Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single

by Heather McElhatton

  “Not today!” I sing out.

  “You’ll be back,” she says grimly.

  I stop into Frontier Travel and pick up a bunch of travel brochures and promotional magazines. I have no idea why. “Planning a trip?” Susan asks.

  “Possibly!” I say. “You never know!”

  “Ever thought of writing for one of those magazines?” she asks. “I know one of the editors in New York. They pay for your expenses and everything.”

  “I would love to do that!” I grin. “I’m not going to be a copywriter forever!”

  I practically skip back to the office, where I promise myself I will not visualize what it would be like to be married to Brad Keller.

  I will not.

  Maybe a little.

  hunt him

  There’s a lot to fix. I need new hair, new clothes, a new face, a new me. Parts of me are sagging, not shining, or need to be cut off, not necessarily in that order. Completely making yourself over is a time-consuming and costly endeavor, plus most of my credit cards are maxed out, but it helps that I work in a department store. “Have no fear,” Christopher says, “a little gay bee is here!”

  He takes me down to the visual display department where he works. Normally all nonessential employees are strictly forbidden for insurance reasons. They have hammers and tools and glue guns down there, all manner of loose signage, bolts of fabric, chipped disco balls, glass chandeliers, disembodied mannequins, and sheets of colored Lucite stacked everywhere. “It smells like the inside of one of those chemical barrels,” I tell him. “One of those ones kids in Guatemala sniff.”

  “I know!” Christopher says, taking a deep whiff. “Isn’t it wonderful? Now come here. This is for you.” He leads me around to his work area, where several heaps of clothing are thrown over the back of a chair, and on his desk is a neat swatch of green velvet displaying several sparkly pieces of jewelry.

  “Everything was just taken down from the windows,” he says, picking up a red wraparound dress. “It all has to be restocked, but not until Monday! You can wear anything you want for your date.”

  “The shoes, too?”

  He nods. “The shoes, too.”

  Then he rolls out two matching hard-backed suitcases they use for shipping product and helps me pack everything in them. We work quickly, because if anyone saw us, we’d both be instantly fired.

  Its amazing how one small event, like the man of your dreams asking you out, can change your whole outlook on life. Everything seems happy and possible. Colors look brighter. Food tastes better. Gravity seems to be turned on lighter, so walking is easier and keeping my chin up seems more natural. Even Ted sees the change.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

  “Nothing! Can’t a girl be happy?”

  “I don’t like it,” he says, crossing his arms. “I don’t like it one bit.”

  I hum at my desk, I ignore my incoming Exploding Hearts e-mail, I even water Big Trish’s fern, and when she snaps at me that it’s her fern, not mine, and she knows perfectly well when to water it, some of the leaves are supposed to be brown, I take the time to use the interpersonal conflict-resolution skills we learned in last month’s employee seminar about building a better co-worker habitat and I say, “You know, Trish, I didn’t even consider your perspective on this. I see where you’re coming from and in the future I’ll be sure to consult you before moving ahead on any plant-watering activities.”

  She scowls at me but I don’t care. I’m on cloud twenty-two.

  Christopher buys me a shiatsu massage for Thursday night after work so my head will “be in the right place” for my date on Friday. We dash down a freezing five blocks to the Medical Arts building and go up to the seventeenth floor.

  “I didn’t realize they had a massage parlor in the Medical Arts building,” I say.

  He nods. “They also have an anal bleaching office.”

  “A what?”

  “We’re here!” he says and opens the massage parlor door. “Paradise awaits you.”

  The whole interior has been outfitted to look like a miniature Chinese temple, with faux-stone walls and a small marble fountain. Even the dropped ceiling panels have been painted a rich red. There is delicate string music playing and a tiny Asian woman behind the desk is wearing what else but a lovely silk kimono. She looks perfect in it, like an Asian confection with little egg noodle arms.

  “I don’t feel better yet,” I say.

  The lady has us fill out medical-consent forms and sit in the tiny lobby until someone else comes and takes us back to the locker rooms, which have wooden lockers and bamboo benches. I take off my clothes and put on the robe. I meet up with Christopher back in the hall and the lady takes us to a cedar-lined sauna and it’s hot as an oven inside.

  “Ten minute,” the lady says and disappears.

  “Now just relax,” Christopher says. “Breathe deep. Do you smell eucalyptus?”

  I inhale and exhale slowly. “Do you think I should tell Brad I’m on antidepressants?”

  “No,” he says.

  “But everyone’s on antidepressants. They’re like aspirins.”

  “Stigma.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just don’t give him the third degree,” he says. “Men hate that.”

  “Doesn’t it show him I’m interested in him to ask questions?”

  “No,” he says, “and don’t talk about your family.”

  “We bonded over hating our sisters.”

  “This is supposed to be sexy time, not family story hour, and don’t talk about sex. Straight guys think girls are slutty if they talk about sex.”

  “Well, why don’t I just not talk at all?” I say. “I’ll just be mute. I shall be Mutey McMuterson from Mutington Downs.”

