My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  Do I dare share my latest news? It’s my day. They have to be nice, right?

  Marla: “I got headshots, recorded a voiceover demo and will submit to some talent agencies next week.”

  Silence ensues. Accompanied by blank stares and hands freezing in the midst of moving water or wine glasses or breadsticks to mouths.

  Steel walls go up around my heart. Clang, clang. Inside the metal cage, I still feel pain.

  Finally, Monica says, “Marla, that’s great. I can’t wait to hear what happens.”

  At that moment, our food arrives. Which is probably why no one else spoke. I concentrate on enjoying my meal.

  Time for gifts. Who doesn’t like gifts? Mom usually gives me hefty certificates to stores like Saks or Nordstrom’s. And she says not to use the money for something I need, but for something I want, no matter how frivolous. Thanks to her, I’ve enjoyed indulging in outrageously expensive skin creams without guilt.

  I take the proffered envelope tied with a gold ribbon. Which high end store? How much? I tear it open. When I see what’s inside, my jaw drops.

  “Don’t you love it, Marla?” Mom asks with a huge smile. Diamond studs in her ears twinkle.

  In my hand is a gift certificate, all right. For a year’s subscription to the online dating site fidmeafind.com.

  “Dad and I are so excited for you to get back on the horse, as they say.”

  My mouth is dry and not smiling. I don’t know what to say. Instead of slathering myself in sweet smelling creaminess while eliminating dryness and reducing wrinkles and puffiness, I’m going to have to embark on an online dating journey or waste Mom’s money. The thing isn’t refundable.

  “Several magazines rate it the best dating site for people your age,” Mom adds. “Why, my friend Suzy’s daughter Amy met her husband on there!” She looks so pleased with herself.

  What can I say? “Thanks, Mom.”

  “My turn,” Linda says.

  Surely she’s gotten me a great pair of earrings or a trendy bracelet, as usual. My hopes fall when she hands me a card. Please, no….

  I rip the envelope to find a year’s membership to e-Matrimony. My stomach, heavy with swirling bits of rice, sinks.

  “In case findmeafind doesn’t work. Don’t want to put all of your eggs in one basket.”

  Now it’s Larry and Monica’s turn. Please, please let them give me a gift I want.

  Another card. For several speed-dating sessions.

  Sudden tears sting. They’re ganging up on me. They didn’t ask if I was ready to jump back into the dating pool. Nor did they ask if online and speed dating were things I’d want to spend time on. I paste on a smile that’s a poor replica of their eager, happy ones.

  My ice cream melts into the flourless chocolate cake, cool creaminess that no longer entices.

  Make lemonade. Maybe dating services are the way to go. Divorced friends have said meeting dateable—defined as somewhat financially secure, honest, intelligent, funny, age appropriate, preferably attractive, willing to be exclusive—men proves to be very challenging. Almost every man I meet through work is very young, very not interested in women or very married. Looking for those gold bands is a reflex before the first hello.

  Since it’s only nine when dinner’s over, Linda decides we need to go to a bar to practice meeting men. Though she knows I don’t enjoy the bar scene. And one of my biggest pet peeves is loud music. Why go somewhere to meet people when you have to yell?

  But I should expand my horizons, and maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll meet someone and not have to follow through on any of their dating gifts. So I agree.

  What I want most, what I miss most, is romance. Hand holding, spooning in the morning, drinking coffee and reading the paper before going to brunch, cuddling on the couch watching our favorite shows romance. Someone who cares enough to make my coffee just the way I like it: extra milk warmed in the microwave, a few drops of stevia.

  Are you thinking, “No wonder she can’t keep a man, she’s too demanding?” I prefer to view it this way: I know exactly what I like.

  Someone who can make me laugh, likes musicals, can reach items on high shelves and kill spiders would be nice, too.

  Linda picks Milly’s, on Halsted near Armitage, about a mile east of me. We’ve been there for family Sunday brunches, when the bar is empty but the back room with its huge fireplace, brick walls and interesting wire and bead sconces resounds with the noises of coffee drinkers and pancake eaters.

