Romantically Challenged

by Beth Orsoff

  “Okay. I’m sure it takes you longer to get dressed anyway, so this way I won’t have to wait.”

  John increased the speed on his treadmill to 6.5 and I increased mine to 4.2. I was breathing heavily, but I was still breathing. Six minutes into it I didn’t think I could go on any longer, so I switched the display to countdown and started counting along with it. I only had a minute and thirty seconds to go when I noticed my shoelace had untied, but I didn’t want to stop when I was so close to finishing.

  The last time I looked at the clock I was down to fifty-three seconds. Then I was face down on the treadmill.

  “Julie, are you all right?” It was the woman from the reception desk. She was kneeling next to me. I read her name tag: TRACY. Then I looked up and saw John standing behind her. He didn’t look nearly as concerned as Tracy did, but at least he’d stopped jogging.

  I thought I was okay until I tried to move my left leg. My shoelace was still caught in the treadmill. Tracy removed my sneaker and untangled it from the machine. She’d had to cut the lace, but otherwise it was fine. It looked a lot better than I did. I had a bump on my forehead the size of a plum and, according to John, similarly colored, and my left ankle was swollen to twice its normal size.

  “I don’t think it’s broken,” Tracy said, “but you really should get it x-rayed.”

  “Do you know where the hospital is?” Tracy asked John.

  “No,” he said. “I just moved here.”

  “I know where it is,” I told her, “but we need to call a cab. We walked over from my place.”

  “That’s okay,” John said. “I’ll run back and get the car.”

  That was the first acceptable thing he’d said all night.

  Tracy helped me down the stairs and into the locker room. She brought me my dry clothes and waited for me while I changed. Then she helped me back to the lobby to wait for John.

  “What kind of car does your boyfriend drive?” Tracy asked as she wiped a circle onto the fogged-up glass entrance.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “This is our first date.”

  “He took you to the gym on a first date?”

  “Thank you,” I said, grateful for her incredulous stare, “it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who thinks that’s weird.”

  “Is he at least taking you to dinner afterwards?”

  “Only if I renew my membership and he gets the free gift certificate to the health food restaurant.”

  Tracy tried to stifle a laugh. “You can really pick ‘em.”

  I gave her a half smile. “He picked me.” But I won’t make that mistake again. Even proving Kaitlyn wrong wasn’t worth this.

  We heard a horn honking and Tracy helped me out to John’s car. John waited behind the wheel while Tracy maneuvered me into the passenger’s seat. I made a mental note to myself to send Tracy a thank-you gift. I didn’t need to make a mental note to lose John’s phone number.

  I directed him the four blocks to the Cedars-Sinai Hospital Emergency Room, where I was quickly becoming a regular.

  “If I knew it was this close, I wouldn’t have bothered with the car.”

  He’d just negated his one good deed.

  * * *

  Kaitlyn arrived at my house the next morning with a grande-sized Starbucks House Blend for her (she never went anywhere before noon without one) and a giant blueberry muffin for me. After taking off her shoes and promising me that this time she wouldn’t spill her coffee, and if she did, she’d pay to have the furniture cleaned, she settled herself on my white sofa.

  “So how did you leave it?” she asked.

  “You mean after he abandoned me in the emergency room because, unlike the gym, hospitals are packed on Friday nights, and he needed to get his beauty rest before his seven a.m. tee-time?”

  Kaitlyn smiled sheepishly. “I guess he wasn’t Prince Charming after all.”

  “No,” I said. “He wasn’t. And I’m finished with this open-minded stuff. I’m going back to my mental checklist. That way I can eliminate the losers before I waste an entire evening with them and end up on crutches.”

  “It wasn’t a total waste. You got to see the Jewish doctor again.”

  Leave it to Kaitlyn to find the silver lining. “For five seconds in the hallway, with my hair in a pony tail, and no make-up.”

  “Yes, but he remembered you.”

  “As the girl who almost puked on him.”

