by Deanna Kizis
PISCES
Sweet, dreamy, full of compliments. Basically asks every girl he goes out with, “Are you my mommy?” You’ll never have your heart eaten out by anyone nicer. Expect the best of table manners.
CHAPTER
9
It’s funny. You can go away, come back two days later, and have everything be totally different. I walked in the door, in a haze of depression after my abysmal weekend, and all I wanted was for Kiki to come over, preferably with beer, cigarettes, and pizza, so we could deconstruct every thing that happened until the inexplicable became explicable.
Except when I dialed her number I got the machine.
“Wait,” I said, “where are you? Call me. Ummm … I’m home. Do I sound fucked up? Sorry. Are you out? Okay, then, call me back. ’Bye.”
Then I considered how Sunday Night Movie of the Week my message sounded and called back.
“Me again. I’m not stalking you. I just wanted to say I’m okay so don’t worry. I’m not lying on the side of the road or anything. I’m fine. Well, not really fine, but I’m in good actual physical health. Okay. Good-bye.”
Now she knew without the slightest doubt that I was having a nervous breakdown. There was nothing left to do but wallow. So I wallowed, crying until my pillow was wet and soggy.
All I could think about was how much I didn’t want the relationship to end. If it was, in fact, ending. Which I didn’t know. I’d tried to broach the whole boyfriend/girlfriend mess in the car, but everything Max said only made me feel more confused. Even when we pulled up outside my house, I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He just dropped me off, kissed me on the cheek, and said he’d call me “soonish.”
I finally fell asleep wondering how soon soonish was going to be.
I woke up the next morning with the phone ringing on the pillow next to me.
“Where have you been?” I said immediately. “I’ve been trying to—”
“I’m around the corner!” Kiki was shouting into the phone. I had to hold it away from my ear while frantically scrambling for the volume button. “Meet me at Back Door Bakery!” she yelled. “We have to talk!”
Now that’s what I call a good friend.
I dressed quickly, putting on whatever I found on the floor, and dashed to the café. Kiki was already there, sitting outside the garishly painted purple restaurant, devouring a honey bun the size of her head and looking fabulous in black pants and a Marc Jacobs blazer. Wait, I thought, those look like evening clothes. “Honey,” I said, “are you eating? What the hell is going on?”
“I met him!” she said, grabbing my arm and shoving me into the wrong seat (next to the busboy station, your basic auditory nightmare).
“Who?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably as a waiter dumped a pile of dishes into a plastic bin that was only inches from my head.
“Who? Ben, I met The One!”
It was the last story I ever thought I’d hear.
Last Friday, as I’d been getting ready to leave for my Palm Springs shit parade, Kiki had gotten so depressed she’d resolved to actually take my mother’s advice and go on that walk. She figured she could at least get fresh air in her lungs, maybe put some color back in her cheeks. So she showered for the first time in days, combed her hair, put on her favorite pair of jeans and her beloved black sweater, and set off for a trek around the block.
Once she got outside, she found it so pleasant, she decided she’d actually walk to Aron’s Records. The store isn’t really that close to her house, but the new plan was to buy as much up-tempo pop music as it would take to get her out of her funk. So Kiki was walking along Highland and suddenly there was this loud crack! She looked up and actually saw a human being falling out of a tree. He fell through many branches, banging himself up pretty good in the process, and landed at her feet.
“Holy shit!” Kiki said. The crash site looked like a yard sale—his glasses went one way, wallet, keys, and one shoe another. “Are you okay?”
He said, “Grab the cat!”
Kiki looked up and saw a shabby-looking red tabby running headlong into the traffic. Now, she was about to say she hated cats. But then she noticed the guy’s perfect hipster-boy pants from Sears, his carefully broken-in white T-shirt, and his adorable tousled hair (with bits of grass in it), and she dashed into the speeding cars after the crazed little thing, tackling it just before it would have been smashed to bits by a gardener’s truck.