  Tonight, it’s the bar that’s packed. My head instantly begins to pound from the noise. Younger men and women, talking, laughing broadly, all holding drinks. They’re like perfectly cast background—another term for extras. I belong in another scene.

  So-called music blares with beats I feel through the floor. I don’t recognize the song since my radios are tuned to the classical station or WZRJ. Many women wear flowy shirts that droop ever so seductively off their shoulders. How do they manage to keep the things from slipping down? They also wear skirts so short that sitting on the high bar stools must be a challenge.

  Linda has always had a flatter stomach than I do, a curvy waist and man-magnet charisma. All she has to do is walk into a room, even a crowded one, and men are automatically drawn to her. It’s as if she inhales sharply and the resulting suction pulls them in. In reality, she just stands there, this look in her eye.

  I do my best to mimic her.

  She laughs. Ouch.

  “No, not like that. Like this.” Linda tilts her head the tiniest bit down and to the right sending her straight, highlighted hair dangling attractively over her shoulder, quirks the right corner of her mouth infinitesimally, and looks up under her lashes with innate come hitherness.

  “The point is to make your eyes look big and make the most of your eyeliner,” she advises.

  My curly, dark red hair is a bit too short to reach my shoulder, my attempt at a tiny right-corner-only smile must look as though I’ve got half a mouth full of Novocain. I can tell I’m squinting. The look is a gift I don’t share.

  Her look is effective, of course. Within minutes a circle of mostly younger, fairly attractive men surrounds us. Someone buys us drinks.

  Being sisters is a good angle. We’re the focus of a joyous group, laughing and talking as we sip. I bet at this moment I look no different than the other people enjoying themselves. Is it possible? Am I having fun in a bar?

  As expected, the guys are more interested in Linda. When she reveals she has a serious boyfriend, they’re disappointed. As one, they turn and look at me.

  Each is thinking, “Do I want to ask her out instead?”

  The moment passes and group conversation resumes. I get no dates out of the evening, but I gained some ease with bar chatter.

  At least I didn’t spend my first single birthday alone.

  One shouldn’t compare oneself to one’s siblings. Yet I can’t seem to help it, particularly now as I endeavor to improve my life.

  Linda’s only flaws are not appreciating how fortunate she is and being impractical. On New Year’s Eve, she threw an amazing bash, but had no clue how long making everything from scratch would take. She called in a panic, wondering how soon I could get there. I arrived at 3:30 and slaved—unfortunately in the cutest pointy boots that left my feet aching before 5:00—until after 8:00 when guests started arriving.

  I was the only single person at this party, and left early to avoid kissy face midnight. Because as the countdown clock struck twelve, everyone except me would be lip locked with her date. I’d be left standing next to Linda’s dog, Bubbles, as drunken throngs cheered on TV. Nothing on Earth makes you feel lonelier or less desirable than not having someone to kiss at a New Year’s Eve party.

  Linda runs her own mergers and acquisitions company. She’s recovering from a couple of failed deals and works and travels more than I want to, but rewards include her fabulous mansion.

  Sometimes I feel inadequate next to her. She does while I try: to come up with a ne
w career, to find a boyfriend, to get acting jobs. Try to be happier and more at peace.

  Except I shouldn’t say the word “try,” according to my no-nonsense life coach Kelly, who pushed me to think harder and do better. That’s why I liked seeing her. As we sat in plush velour chairs, I’d share the efforts I’d made to succeed, apparently splattered with the word “try.”

  “Never say try,” Kelly said. “Hold up your pen.”

  I did.

  “Now try to drop it.”

  “I can’t,” I said, trying—damn, there I go again—to keep the whine out of my voice that yearned to sneak in when I didn’t quite understand what she wanted me to do. “I either drop it or I don’t.”

  “Exactly. Triers fail. Doers succeed.”

  Which brought us to the next question. What is success? “It means different things to different people. You have to figure out what it means to you,” she said.