  She leaned over to where I was sprawled on the carpet with an ice-pack on my ankle and patted the top of my head. “No, Jules, as the cute lawyer with the great smile whose phone number he wanted, but stupidly forgot to get.”

  Only Kaitlyn would think that, and I loved her for it.

  Chapter 9

  Elmo Never Lies

  It was an uneventful Friday night. But after my previous Friday night with Plane Guy, I was happy with uneventful. The swelling on my ankle had gone down so I was off the crutches, and the plum on my forehead had shrunk and faded to a green grape. I’d met Kaitlyn for dinner at Cheesecake Factory earlier in the evening and she swore that with makeup on and my hair combed forward, the bruise wasn’t even noticeable.

  By nine o’clock I was lying on the couch in my boxer shorts and T-shirt, searching for something good on TV. After I confirmed that there was nothing worth watching on all two-hundred-fifty-six channels, I started flipping through magazines. Satin jeans were out, six-inch heels were in, and men really didn’t want to date women over thirty-five, at least according to Modern Woman.

  Only three years left, just one if I followed Simone’s timetable. How did this happen? Thirty-two and I was practically an old maid. But wasn’t being an old maid still better than dating—or God forbid being married to—someone like Plane Guy? I knew what my mother would say, but I wanted a second opinion.

  I retrieved Tickle-Me-Elmo from his resting spot at the far end of the couch and stared into his big, black eyes. I’d purchased him last December as a Hanukah present for my neice, Ashley, but she already had one, so my sister Deborah mailed him back to me. I was supposed to exchange him for a Cookie Monster, but he looked so cute with that orange nose and those googly eyes, that I just couldn’t do it. Now Cookie Monster lives with Ashley and Elmo lives with me.

  I propped Elmo on a throw pillow and asked him what I should do, then I squeezed his right foot.

  “Tickle Elmo again,” he said.

  “Yes, but should I keep dating? I mean, what’s the point if they’re all going to be as bad as Plane Guy?” Then I squeezed Elmo’s tummy.

  “Elmo’s not ticklish there.”

  Hmmm. “So you’re telling me they won’t all be as bad as Plane Guy?” I squeezed his left foot.

  “Elmo’s a little ticklish there.”

  A good sign. “Then you honestly believe my soul mate is out there, I’m not destined to spend the rest of my life lying on this couch watching television with you?” I squeezed Elmo’s right underarm.

  “Elmo loves being tickled.”

  Uh-oh. That could be interpreted either way. I decided to give Elmo one last chance before I moved on to the Magic 8 Ball. “So what you’re really saying is, I got off to a bad start with Plane Guy, but I just have to keep trying until I find The One?” I squeezed Elmo’s left underarm and held my breath.

  “That’s it, that’s it, that tickled Elmo the most,” he cried and vibrated right off the couch.

  I had my answer. Everyone knows Elmo never lies.

  Chapter 10

  It’s Not a Party Without Rosenthal

  The next night I tore myself away from Elmo and the Cary Grant marathon on AMC, donned my black pant suit, and headed to Rosenthal’s house for the firm’s first-ever client party. Mrs. Rosenthal met me at the door of their sprawling, six-bedroom, Mediterranean home on L.A.’s pricey Westside, and introduced herself. We’d met several times before, but she never remembered. I wasn’t important enough to have a permanent notation in her mental date book.

  Mrs. Rosenthal
led me down the hallway, past the decorator perfect formal living room, through the cavernous family room with state-of-the-art audio-visual system, and out to the party in the backyard. It was nice to know that all of my hard work had paid off for someone, although I would’ve preferred that someone be me.

  Mrs. Rosenthal pointed me in the direction of the bar and said, “Why don’t you get yourself a cocktail, honey, and mingle.”

  I turned around to thank her, but she’d already moved on.

