Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend

by Lynda Curnyn

  “Hello, neighbor!” she bellowed when she turned and caught sight of me sneaking past her to exit.

  “Hello, Beatrice, how are you?” I replied, resigned to have a bit of chat with the lonely old gal.

  But Beatrice breezed by me, apparently in a hurry herself. “Wonderful, wonderful. Except I’m very late.” As she pulled open the outer door, she turned to me and whispered confidingly, “I’m meeting my man friend at the park. We’re going to have turkey sandwiches and pound cake together!” she exclaimed, holding up the shopping bag she clutched in one hand, a girlish grin on her gruesome features. And with that, she was gone, leaving me holding the door, dumbfounded.

  Even Beatrice, it seemed, was no longer without a man. While I…

  Suddenly I knew what I had to do. I turned toward Heavenly Dee-lites, realizing that if a woman really wanted something in this city, she had to go for it, no-holds-barred. And I was determined to have the one man who had stubbornly taken up residence in my fantasy life, ever since that fateful day I first laid eyes on him over a gallon of Double Mocha Chip. The Skinny Scoop man. Who cared that he probably earned slightly more than minimum wage? He was gorgeous and he was male and I had come to believe that if I asked for much more from a man, it was asking too much. I felt powerful all of sudden, as I marched confidently toward Heavenly Dee-lites, checking my reflection in a storefront as I went by. I looked powerful. I was Jade before Ted. And that wasn’t so bad, was it? Better that than the mopey, pathetic ex-girlfriend of Derrick I’d been for so many weeks.

  When I finally reached my destination, I combed my fingers through my hair one more time for courage, pulled open the door, which jingled madly in anticipation, and stepped inside.

  Only to be greeted by the sweet old familiar face of the woman who owned the place.

  “Well, hello there!” she called out to me pleasantly as I moved helplessly toward the counter.

  “Hi, how are you?” I replied, noting how very tanned and relaxed she looked.

  “Wonderful! My husband and I just got back from a cruise to Barcelona!” Then she smiled. “A little gift from our son.”

  Swallowing my disappointment that they weren’t still away cruising while I seduced their stock boy, I replied, “That sounds wonderful. Your son is very generous.”

  She beamed. “He is such a good boy. He almost never thinks of himself, and yet he works so hard. I swear the only time I see him relax is when he comes over to play cards with us on Friday nights. My husband and I have a bridge group,” she added.

  I smiled, trying to imagine this perfect son, shuffling cards and dealing them out to the old folks on a Friday night. And I thought I didn’t have a life.

  “You know, I think he just needs to meet the right girl,” she said, looking at me with new interest.

  Oh, dear. Now I was being eyeballed as the prospective date of their son, Nerd of the Western World. So much for my grand seduction plan. “That’s, uh, sweet of you to say so, but I, uh, well you know, I already have a boyfriend.”

  “Oh?” she said, looking puzzled. As if my presence alone in her store on a Saturday night for the umpteenth time somehow didn’t coincide with the picture I was attempting to create of my alleged coupledom. She shook her head then, as if remembering herself. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m rambling on. What can I get you? A pint of Double Mocha Chip?”

  As my gaze fell upon the freezer full of Skinny Scoop, a fresh wave of sadness swept over me. Suddenly I wasn’t ready to relinquish hope of seeing the succulent stock boy tonight. A plan began to form in my mind, as my eye fell on the Double Mocha Chip, fully stocked and ready to purchase. If I could come up with a flavor that might not be so readily available, that might require a call down to the basement….

  “Do you have Banana Nut Crunch?” I said, naming the flavor that Derrick had always loved and I had despised. It had been a point of contention between us during our relationship, as I never really could relate to a man who didn’t like chocolate. Now, I realized with growing glee, there wasn’t a pint of Banana Nut Crunch to be found in the freezer case, and that simple fact might just bring me closer to—

  “You know, I don’t see it here,” the woman said after a thorough search of the freezer. “Let me just call downstairs,” she continued, and headed for the intercom on the wall.

  I started to panic as I heard her ordering a search of Banana Nut Crunch. What would I do when he arrived, Skinny Scoop in hand? How could I subtly let him know my intentions, without alarming this nice old woman who thought me good enough for her sweet, doofy son?

  As the door to the basement opened, my heart thundered madly in my chest. Perhaps I could somehow slip him my number, or make some allusion to a bar in the neighborhood where we could meet—

  My mind came suddenly to a halt at the sight of a man—specifically, the kind old husband of the aforementioned kind old lady—standing at the top of the steps, a pint of Banana Nut Crunch in hand.

  “This the one you wanted, Gloria?” he said, smiling gently at her as he held out the container.