  For future reference, Webster’s says: “1. the favorable or prosperous termination of attempts or endeavors. 2. the attainment of wealth, position, honors or the like.”

  Interesting that the dictionary believes wealth equals success. More interesting that synonyms include fame and triumph. How many of us achieve wealth and fame? Triumph?

  What if this quest to be a better person that sends us to psychiatrists, life coaches, marriage counselors, and/or self-help books isn’t the key? What if it’s better just to be, and stop worrying about everything? Assuming one can do that.

  I broached the concept at a Weekly Wednesday Dinner after our beers arrived, knowing Brad and Linda would love to sink their philosophical teeth into this.

  We were at P-p-izza, a trendy spot with a high, pointed glass roof, rows of long, high tables with tall stools, very tasty pizza and too many TV monitors blaring some sporting event.

  Brad offered, “Having things that you want and a career that’s where you want it to be.”

  “Where’s that?” I ask.

  “Busy enough so I don’t have to worry about where the next client is coming from but not so busy I have to work weekends to get everything done, like I used to.” He pulls off a slice of pizza, cheese stretching and dangling.

  “Feeling good about what you do and having a sense of accomplishment each day,” Linda said. “Taking pride in yourself and looking good.”

  “When you go to bed at night, thinking, ‘What a great day,” Brad added.

  “And looking forward to tomorrow.” Linda speared a piece of chicken from her salad. I knew they’d like this topic. But interestingly: no mention of family or friends or helping others.

  “What about being in a relationship?”

  “That too,” Brad said.

  As one, they leaned forward. “What do you think?”

  “My life coach says there are seven parts to your life: health, career, leisure time, friends and family, relationships, financial and spiritual. Success is keeping all of those in balance, and being happy about most of them. I think success means contentment. You’re at peace with yourself and where you are in your life. You’re not frustrated or stressed.”

  Exactly the state of mind I want to achieve. Instead of each day being filled with urgency and thoughts of what I haven’t accomplished, I could focus on what I have done. And be happy with that, while having faith in the future.

  How do I get there?

  I want to believe there’s someone out there who will love me as I am, my favorite song from the musical Sideshow. I don’t want to be alone. My family bought all those gift certificates. Hence, I’m convincing myself to redate.

  My definition of redating: 1. the ridiculous and uncomfortable act of going out with men after your divorce 2. seeking another significant other, which isn’t like getting back on the horse, after being lulled into a false sense of security that you’d never have to do so again.

  Unfortunately, the dating Fates didn’t often smile upon me in my early years. I never went to a high school dance. No one asked, and the few I asked to Turnabout said no. At least my dad can’t come into my room anymore and ask why I’m at home on a Saturday night.

  Though I’m pleased to say my appearance has improved significantly since high school, and I’m now a 34-C, 5’2” and 112 pounds and a size 4 petite, I’ve only had two real boyfriends. One was long distance for many years and the other turned into Ex.

  I’m not looking for Mr. Right or “the one.” Such lofty dreams. I seek someone I care about and am attracted to who feels the same about me and whose company I enjoy. Is that too much to ask?

  Courtesy of my mom, I suck it up and join findmeafind.com. I bet she picked that site because it reminds her of the song “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” from Fiddler on the Roof.

  After agonizing over what to say in my profile and which pictures to upload, I run a search. And retrieve fifty pages of men in my chosen age range of thirty-six to forty-six within twenty-five miles. A veritable gold mine. Where are these nuggets? Clearly not on the train or at the grocery. Are they like me, inside on this fine day, huddled over their keyboards trolling for love? No one smells neediness like someone with something to sell the wretched.

  I scroll and scroll. I’m stunned by the number of guys who use a profile picture that’s a selfie in their bathroom. Why do they think women would find that attractive?

  I don’t want to see any more pics with the guy holding a fish. No matter how big it is. Or a gun. No matter how big that is. One guy wearing camouflage was even kneeling by a turkey with an arrow through its neck. Many wear baseball caps pulled down so low you can’t see their faces, and others pose with friends more attractive than they are. Etc.

