Dear Girls Above Me

by Charles McDowell

  Going back to my successful-sitcom analogy, after the show has its run, the actor having trouble getting work may try a new sitcom. But this new sitcom will be somewhat similar in tone to the show they’re best known for, this strategy being an attempt to slowly wean the audience off their preconceived expectations while still remaining familiar. “I may not be playing George Costanza anymore, but my new role is still a comedic weasel who’s manipulative.”

  Did this mean that post-breakup I should date someone similar to my ex? Hmm … Do you remember the show that Jason Alexander did after Seinfeld ended called Bob Patterson? Don’t worry, neither does Jason Alexander.

  The other, and more extreme, route to go would be to shed the very image that’s holding you hostage. Meaning, if I was the wacky next-door neighbor on a sitcom, my next role should be a drug addict who teaches at an elementary school full of inner-city children in a gritty indie film. Did I look for a girl who was the polar opposite of my ex?

  I wasn’t quite sure where Katie would land on the fucked-up spectrum compared to my ex-girlfriend’s personality. I wanted to find out. So I did the only logical thing I could think of.… Stalk her Facebook page. That’s a dangerous game to play, because one’s Facebook page is in no way indicative of who one really is. But at worst, you can always pick up a few context clues, right?

  Katie’s page gave me no context clues. I mean, this was a girl with a Tupac profile picture, for crying out loud. I was in no-man’s-land. I was about to give up for the night when I noticed a comment on her wall. An “I miss you, sweetie, don’t forget to check the air pressure in your tires” type of comment that could only have come from a parent. Yes, it was her mom.…

  Click. Click. Click.

  And like all moms before her, her page had absolutely zero privacy settings. Katie’s entire family history was up for grabs. But first things first; I needed to check out the photo albums.…

  Click. Click. Click.

  That’s when I hit the jackpot. Not just one picture, but multiple pics of Katie Rosenfeld spanning across numerous albums. Family vacations, mom-and-daughter spa day, Hunter’s bar mitzvah, creepy Uncle Ed’s sobriety birthday—it’s like I was there for all of it. And any doubts I had about Katie’s not being the flawless specimen I remembered her to be in high school were shattered. She was perfect. Thank God for moms and their love of and devotion to the “upload” button.

  Speaking of moms, she looked pret-tay hot as well.

  THE GIRLS ON DATING

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “Wanna know what he said to me? ‘You had me at hello.’ He’s so good at being romantic.” He’s so good at Netflixing Jerry Maguire.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “He was literally perfect! Except for when he asked me if it looks like his eyes have seen murder.” Don’t get caught up in details.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “That fucker had glitter in his beard, which means he was making out with some whore!” Maybe he’s really into arts and crafts?

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “We have a major situation on our hands: He’s ungoogleable! I don’t date anyone I can’t stalk first.” Thank God we’re not dating.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “I pretended to take out my wallet but he never stopped me! Who makes a hot girl split the bill?!” The guy you still slept with.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “I’m responding ‘with my BF tonight.’ He won’t know if I mean boyfriend or best friend!” You’re like The Da Vinci Code of texting.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “I can’t keep saying I have my period to this guy; it’s been 3 months, and he’s becoming suspicious.” I knew girls did this.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “I can’t believe I’m 24 and I haven’t even had my test-marriage yet!” Calm down, your rehearsal soul mate is out there somewhere.

  Dear Girls Above Me,

  “I knew Kevin was in love with me when he said it was okay to pop his back zits.” Did I just hear the opening to your wedding vows?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “One little push-up … Two little push-ups … Three little push-ups … Four little—ehhh, I’m done.” Building up the lats sporadically throughout the day of the date may not be effective if you prefer to use things like logic. At the right angle, with the light dimmed just enough and your eyes squinted with the correct level of strain, I promise you there’s kind of a difference, sort of. After an impressive seventeen-message e-mail thread with Katie Rosenfeld, my high school crush, I was ready. It was time. I was 100 percent confident in every aspect of tonight’s date. Only, I wasn’t sure if she knew it was a date or not. Also, in the event she knew it was a date, I was a little rusty on today’s dating protocol, so I’d been taking (stealing) one-way advice from two girls who could confidently tell you what color shirt Robert Pattinson would wear on any given Wednesday because they’d memorized his laundry cycle. But other than those things, I was 100 percent confident in every aspect of that night’s date.