  “Yes, that’s it,” she said, walking toward him and taking the container in her right hand. Then she reached up with her free hand and touched him gently on his softly wrinkled cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  They stared at each other for a few moments, their gazes filled with so much love I felt a lump thickening in my throat at the sight, followed by a flood of shame as I remembered the lustful designs I’d had on their stock boy. Once the old man retreated through the door again and the woman had bagged my purchase, I quickly paid her and made my exit, heading home to my too-lonely apartment with a container of my least favorite flavor of Skinny Scoop and a heart full of sorrow.

  As I crammed the container of Skinny Scoop into my freezer, untouched, I wondered how I had failed so miserably at being the bold Single Woman I imagined myself to be. After all, Jade would never find herself stuck with Banana Nut Crunch when she craved Double Mocha Chip.

  But then, Jade had never been desperate enough to do anything she could, at the cost of her own well-being, to please a man.

  Suddenly my life fell into relief. How I had tried so hard to be what Derrick wanted me to be that I didn’t pay attention to who I really was, what I really wanted. All that time I was trying not to care that he didn’t want to move on to the next step in our relationship, trying to pretend I was just as much a solitary artist as he was, I forgot who I really was.

  After that revelation, everything else sort of fell into place. I didn’t blame Max for not calling me. Who would call a woman who thought so little of herself that she practically threw herself at him from date one? Heck, the fact that we had a second date at all probably only meant he was hoping to at least relieve some sexual tension with the first willing girl he found himself remotely attracted to. After all, I knew what New York City was like, how hard it was to get close to anyone still breathing, much less sexually active. And there I was, sitting by the phone, like an operator standing by to fulfill his every sexual desire. Wondering when he was going to pick up the phone and give my life meaning again.

  What an idiot I had been!

  It was all going to come to a stop, I decided. The waiting. The hope that someone else could somehow make my life go from barely tolerable to remotely happy. Emma Carter waited for no one anymore.

  Confession: I fall prey to the shopping gods—and exorcise a few demons.

  When I went into the office the following week, more revelations followed. Especially when I caught myself hovering by the copy editor’s cubicle while she read my latest piece on headgear, waiting for whatever compliments on my clever turns of phrase she might toss my way. Suddenly I realized I was doing exactly what I had said I wouldn’t do: waiting for someone else to tell me I was spending my life in some worthwhile way. On the way back to my own cube, I saw Rebecca holding court in Patricia’s office, the two women obviously engaged in the kind of tête-à-tête that would more than likely land Rebecca the offi
ce next to Patricia’s someday.

  But instead of feeling dejected, instead of blaming all those misguided souls at Bridal Best for not recognizing my genius, not begging for my leadership, I let go of the strange hold their opinions had over me. Who was Patricia, after all, to decide what kind of work I was or wasn’t suited for? She didn’t know me, her anonymous employee. Hell, I doubt she even knew her own husband. I was the master of my destiny, not her. And not Rebecca. Not even Derrick, dammit. It was up to me to decide what life had in store for Emma Carter. And after the initial high these revelations induced in me, I headed home at week’s end determined to discover just what that life was.

  And realized I didn’t have a clue.

  Which is probably why I fell prey to my mother’s machinations first thing Saturday morning.

  “Emma, I’m glad I caught you,” she began, when I picked up the phone in the half haze of sleep.

  I opened my eyes and did a half turn to glare at the clock on my bedstand. “Where else would I be at eight-thirty on Saturday morning?”

  Ignoring my irritation, she continued, “What do you have planned for today?”

  “Nothing,” I muttered, then realized I spoke without thinking, leaving myself open to whatever scenario my mother had in mind.

  “Wonderful! I thought I’d come into the city and do a little shoe shopping. Macy’s is having a sale and the one on Thirty-Fourth Street has five shoe departments—so much better than the one at the mall.” She said mall with a distaste that surprised me, coming from a woman who pilgrimaged there at least twice-weekly. “The wedding is two months away, and I still need shoes! I thought I could pick up some new sandals for the honeymoon. Maybe some strappy heels for evening…”

  If there was one thing my mother and I had in common, it was a weakness for footwear. The only difference was, she had more buying power. And maybe it was this compelling fact that persuaded me to spend all day Saturday shopping with her until my shoulders ached and my soul cried out for something more substantial than the contemplation of the virtues of open-toe versus enclosed shoe. Or maybe it was just that I hoped to avoid any more time spent alone after a Friday night spent obsessing over where my life was going and wondering whether I did, in fact, have a life.

  Now, as I sat exhausted in a chair next to my mother’s while she tried on her fifth pair of open-toe, low-heeled, neutral-colored sandals—a pair she claimed she would need in case her outfit called for something other than the open-toe, low-heeled black sandals, strappy silver high heels, black slides or red mules she’d already purchased in addition to the off-white pump she would wear to marry Clark—I wondered how I had gotten into this mess. Then I eyeballed the bags surrounding my feet, two of which were mine and contained the sexiest, strappiest red heels and the most adorable pair of sneakers I had ever seen, and remembered that it had been my own greed that had been my undoing.