  Not long after posting my profile, bing! Bing. Bing, bing! A tiny jolt of excitement shoots through me with each notification. This could be fun.

  My enthusiasm fades to skepticism after reading the first overtures. “u r cute” or “how r u” in text speak are common initiations. “hi”, with no capitalization or punctuation, is another. These guys can’t even make the effort to use the Shift key? I’m not worth whole words?

  Unfortunately, most who write are in their fifties. Or older. And look it. I reply to a few who seem the most normal and interesting. A couple of days of exchanging e-mails via my findmeafind.com address and giving two guys my cell number lead me to Fred.

  My first “date” after my divorce texts that he wants to meet in a pet store parking lot. Because his dog will be with him. Seriously? There’s romance for you.

  Am I looking forward to meeting this forty-something delicatessen owner? Not really. His writing and phone persona lacked energy, and neither grabbed my interest. But I couldn’t bring myself to say so. Plus, Linda encouraged me to not judge too quickly.

  I, Marla Goldberg, am trying something new. I’m out there. But where, oh where is that anticipation, that spark? Will I ever feel that again?

  I find a space in the jam-packed pet store parking lot. Late afternoon winter sun warms my back. No single men in sight, just a sea of SUVs. A father chases after his screaming kid. Behind me Clybourn Avenue traffic blares.

  The store’s sliding doors open. Fred and a mangy dog step into the light. My smile freezes. He’s the online dating cliché: a good ten years older than his picture, with ten years less hair. The frizzled wisps remind me of those singed ends you get if your hair gets too close to a candle flame. Despite the below freezing temperature, under his ski jacket he’s wearing a madras shirt and jeans shorts. Scrawny, hairy legs—with more hair than his head—stem above sandals and white socks.

  His dog seems happier to see me than he does. I’m happier to see the dog.

  This is not a date. It’s a man meeting. And a mistake.

  “You must be Marla. I’m Fred, and this is Betsy.”

  His voice is nasal, a major item on my “con” list thanks to years spent working in radio stations surrounded by soothing announcers or sexy, deep-voiced DJs.

  Fred’s hands have age spots. I’m a very young forty-two. Pe
ople are always telling me I look thirty. I am not ready for age spots.

  “Betsy and I just got back from Wiggly Field,” Fred says.

  “A nice day for a visit to the dog park,” I say, thinking about what show I’ll stream later.

  “Betsy and I go several times a week. Betsy and I brought you something. Here.”

  Gifts are nice. The way he says “Betsy and I” makes it sound like they’re a couple.

  Fred reaches into his car and gives me a small package wrapped in white paper. “Compliments of my deli.”

  It’s hot in my hands, probably from sitting in the sun. One side is smushed and the paper has a small tear. Betsy must’ve gotten to it. I smell Sourdough bread and salami.

  “One of my specialties. Salami, muenster, garlic mayo and Dijon,” Fred says with such pride you’d think he invented each ingredient. “Organic sprouts and tomato.”

  He expects me to eat a dog-bitten sandwich that’s been in his car for who knows how long?

  “Thanks. That was nice.” At least the thought was.

  The garlicky salami smell is getting to me. I drop my hand to my side. Betsy strains against her leash toward the sandwich.

  “Betsy, stay,” Fred says, struggling to hold her.

  Out of the store comes a short, blonde woman with a massive Portuguese Water Dog. Which makes a beeline for me.

  “Dobby, no!” She loses her grip on the leash.

  Before I can back away, Dobby jumps on me.

  “Help! OUCH!” I tumble to the asphalt and drop the sandwich.

  Many wriggling pounds of Portuguese Water Dog sprawl across me. The pavement is hard and lumpy beneath my down jacket. I can’t breathe. I push at Dobby to no avail.

  Dobby and Betsy growl and fight over the salami. A tail wags in my face.

  “Betsy, no!”

  “Dobby, come back here!”

  The dogs writhe around mustard-stained scraps of white paper. Fred and the other owner scramble to retrieve their pets and unravel a tangle of leashes.