  Before heading to my car, I took one last look in the mirror to pep myself up. Typically this would have had the opposite effect and drained my confidence, but that day was a new day. My body was in tip-top shape, if you were Stevie Wonder, and my apprehension about the new ways of dating had been temporarily relieved due to some choice advice from the girls above me.

  It was a cool, crisp Friday evening. Traffic was light, the windows were down, a breeze was in the air, and I was behind the wheel cruising, with Ace of Base crushing it as they usually did when blared through my speakers. Not “The Sign,” as if I was some Johnny-come-lately. No. I’m talking about “All That She Wants.” You know, the good stuff. Right now, if my penis could have spoken it would have said, “Put me in, Coach, I’m ready to play.” Somewhere around the second verse of Ace of Base’s supremely underrated song, I began to pay attention to the lyrics. “All that she wants is another baby, ooooh yeah yeah.…” The “ooooh yeah yeah” notwithstanding, I found the lyric to be troubling. I immediately thought of: “Ugh, he showed up with a condom. I so would’ve fucked him if he hadn’t expected to fuck me.”

  I was torn. This was the longest red light of my life. In a panic, I immediately turned off Ace of Base, an act of betrayal I would have never conceived of as an option five minutes prior. I began to question everything I had ever learned from Mrs. Tamblyn, my seventh-grade sex-ed teacher. I was quite sure she was adamant about always practicing safe sex and never relying on your partner for a condom—“Bring your own!” But the mere fact that I jotted those sex-ed notes down on paper attached to my Trapper Keeper was enough to tell me that times had changed.

  The girls above, specifically Cathy, were offended when a guy brought condoms, expecting to get some. Did I listen to Cathy and Claire or did I listen to my seventh-grade sex-ed teacher? Maybe in this day and age it’s okay for the girl to supply the condoms. Did I risk it? If something sexual were to happen, would I potentially be blowing it if I wasn’t prepared? Should I bust a quick U-turn and go home to get some condoms?

  This would prove tricky on multiple levels. The most obvious and pressing issue being that I didn’t even have a condom to bring. Remember, I’d just gotten out of a serious long-term relationship, and in this serious long-term relationship other birth-control measures were taken. My last purchased box of condoms had expired sometime in the Mesozoic Era.

  At this point, I wasn’t sure what the right call was. It’s audacious enough presuming that you’ll get laid on the first date, but I couldn’t even say for certain that this was a first date. It’s not easy being me. To a much lesser extent, it’s not easy being men.

  Let’s be honest, right before having unprotected sex, most members of my tortured gender don’t voluntarily say, “Wait, hold on. Before I venture into a place of incredible warmth and happiness, let me roll into a slimy suffocating balloon that smells like a hospital.” Guys can’t help but live in the moment. We
use our heads, but not the smart ones. If I wasn’t going to get condoms, I needed a plan B. Wait, Plan B! Could I convince her to take—no, on second thought, let’s not go down that dark road.

  It was judgment-call time. I was pulling up to her block and had to make a quick decision. Condom or no condom? A Shakespearean conundrum if ever there was one. I decided to go with condom. I mean, what was I doing here, right?

  Luckily, there was a liquor store, as well as a CVS, right in her neighborhood. I knew both places were sure to sell condoms. For me, picking which store was a clear no-brainer. As dirty and presumptuous as buying condoms before a first date was, I thought the least I could do was procure them from a drugstore. Purchasing condoms from a pharmacy, as opposed to a liquor store that sells Barely Legal MILF Magazine (what does that even mean?), would somehow classy the whole thing up. See, I was thinking of Katie.