  I waited at the bar for my cranberry martini and admired her handiwork. It really was impressive, especially since she’d pulled it together on such short notice. The theme was Casino Night and she’d created Vegas in L.A. under a huge, white tent. She’d placed a roulette wheel in the center, ringed by poker and blackjack tables, flanked by double rows of slot machines on both sides. All that was missing was the chain-smokers and the busloads of senior citizens.

  * * *

  I’d given my order to a female bartender, but it was a male bartender that handed me my drink. “Hi there,” he said.

  I said hello back. He was cute, but almost certainly a wannabe. All of the waiters and bartenders in L.A. were wannabes—want to be actors, writers, directors, or some combination of the three. After wasting six years with Scumbag, I’d sworn off wannabes. This time around I was only going to date “be’s.”

  “This outfit suits you much better than the last one,” the bartender continued.

  “Excuse me?” I replied.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I stared at the man in front of me. He was a head taller than me, with hair a shade lighter than black, and blue eyes that practically glowed in the dark. I would remember someone with eyes like those. He looked a little familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “you’re going to have to give me a hint.”

  Before the bartender could respond, Rosenthal came up and put his arm around me. “C’mon,” he said, steering me towards the center of the tent where the hundred-plus guests were congregated. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Bruce, I was talking to someone.”

  “You can flirt with the bartender later. I want you to meet Mark Parsons. He’s the general counsel for Rosebud Productions.”

  I knew the name. Rosebud was one of the largest independent production companies in Hollywood. Their last three films were big box-office hits and they were riding high, for the moment at least.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. Rosenthal wanted me to flirt with Mark Parsons. It was the only reason he ever introduced the female lawyers to his clients.

  * * *

  Mark Parsons looked like a younger version of Rosenthal. Medium height, medium build, and dark hair sprinkled with gray. I guessed he was in his mid-forties. He was standing next to a very tall, very pregnant blond woman who looked like she was in her mid-twenties.

  Rosenthal put his hand on Mark’s back. “This is Julia Burns,” Rosenthal said, “one of our senior associates.” Rosenthal was the only person besides my mother who ever called me Julia.

  Mark Parsons introduced himself and the blond standing next to him as his wife, Natasha. Rosenthal left us and I attempted to schmooze, but I’m just not that good at it. Mark dutifully answered all of my questions about Rosebud, their past successes, and what films they had in the pipeline, while scanning the room for faces he knew. Luckily, he found one at about the same time I ran out of things to say. Mark excused himself to greet someone else, leaving Natasha with me.

  I was relieved, although I must’ve looked concerned, because Natasha said, “Don’t worry, you did fine. He’s just working the room.”

  I nodded. I wanted to bolt too, but I felt obligated to stay and chat with the wife of the person whose business I was supposed to be getting. I was sure Rosenthal would agree.

  “So when are you due?” I asked her.

  “Two more weeks,” she said. “I wish it were sooner. I can’t stand the bloating. I don’t even recognize my ankles any more.”

  I looked at her ankles. They were thinner then mine.

  “Is this your first?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said and rubbed her belly. “We’d been trying for years without success, but as soon as I quit my job I got pregnant. It must’ve been the stress.”

  “Either you started trying when you were eighteen or you’re older then you look.” The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them. I wanted to blame it on the vodka, but I’d barely touched my drink.

  She just laughed. “Actually, I’m thirty-six.”

  Ooops. Missed that one by a decade.

  “I used to be a production executive at Rosebud,” she continued. “That’s how I met Mark. We’ve been married five years. Are you married?”

  “No,” I said, “Still single.”

  “Dating anyone special?”

  After my nosiness, I certainly couldn’t object to hers. “Not at the moment. Still looking.”

  “I know how that goes. I used to do a lot of dating before I met Mark. But after a while you get tired of it.”

  I nodded. I’d only had one date and I was already tired of it.

  “One night I was at a dinner party,” she said, “and I must’ve been complaining to my friend that I hadn’t found the right guy yet when this woman I’d never met walked up to me and said, ‘Honey, they’re all the same, just pick one.’ It turned out to be good advice. A year later I married Mark.”