  “You can talk about needing space,” he says. “All guys want to hear that you need space, that you’re really independent, that you’re not going to bug them every night, that you have your own money and your own friends and that you’re not going to cling to them like a barnacle. Men want to know you’re not going to be any inconvenience whatsoever, that you won’t interrupt their guy’s night out or their sports games or their sudden disappearances. They want a lot of space, like an astronaut who only comes in to dock his penis from time to time.”

  “Nice visual.”

  “Whatever you do,” he says, “don’t talk about marriage. If you remember only one thing, remember that. DO NOT talk about marriage, getting married, wedding dresses, cakes, anything. Don’t even mention your sister’s wedding.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say.

  The Asian lady returns and leads us to a dim room with large palms and six low beds. There is a metal pipe above each bed, and at first I think it’s a sprinkler system. She tells us to lie down in beds next to each other. I lie down on my bed and Christopher lies down on his. Two new ladies wearing white shirts and white pants silently come in and start poking us. It’s quite unpleasant. This goes on for a while.

  I shut my eyes and try to block the poking out. I try to distract myself by reviewing the signs when a guy is NOT into you. If he stays physically far away from you, like more than three feet, odds are he doesn’t want to be “close” to you. Second, if a guy focuses anywhere but your eyes, he’s deliberately distancing himself from you. Third, if he stands at an oblique angle, that’s bad. I don’t know what oblique is, but I’m sure I’ll recognize it when I see it. Last is speech pattern. If a guy talks to you like you’re at the office, then he probably wants to keep the relationship “professional.” Also, if a guy likes you, he’ll copy your body language. Like, if you lean in, he’ll lean in. If you use your hands to emphasize something, so will he. Monkey-see, monkey-do = he’s into you.

  Crap! I remember I haven’t waxed my nether region. Unshaved for weeks. This puts me in a mild panic. I don’t want him putting his hand up my skirt and getting it caught in a pussy Afro. Ouch! This “massage” is taking forever. The woman who’s been poking me jumps
up on the bed and grabs the pole overhead. She then steps on my shoulder blade and presses down until I think my lung is going to pop.

  “I just don’t want to embarrass myself,” I say to Christopher between breaths, which is considerable, because the woman is now crunching her way up and down my spine. “I figure my date with Brad has a one in two chance of landing me in a mental asylum. I can’t take one more humiliating scene. I really can’t.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” he sighs. “It’s like one nightmare after another.”

  “Thanks.”

  The lady starts massaging my arm with the ball of her foot. It sort of feels good, except it’s painful.

  “Sorry,” Christopher says. “I just don’t get how you keep putting yourself out there.”

  “There just aren’t any good ones,” I say.

  “I found a good one,” Christopher sighs. “Jeremy the pill. Love that boy.”

  “Well, what do you mean?” I ask, feeling suddenly and acutely irritated.

  “Nothing,” he says, “I don’t know, I just mean. I think there are still good guys out there. You just have to look.”

  I’m silent for a minute as the lady switches to my other arm. She kneads my flesh with her feet and stands full body weight on my open palm.

  “So, good guys are everywhere,” I say. “I just lack the skills to find them?”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Well, that’s what it sounded like.”

  “Well, that’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “Just that, I don’t know, just that maybe you should be more patient or something.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He doesn’t say anything. We lie in silence for the rest of the massage, which is about as relaxing as an emergency root canal.

  I shower in the locker room and put my clothes on. I’m already aching all over. In the Chinese-temple lobby Christopher pays and asks me if I want to get a drink. I say no thanks. He sighs. “Are you being pissy?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, are you acting all high and mighty because you’ve already found the love of your life and you look down on the poor slobs who haven’t?”

  “I’m going,” he says. “I hate it when you’re like this.”

  “Well, I hated that massage!” I tell him. “What was that? I think she dislocated my shoulder!” I am enraged. Just furious.

  “I’ll tell you why you’re alone,” he says, pointing a finger in my face. “Because sooner or later, you attack everyone. You’re paranoid and insecure and you pick and you analyze everyone and everything until everything is picked and analyzed to death. You get so insecure, so sure someone is going to leave you, you attack them until they finally go. Well, good job, Jen. Here’s one more person in your life that’s sick of you.”

  Then he storms out of the office and it feels like I just ended another relationship, but this one feels like the worst ending ever. The worst part of the whole day is I never found out what anal bleaching is.

  On my desk Friday morning is a lemon poppy-seed muffin and a note. It’s from Christopher and it says, “Let’s not break up, okay?”

  I call him on his cell phone.

  He apologizes.

  I apologize.

  He says he won’t go to David’s wedding.

  I tell him, don’t be ridiculous, go.

  He’s sorry we fought, I’m sorry we fought.

  He says it was his fault, I say it was mine.

  He tells me I’m the pretty one and I tell him no, he’s the pretty one.

  I tell him I wish I were a gay man.

  He says it’s his greatest sorrow in life that I’m not.

  I laugh. He laughs.

  We’re back.