  I think I’ve mentioned before how reliable I am when it comes to showing up to a place on time. For this reason I wasn’t too stressed about my CVS detour making me cut things close. I had plenty of time to spare. Confident in my choice to go with condoms, I strolled through the CVS trying to find the condom section. I can never find the section I’m looking for in a grocery store. Typically I have no problem asking an employee, but when it comes to condoms, not gonna happen. Even at the expense of being late, I’d prefer to hopelessly roam the vast CVS wasteland like Moses before asking someone to point me in the direction of condoms.

  Ten minutes later (I’m lying; it was fifteen) I found the section. Needless to say, I had about seventeen different kinds of strokes trying to figure out the type of condom to buy. If I were a girl, I’d surely notice what type of condom my sexual partner decided on, and then I’d judge him accordingly.

  With me, it’s not so much you are what you eat. It’s more you are what brand of condom you decide to wear when having sex. Okay, I’ll admit the latter doesn’t quite roll off the tongue like the former, but I’m not trying to design a new bumper sticker here.

  MY CONDOM OPTIONS

  Twisted for Her Pleasure: I actually do care about her pleasure. I’m a pleaser by nature. I’m the kid at his own birthday party who can’t have a good time unless he knows that all the guests are also having fun. But as far as twisted condoms go, if I was a girl, I’d think that a guy who was so desperate to please me that he needed the extra help of a bent, curled piece of latex to do what he couldn’t was at best a loser. Also, the lime-green wrapping ain’t putting anybody in the mood. That alone was enough for me to veto.

  Lambskin: Do I even have to explain?

  Magnum: Makes me think of Tom Selleck. Which, believe it or not, isn’t someone I like to think about during sex, awesome mustache notwithstanding. (And that’s the only reason I’m not going with Magnum. Only. Reason. You think I’m lying, don’t you? Well, I’m not. There’s no other reason why I wouldn’t go with Magnum. You believe me, right?)

  Ultra-Thin for Extra Sensitivity: All I’ll say is, it’s been a little while.… Good night, Charlie. Next.

  Thick-Ribbed for Longer-Lasting Excitement: Why not just call them “You Feel Nothing” condoms? If I didn’t want to enjoy it, I would’ve just stayed home and listened to Cathy and Chad have sex. Also, who wants to last so long anyway? It’s like, sometimes enough is enough and Letterman has a cool guest booked.

  I didn’t know which brand or type to get. I’ll be the first to admit how little I understand of marketing, but Trojan seems to me to be the most poorly named condom brand one could possibly come up with. Named after the Trojan Horse, a huge wooden horse given to the Trojans as a surrender gift by the Greeks to end a war. Hidden inside the wooden horse was a fighting force of Greek soldiers who broke through the wood and destroyed the entire city in a surprise massacre sneak attack. Yeah, I want to think of little soldiers breaking through wood, sneaking their way into enemy territory, claiming it as their own, while I’m trying to have protected sex with a girl I haven’t seen since Justin Timberlake was a member of ’NSync.

  Fuck it, I thought, and went with Durex.

  On my way to the cashier I was pretty calm due to the fact that I still had ten minutes to pick Katie up and I was already on her block. Using the soothing technique of positive visualization I learned from my mom, I envisioned an evening that was smooth sailing from here on out. Only thing was, though, thinking about my mom reminded me that I’d forgotten to call her back that day. My mom views forgetting to call her back as my actively deciding to not call her back because I hate her and I’m waiting out her death. I could see her standing by the phone waiting for me to call her back just so she could yell at me for forgetting to call her back.

  “You never called me back.”

  “Mom, this is me calling you back.”

  “No. This is you calling me back because you forgot to call me back.”

  “But, I’m calling you back right now, so what’s the difference what my intention is?”

  “Someone’s beeping in on the other line. I have to call you back.”