Kiki brought the stunned animal back to the cute boy, who was now on his feet and trying to get a cracked lens back into the frames of his glasses. She handed the feral beast to him, and he said, “That was a close one, huh?”
Kiki stopped telling me her story for a moment to shovel in another drippy piece of honey bun.
“What was his cat doing in a tree?” I said, watching the pastry ooze a glob of syrup onto her black top.
“Just wait …” Kiki said with a huge grin, mopping up the syrup and licking it off her index finger. “It wasn’t his cat!”
It turned out he lived just over there and could hear the cat crying from his apartment window. When he’d gone out to investigate, he could tell from the kitty’s chewed-up ears and dirty belly that it must be a stray, had gotten stuck in the tree, and since he was a saint he’d decided to save it. He climbed up, and he turned out to be a pretty lousy climber, which was how he almost killed my best friend.
Holding the cat in his arms, the boy named it Weezer, even though it was a female. Then he asked Kiki if she would want to share the cat with him since she’d helped save her life. Kiki said yes, deciding then and there that she loved cats (particularly little Weezer). They brought the cat back to his place, and he actually offered Kiki a diet Coke, solidifying his status as the perfect man. After some careful prying, the guy, whose name was Curtis, told her he worked A&R at a small indie record company. He also volunteered for an animal rescue group in his spare time. Oh, and he’d gone to Columbia where he was prelaw and in some garage band we would have heard of if we’d gone to Columbia. It was a true love connection, and they’d been together ever since. Going to brunch at Roscoe’s House of Chicken ’n’ Waffles, watching Citizen Kane on his DVD player, having sex every five minutes, and walking back to Kiki’s apartment now and then when she needed clean underwear. They were already using the same toothbrush. Which meant this was really happening.
“He’s so …” Kiki was at a loss. “My whole life I’ve been waiting for this guy, and there he was, just like”—she snapped her fingers—“that!”
“Guys aren’t supposed to grow on trees,” I said.
“I know! But they do! They really do!”
We spent the next hour going over every detail. But finally, after we’d rehashed this sudden change of events a third time, Kiki stopped midrhapsody: “Oh my God—how was your weekend? Was it just amazing?”
I couldn’t hold back any longer, so I told her the whole story—Max basically sleeping his way through the trip, how he’d told me on the ride home he wanted to be “seeing each other,” but not “going out,” how he thought he “probably loved me,” but didn’t know if he’d ever been “in love.” How he didn’t like the terms girlfriend and boyfriend because they were “meaningless.”
“If they’re so meaningless then what difference does it make whether you’re ‘seeing each other’ or ‘going out’?” Kiki said.
“Bingo.”
“Oh, so what the fuck? He brings you on this weekend away for … what, exactly? To make you fucking miserable?”
“So you understand why I’ve been crying nonstop.”
“Uh, yeah. And what’s this shit about his being sick?” She was becoming bloodthirsty on my behalf. “Like, as if he was actually sick and not just going through some insane commitment-phobic anxiety attack?”
“Right,” I said. “Except that I’m such a wimp, I spent the entire time catering to his every whim, driving through the seventh circle of hell to find fucking cream for his coffee, and trying not to
cry too loud in the bathroom. I felt like such a loser.”
“Well of course you wanted to cry. Duh. He tells you he’s not seeing anybody else, but he doesn’t give a shit if you do? That’s not what you want to hear. That’s not what any woman would want to hear from a guy on a weekend that you are supposed to be together. Ben, look, I’m sorry. But the guy is … He’s a total—”
“Wait.” I had to interrupt her. “Please don’t say it.”
I could tell from the look on Kiki’s face I was going to have to explain.
“I believe …” I started. “No. Okay. I know this sounds crazy. But I believe that Max might really love me.” I paused, trying to gauge how this was coming across. She was withholding judgment, determined to hear me out. Even though it was killing her.