  As if on cue, Mark returned. “C’mon baby,” he said to her, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  * * *

  I found Simone in line at the buffet. We helped ourselves to shrimp, salad, and assorted pastas, then weaved through the maze of guests until we found an empty table for two. Simone told me about the clients Rosenthal had foisted her upon, and I told her about Mark and Natasha.

  After we ate, we played the slots until I lost all my chips, then we proceeded to the roulette table so Simone could lose all of hers. I didn’t see Natasha for the rest of the night, but I couldn’t get her story out of my head. Was that woman right? Were they really all the same? Should I stop looking for my soul mate and just pick one and be done? Finally, I asked Simone.

  She paused as if giving serious consideration to my question, then said, “Yes, I do.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course not! And I cannot believe you’re seriously considering marital advice from someone you don’t know, who you just met at a party, who got that advice at a party from someone she didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t say I was taking it, I just wanted to know what you thought of it. Besides, I couldn’t take it even if I wanted to. There’s no one to pick from.”

  “You could always call Plane Guy.”

  “I’m not that desperate.”

  “How do you feel about blind dates?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, I’ve never had one. But it seems like it would be kind of awkward.”

  “It’s just awkward for the first few minutes. Then it’s like any other date. Sometimes better because you haven’t met before, so you have lots of things to talk about. You’re less likely to get those deadly lulls in the conversation.”

  That was a good point. I also didn’t have any other prospects at the moment so I said, “I guess it would be okay if the person setting us up was a friend of mine and knew my taste.”

  “Good,” she said, “because there’s someone I want you to meet. His name is Ken and he’s a lawyer.”

  “Ugh, not a lawyer.” I’ve always felt that two lawyers together would be a bad combination. You’d fight all the time and since both of your friends and coworkers would be lawyers, you’d have to spend your entire life surrounded by lawyers. That couldn’t be a good thing.

  “You need to get over your anti-lawyer bias. There are tons of lawyers in this town. If you rule out all the lawyers and all the wannabes, there won’t be
anybody left.”

  “What about doctors?”

  “I don’t know any single doctors, do you?”

  I thought of the handsome ER doctor who hadn’t asked for my phone number. “Okay, what does he look like?”

  “He’s cute,” she said. “Maybe 5’8” or 5’9”, brown hair, nice body.”

  “That’s kind of short.”

  “What are you talking about? He’s taller than you.”

  “Every guy I’ve met since the third grade has been taller than me, but that doesn’t mean I want to date them. I like tall guys.”

  Tall women just don’t understand the short woman’s dilemma. They think that as long as the man is taller than the woman when she’s wearing heels, that the height requirement is satisfied. Tall women don’t realize that if both parents are short, as mine are, their child is doomed to shrimpdom. A short woman has to marry someone tall just to give her future children a fighting chance.

  “But I guess I could live with 5’9”,” I said, “if he’s really cute.”

  “Good, because I’ve already told him about you and he’s interested. I just wanted to check with you first before I gave him your number. Do you want me to have him call you at the office or at home?”

  “The office.” At least then if it didn’t go well, I could have Lucy screen his calls.

  Chapter 11

  Blind Date Doesn’t Mean Blind Date

  I looked for the blue-eyed bartender before I left the party, but I couldn’t find him. I thought about asking one of the other bartenders if they knew where he was, but decided against it. I didn’t even know the guy’s name. What was I going to say? What happened to the blue-eyed guy dressed like you who was here earlier? Besides, I was sure he was a wannabe, so there was really no point.

  * * *

  The following morning, mere seconds after Rosenthal left for his therapy session, Simone situated herself in my office.

  “I gave Ken your number,” she said. “He’s going to call you this week.”

  I was still so consumed with Monday morning depression I’d forgotten I’d agreed to a blind date. “How do you know this guy again?”