  The mind games. I knew what she wanted to talk to me about anyway; she was planning our annual family reunion and she wanted to get everybody’s availability to better plan the … to better plan the … Oh. Shit.

  I was at the register, cursing the guilt I would inevitably face after returning my mom’s phone call to apologize for not returning my mom’s phone call, when Katie walked right in. What kind of moron architect would design a CVS checkout aisle that ends right at the main entrance?! There was no mistaking it. When she walked in, I was the first thing she saw. More specifically, I, buying condoms for our first date, was the first thing she saw. I grabbed as many bags of chips as possible, hoping to conceal my rubbers. Mayday. Brace for impact.

  I saw that she saw. She saw that I saw that she saw. I was stunned. I couldn’t speak. Unfortunately, she was able to.

  “Charlie?”

  She had the same voice. A more mature version, but almost exactly as I had remembered it. And, of course, she looked stunning. I was pretty much in heaven, but the little sealed items in my hands were trying to drag me down into the underworld. “Yes,” I replied.

  “Oh my God, this is so crazy!”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so embarrassed to be bumping into you right before our date.”

  “Yes.” Wait, did she just say date? At least we cleared that up.

  “I ran out of mascara and—well, ya know, typical girl stuff.”

  “Yes.” That yes was genuine. I knew from Cathy and Claire that mascara to a woman is as necessary as maximum-hold hair spray is to Donald Trump.

  Then the inevitable happened. She looked down at my arms full of cornstarch and latex. “Are you buying condoms … and chips.” That’s not a typo. Yes, she technically asked a question, but to hear her say it, it was a statement.

  I guess it was time to come up with something other than yes. “These …? Oh. Yeah. They’re not for—oh, you must think … No. That’s so embarrassing. These aren’t for, like, tonight.” I left things open; maybe I was talking about the chips?

  “They’re not?”

  “God no!”

  “Well, what are they for, then?” She was onto me.

  “… I’m going out of town soon.… I’m taking a trip.… I have a family reunion to attend and—”

  “You’re buying condoms for a family reunion?”

  “Umm … you like Cool Ranch Doritos?”

  The good news was that I found out my meet-up with Katie was undoubtedly a date; the bad news was it only lasted a few seconds longer than my first hand job. No Doritos were had that night. It was a muggy, humid drive back home. Traffic was heavy; the windows were up, smog was in the air, and I was behind the wheel riding the brakes as the sounds of car horns and nighttime construction crews drilling into the cement of the 405 penetrated my car. No doubt the only kind of penetrating that would happen that evening. There was no Ace of Base to be played. No joy to be had. Right then, if my pe
nis could have talked, it would have said, “Coach, I’m seriously considering switching teams, you’re not ready for me to play.”

  As I delicately slid my key into the front door, I was praying to the Man above me that Pat wasn’t home. He knew of my date and was excited for me to get back out there, as any close friend would be. This wasn’t a story I was ready to laugh about, and the thought of having to relive it through explanation was something that made me physically ill. I didn’t want to face Pat or anybody else who knew me.

  As the door opened, I remembered that Pat and his crew were catching a fireworks show at Downtown Disney, so I was safe for a few hours. I never thought I’d ever be so grateful for the existence of Disney. I went into my room, barricaded the door, and hoped for an earthquake. Well, pretty soon, the walls were shaking, but it was no earthquake.

  “If it’s called pre-drinking before you go out, what’s it called when you continue drinking after you get home?” Claire belted to Cathy over an upbeat Drake song.

  “It’s called Lindsay Lohan,” I responded without even thinking, almost like a reflex.

  The music continued to blare with no end in sight. The girls were hosting a pre-drinking party before going out. I knew I was in for trouble, because the last three pre-drinking gatherings they held had resulted in everybody getting so trashed that they decided not to go to the club they were pre-drinking for in the first place—sort of like tailgating before a football game and then not going to the football game.