“I think maybe he’s just scared because this is real,” I said. “And I think, to just bail because things are getting hard, to just walk away, for what?” I took a deep breath. I was trying not to just lose it, in public, in front of all the Silver Lake cool kids stopping in for coffee before heading up the street to the dog park. “If he loves me … I want to stick this out.”
“Why?” she said.
Wasn’t it obvious? I put my head down on the table and closed my eyes. There was the way Max’s face lit up whenever I walked in the door (provided he wasn’t on the phone, of course). The juice by the bed in the morning. The fact that he knew Tater Tots were my favorite food, and he made them for me sometimes and they were never too undercooked, which I think can be one of the most disappointing things in this world. And I could never seem to stop myself from staring at him. I always felt lucky that he wanted to be with me. It all has to add up to something real, I thought. It just has to. I can’t accept that it doesn’t.
“It’s complicated,” I finally said. “He’s just confused, okay? He’s never been an out-and-out asshole to me. Ever. He brings me the juice, right? That can’t be something he’d do for a girl he doesn’t want to, for a girl he can’t see himself with, you know, for a girl …”
“For someone who isn’t his future girlfriend?” Kiki asked.
I nodded. “I don’t think he wants me to walk away. I don’t. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.”
“Well, I guess he did leave things kind of up in the air,” she said.
“So you don’t think he’s going to break up with me?”
I was starting to scare myself.
“No,” she said. “Not yet, anyway.”
Kiki sighed, pushed away what was left of her honey bun, and lit a cigarette.
“Look, to be honest, I kind of wish at this point that he would break up with you if this isn’t going anywhere,” she said. “I know that’s not how you see it, but what’s this guy wasting your time for? I mean, yeah, maybe he does love you. But I say for all the good it does you. If he can never make a real commitment, if he’s just too young—”
I shot her a look. One that said, Don’t finish that sentence.
“Look, he does seem crazy about you most of the time,” she said, “which at this point is the only good thing I can say about him. So if you don’t want to ditch him, then don’t. If you’re not ready, then you’re not ready. I mean, you make a good point. He’s never been a complete prick up until now.”
She took another puff of the cigarette. I took it from her for a hit, but when I went to give it back, she waved it away. I got to keep it. “So what do I do now?” I asked.
“You want me to help you think of a way to keep him?” She was horrified.
“Yes.”
“Shit. Really?”
“Come on. Be brutal. Tell me what you really think, and tell me how to fix it.”
She considered this for a moment. “Okay,” she said. “Then I think he’s feeling smothered.”
Ouch.
“It’s not anything you did,” she said. “That’s what’s pissing me off. But it’s what’s happening. He’s got the Fear. So, I would guess that it’s time for the Full Life.”
“I was doing the full life already.”
“No,” she said. “You weren’t.”
I thought it over. Max had met all of my friends; I’d never even met his roommates. Max and I saw each other twice a week, but I always initiated the actual planning. And for some reason, I always slept at his house; he never came to mine. Oh my God. Suddenly the truth hit me: I’d been playing this all wrong.
THE FULL LIFE
Filly’s BENJAMINA FRANKLIN channels Anthony Robbins and takes on the very scary role of self-help guru.
If men always did what we wanted, birds would sing, cherubs would serenade, and you’d never end up sitting across the dinner table from some guy, wishing you’d worn waterproof mascara while he breaks up with you, in public, which he does so you can’t cause a scene.
Such is life. We can’t change it. So the more important issue is: How exactly did you end up at that dinner table with the raccoon eyes? And who the hell are you anyway? What happened to the girl who was too busy to return most of her phone calls, kicking ass at work, and walking into bars and having men fall at her feet? Where’s the J.Lo you? The Get-Your-Freak-On you? That’s the girl he was interested in, but she disappeared and in her place grew this monster of self-doubt and loathing.