  Friday I leave work early to get ready for my date with Brad. I tell Ashley I have an emergency dental appointment. Another one. She makes a face at me. I feel the white pinpoint pulsing of a headache behind my right eye. “You’re pale,” she says. “Do you have another cold? Don’t tell me you have another cold.”

  I tell her I’m fine.

  “Except for your tooth,” she says, tilting her head. “The one that needs another emergency dental visit?”

  “Right,” I say, “except for that.”

  I rush over to Christopher and Jeremy’s house. They’re helping me get ready. One must always incorporate the gay bees for major functions. It’s stupid not to. Christopher has talked Jeremy into doing my hair, which is a big deal. He’s like a celebrity hair stylist, which in Minnesota means the mayor’s wife, the TV weatherman, and Garrison Keillor, I guess. Anyway, he’s never done my hair before.

  It’s a big production when I get to their immaculate apartment. Christopher has chilled champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries waiting for me, which immediately reminds me of Ashley’s perfect proposal. Music is blaring. These guys are trying so hard to make me feel good, it actually makes me feel good. Jeremy ushers me into the bathroom, where I sit backward on a kitchen barstool staring at my face in the mirror.

  He goes to work.

  “This color is direct from Paris,” he says, glooping some brown paste on my head. “You can’t get it in America.” He parts my hair in careful sections and massages the dye into my hair. It smells like lilacs. Only the French could make hair color smell so good.

  Christopher and I try to keep my panic at a minimum by sipping champagne and rehearsing all the first date do’s and don’t’s, which include, but are not limited to:

  Let him open doors for you.

  Turn your cell phone off.

  Be yourself, but not too much.

  Be honest.

  Be engaging.

  Compliment him on his clothes.

  Don’t order anything too expensive.

  Don’t talk about your ex-boyfriend.

  Don’t talk about money problems.

  Don’t come on too strong.

  Don’t eat too much.

  Don’t eat like a bird.

  Don’t drink too much.

  Don’t not drink.

  Don’t ask him too many questions.

  Don’t look at other guys.

  Ignore it if he looks at other girls.

  Be confident.

  Be funny.

  Don’t talk about sex.

  Don’t talk about religion.

  Don’t talk about politics.

  Don’t challenge him on his views.

  Be interested, even if you aren’t.

  Listen attentively.

  Don’t complain about anything.

  Say you like the food, no matter how you feel about the food.

  Use positive body language.

  Touch your hair if you want to sleep with him.

  Keep your feet facing him.

  Mimic his body language.

  Watch to see if he’s mimicking your body language.

  Make eye contact.

  Don’t yell at him if he looks at other girls.

  No matter what, act happy.

  Flirt.

  Say thank you.

  Think like a winner.

  Don’t ask him for a second date, let him ask you.

  Don’t call him on the way home.

  Don’t call him the next day.

  Don’t call him, period.

  Wait for him to call you, no matter how long it takes.

  If he doesn’t call you, he’s just not into you.

  If he waits too long to call you, he’s just not into you.

  If he calls you right away after a date he’s possibly a stalker.

  If you call him right away, you’re possibly a stalker.

  We stop when Jeremy says the color has cooked long enough, and they both get out of the bathroom so I can step into their slate-tiled shower and wash my hair. I use their Paul Mitchell products and really try to enjoy the moment, even though I can feel panic creeping up on me like a shadow.

  I wrap myself in a thick white towel, and catch my reflec
tion in the mirror. “Jeremy? Is it supposed to be…this red?”

  The boys come in and the looks on their faces defy description. Horror is involved, but also curiosity and wonder.

  “Don’t worry,” Jeremy says, “it always looks totally different when it’s dry.” I nod, but I can’t help but notice he isn’t smiling anymore. He grabs his hair dryer and sets out methodically drying my hair with long, hard strokes of a natural bristle brush. It’s partly the noise of the hair dryer and partly the mounting expectation that keeps us all silent as he works.

  I watch my hair get dryer and dryer.

  And redder and redder.

  Jeremy finally turns the hair dryer off and steps away.

  My head looks like a maraschino cherry. A bright chemical-red cherry.

  The silence of the hair dryer sends for Christopher, who bursts into the bathroom smiling and then claps his hands to the top of his head.

  “Oh my God!” he shrieks at Jeremy. “What have you done to her?”

  Jeremy is silent. He mumbles something about the product and maybe it was older than he thought, but still, he’s never seen anything like this before.

  “She’s hideous!” Christopher cries. “You bastard!”

  Christopher goes on telling Jeremy I ruined the best chance I ever had at happiness and he’s personally responsible for chasing away the most eligible bachelor I ever managed to land and he’s going to leave him for sure now, because Jeremy is always doing horrible, thoughtless things like this and ruining everything.

  I just stare at the mirror.

  I mechanically pack up my makeup kits and my cosmetic bags. I think I thank them, but I can’t be sure. I don’t remember the ride home or letting myself into my apartment. I’m on autopilot, it’s all done in some sort of emotionally protective blackout.

  I do, for some reason, call Hailey.

  She wanted to be an aesthetician one summer and took classes at the Aveda Institute, which went pretty well until she realized she’d have to touch strangers.