth was also that I couldn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m seeing someone.”

  “Oh.” Brian shrugged good-naturedly. “Okay. I guess I probably should have known someone as pretty as you would be taken.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it, even if ‘taken’ wouldn’t have been my word of choice. “If I weren’t involved ...”

  “That’s okay. Look, have a good night.”

  Brian turned to go.

  “Thank you,” I said. “For returning my package.”

  He turned back and said, “Tell your friend good luck.”

  I was in a bad mood. I seemed often to be in a bad mood in those days, testy, on edge, often ready to explode. It was unlike me. I wondered if something in my diet was contributing to high blood pressure or some other scary medical condition. But beyond that brief thought, I chose not to explore possible reasons for the change in my behavior.

  I also chose not to explore why it was that I was able to keep my explosive anger in check at work and with my friends, but not with Doug. I wasn’t always attacking him. But it was beginning to happen with some frequency.

  We were sitting on a bench in the Gardens. Doug was throwing the crumbs of his sandwich to the ducks and geese.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I said.

  “Why? Birds have to eat, too.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t like birds.”

  Doug looked at me and grinned.

  “How can you not like birds?”

  “I just don’t,” I snapped. “They frighten me. I’ve told you that. Don’t you ever listen?”

  Doug threw the last crumb to the birds and turned to me.

  “Hey, that’s not fair,” he said, not angrily. “I listen all the time. Even when you’ve had too much to drink.”

  Hello?

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You talk a lot when you’ve had too much to drink. No big deal.”

  What?

  “Since when have you seen me drunk?”

  Doug sighed. “Oh, come on, Erin, just forget it.”

  “No, I want to know. When have you ever seen me drunk?”

  “Just once, that night in my office. When you went on and on about your childhood and family and the nuns. It was cute.”

  Cute? The condescending bastard ...

  “I was not drunk!” I protested, though I knew I had been. A little.

  Doug gave me one of those extremely annoying indulgent looks one gives a child who is lying outrageously.

  “If you say so.”

  “I was not drunk. Did you even really listen that night? Do you remember anything I said?”

  “I listened. But frankly, Erin, I was mostly thinking about the sex we were going to have when you stopped talking.”

  I felt sick to my stomach, betrayed. I felt like a fool.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Doug laughed.

  “Come on, Erin, I’m a guy. If you want to blab on ...”

  “Blab on?”

  “Sorry. If you want to ramble on about the past and have someone really listen, you should do it with a girlfriend.”

  “But you talked to me. You gave me advice.”

  “I know. Erin, what’s the big deal? I was there, I did what I could.”

  Doug reached for my hand. I snatched it away.

  “Assuming I was drunk. You were humoring me.”

  “Why are you picking a fight? I don’t need this, Erin.”

  And as quickly as the fury had come upon me, it receded, leaving in its wake shame and misery.

  Doug was right. I’d been trying to pick a fight. Truth be told, I’d been fully aware of how boring I must have been that night on Doug’s office couch. He’d listened, responded, made love to me, and then drove me home, safe and sound. I’d had nothing to complain about then and didn’t have anything to complain about now.

  “Oh, Doug,” I whispered, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Please.” I touched his arm. “Please forgive me.”

  Doug took my hand.

  “You’re tired,” he said. “Go home and get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I nodded, unable to speak, and God, hadn’t I already said enough?

  Doug didn’t kiss me good-bye. He released my hand. His face looked drawn. He stood up and walked away.

  You’re an ass, Erin, I told myself.

  You’re rightfully angry, Reason said. You’re not getting what you need.

  I waited. Romance said nothing.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  September, Boston

  September in New England is surprisingly summerlike, though some of the oppression of August has lifted. In Boston, the streets suddenly teem with college students back from summer break and even those of us who are long past studenthood feel the energy of a fresh start. A new beginning.

  Of course, September is also a time of endings.

  The four of us met for drinks and appetizers at Mistral.

  JoAnne had just gone to the funeral of a neighbor. She hadn’t wanted to go but it seems the block association strong-armed every home owner along Bunker Hill Street to attend. JoAnne had hardly known Mrs. Murphy but she’d had the privilege of seeing her decked out in her Sunday best. Dead.

  It had put her in a very bad mood.

  “Funerals and weddings! I don’t know which are worse.”

  “Uh, I’m going with funerals,” I said, hoping to divert a tirade.

  I failed. I went with the flow.

  JoAnne tore on. “They both cost the guests a fortune. There’s the new dress and the gifts and God, then there’s the people you’d never spend time with unless someone had croaked or was getting married. Which in some cases is worse than croaking.”

  Abby, Maggie, and I mumbled our agreement.

  JoAnne turned to me.

  “Erin, what do you say when some numbnuts at some horrible family function asks you why you aren’t married yet? Like creepy Uncle Floyd at fat Aunt Marge’s funeral.”

  “I say: Because no one’s asked me yet. That usually shuts them up. Except,” I added, “when Uncle Floyd chuckles, leans in with his ciga
rette breath, and says, ‘Well, girlie, if I weren’t already taken, I’d fix that.’ ”

  “Well, I say: I’m not married because I’m a nymphomaniac and require lots of sex with many partners—sometimes many partners at the same time—and no one man could ever satisfy me.”

  “What’s the reaction to that?” Maggie said, laughing.

  JoAnne grinned. “Stunned silence. On occasion, a look of longing.”

  “I just tell the truth,” Abby said. “I say, I’m waiting for Mr. Right. I’m waiting for my soul mate.”

  I resisted the sudden temptation to ask Abby if she thought she’d found her soul mate in my father.

  “And the answer to that,” JoAnne said, “is a look of pity and, ‘There, there, dear, I’m sure everything will be just fine.’ ”

  “I wish I could tell the truth,” I admitted. “I wish I could say: ‘I’m not married because the man I love is married to another woman and I love him so deeply I accept the situation.’ ”

  “Yeah, that would go over big,” JoAnne said. “You’d be labeled a hussy. You’d be known as ‘the delusional one.’ You’d be another object of pity.”

  “See?” I said. “The truth is just too ... uncomfortable. There’s a decided value to social lies.”

  Maggie’s turn. “No one’s ever asked me why I’m not married, but if they did I’d say: I don’t believe in marriage. Marriage is not for me. I like my independence. I ...”

  JoAnne lowered her voice and frowned, probably like the mythical fat old Aunt Marge. “Independence doesn’t keep you warm at night, missy.”

  “It does if it buys you flannel sheets and a down comforter.”

  “Touché!”

  “All I have to say is that if I’m not married by the time I’m forty I’m never going to another wedding or funeral ever again.” And I meant it. “They can say anything they want about me. I’m rude, I’ve cracked up, I’m on drugs, I’m gay ...”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Maggie added, per our post-Seinfeld culture conversational rules.