You forgot that you have a full life. That you have friends. Work responsibilities. Family. Pets. Hobbies. An interest in writing prose poetry and an unbridled passion for growing avocados. Whatever. The point is, there were things that you enjoyed before you met him. After is a different story. You threw your life out the window and put him up on the fireplace mantel in your mind as the most important thing in the world. And he, like the caveman that he is, lost interest.
The Full Life is a way around this phenomenon. But it’s not another cheery, bullshit mantra, nor is it the twelve steps to relationship happiness. There’s no creepy group who can help you do it, and I promise I’m not gonna write a self-help book about it. But the Full Life works. If you want to avoid the embarrassing trip to the public rest room, the one where you dash from the dinner table and end up crying so hard that you distractedly plunk yourself down on a toilet without remembering to cover it with a seat protector, you have to full-life his ass.
What is the Full Life? It’s the idea—no, the complete and utter belief—that with or without him you have everything you need. He can come to your party, sure. But the party goes on whether he shows up or not.
To do the Full Life, one must follow certain rules of empowerment. And no, these are not like “The Rules.” Those are all about pleasing—and intriguing—him. No, the Full Life isn’t about him at all. It’s about you.
A FULL-LIFER DOESN’T LEAVE HOLES IN HER SCHEDULE …
RULE #1: A full-lifer doesn’t leave holes in her schedule “just in case.” So it’s Thursday, you haven’t heard from him. Do you make plans for Saturday night? If you’re a full-lifer, you do. And, just like when you’re training a dog, if you do this enough times, he’ll eventually learn that if he wants to see you, he has to make an effort in advance.
RULE #2: A full-lifer knows how to take care of her own crises. Sometimes when you’re getting to know a new guy, you tell him your problems. You share because you’re trying to establish trust. But while this is the foundation of a good relationship, you might be doing it before you’re actually in one.
RULE #3: A full-lifer doesn’t commit to anyone until they’ve committed to her. You don’t know where you stand, but you act like you do—turning down dates, avoiding eye contact. Don’t do it! You’ll end up with expectations that, if you’re honest with yourself, nobody told you to have in the first place.
RULE #4: A full-lifer isn’t instantly available. Do you call everyone back the second they call you? Say you’re running out the door and the phone rings. Do you leap for it? Stop the insanity. And finally …
RULE #5: A full-lifer is fabulous. Whether you want to learn how to crochet a tablecloth or drive a fire truck for the local Red Cross, do
it. Have the girls over for manicures, take that physics class, flirt. Don’t change your life for him until you know he’s interested in being a part of it.
A FULL-LIFER IS FABULOUS.
TIME FOR TESTIMONIALS …
Don’t believe it? Here’s what the guys have to say:
Aaron, 28, physical therapist who was a full-lifer: “Most of the time, I’m out with a girl and I’m saying all the nice things, but inside I’m thinking, How long do I have to listen before I get to see her underpants? Then I met Nina. She was interesting, and frankly, if she would ever call me back, I’d go out with her again in a second.”
Miles, 26, entertainment lawyer who talked to the hand: “Yeah, when I met Jeanne in college I knew I was calling the shots. But then, it was weird. She moved to L.A., made new friends … I think one time she actually told me I couldn’t take her to dinner because she had to scrub her calluses. I recently proposed.”
Gabriel, 30, actor: “Are you still in touch with your friend Jen? Could you ask her to please, please, please give me a call sometime?”
Surely you get the point.
Your money-back guarantee:
Okay, there isn’t one. Life—especially when love is involved—doesn’t give guarantees. But the one thing the Full Life can promise is that if he ever takes you out to that terrible I’m-breaking-up-with-you dinner, at least you’ll already have something to do the following Saturday night.
A FULL-LIFER DOESN’T COMMIT TO ANYONE UNTIL THEY’VE COMMITTED TO HER.
CHAPTER
10
I was determined to get a full life if it killed me.
With Kiki’s help, I devised a kind of mental checklist—all the things I had to do before I ended up relationship roadkill.