  Finally my mother looked up from where she’d been trying without success to adjust the strap on her current shoe selection so that it didn’t leave so much of her big toe exposed. “You know what?” she said, sudden reason dawning in her eyes. “I don’t really need these anyway. What do you say we put this to rest and go get some lunch?”

  Since eating was always my favorite option, I readily agreed. Once we had negotiated the crowds and made our way out of Macy’s, we opted to get away from the maddening midtown scene and hopped a cab downtown. We decided to eat at Zen Palate, as my mother had just finished reading a book on the virtues of soy and was eager to jump into her next phase: vegetarianism.

  An hour later, halfway through a plate of curried udon noodles with tofu and vegetables, my mother put down her fork. “You know, this is good,” she said, picking up her napkin and patting her lips, “but I don’t know if I can go the whole nine yards with this vegetarian stuff.” She smiled. “I grew up on meat. It seems unnatural not to eat it!”

  I smiled back at her, feeling in good spirits again now that we were safely away from any beckoning sales and my tummy was full of sautéed eggplant and fried bean curd. “Yeah, well, I haven’t officially crossed over myself, though Alyssa swears soy is the answer to everything.”

  “How is Alyssa doing?”

  “Alyssa’s great. She and Richard are doing great,” I replied, remembering how happy they had looked together last time I’d seen them. “I bet they’ll be engaged any day now.”

  “Oh, that is good news,” my mother replied, her smile shining in her eyes. “And Jade? Is she dating anyone?”

  “As it turns out,” I replied, “Jade is in love.”

  “In love!” my mother exclaimed, her joy evident. “With who?”

  “This guy Ted she met at the gym. Real sweet. Nothing like Michael.”

  “Thank God,” my mother replied. She had met Michael once or twice and even on such short acquaintance could tell what a self-absorbed jerk he was. I guess that’s one of the benefits of dating into your fifties—you gain a sixth sense when it comes to men and can spot a creep at five hundred yards. “It was about time Jade met someone good,” Mom continued.

  An awkward silence fell between us, during which I was positive my mother’s thoughts had turned to me, her daughter, who I’m sure she deemed well overdue for Mr. Perfect.

  “What?” I said, trying to wipe the look of anticipation off her face. Did she think I had actually met someone who had any sort of potential and then deliberately kept the news from her?

  “Nothing!” she replied. “I was just wondering what was going on with you.”

  I immediately became defensive, spoiling the pleasant mood between us. And though I regretted it later, some demon inside me drove me to it and I couldn’t help myself. “Do you want to know what’s going on with me, or do you want to know what’s going on in my love life? Because if it’s the latter, I have nothing to say on the subject. But if it’s the former—”

  “Emma! What’s with this attack? I thought we were having a nice time. I thought—”

  “Maybe that’s the problem with you,” I said, an anger surging over me that I hadn’t even realized had been simmering. “You always want to think we’re having a nice time. Well, maybe if you’d just lay off the meds for a few days, you’d realize life isn’t so rosy most of the time. That maybe we aren’t always having a nice time. That maybe life just plain sucks most of the time.”

  My mother’s face crumbled with a mixture of hurt and concern, causing the first wave of regret to crash over me. What had I done? And why had I done it?

  I sighed, my anger morphing into self-hatred. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  She held up a hand, cutting me off. “First, in defense of myself I want to say that I haven’t so much as touched antidepressants since…since a few months after I met Clark. I know I depended on them a lot to get me through the rough patches over the years, but those days are over for me. Ever since I met Clark, everything is different. I’m different.”

  Needless to say, I was shocked, and a little suspicious. “Don’t you worry that your happiness is too dependent on Clark? I mean, didn’t you just trade one drug for another? Antidepressants for love?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “No. Because when I met Clark, I was in a different place emotionally. I had been through counseling. I was down to only five hundred milligrams a day. I felt like…like I understood myself better. Like I knew what I wanted out of life. So when Clark came into the picture, I was sure it was him.”

  Now I was truly shell-shocked. It seemed my mother, while blundering through her marriages and seemingly making a mess of her life, had managed to find happiness. I ached with a mixture of shimmering hope and utter despair.

  Because I realized I could be happy one day, too, but it wouldn’t be something I could easily find in Macy’s shoe department, or even at the bottom of a Skinny Scoop container. In fact, I suspected I had a lot more hell to go through before I even got close. But for the first time, I realized with tremulous hope as I studied my moth
er’s satisfied expression, I would get there. If I gave it a chance.

  Confession: I am forced to shed my role as office pariah—and ex-girlfriend.

  The following week I felt as if a great load had suddenly been lifted off my shoulders. I even summoned up the courage to call my dad to check up on him. The good news was that he appeared to be laying off the alcohol, and had even started to attend some Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, which was a good sign, considering that he usually wrote them off, saying that the only people who went to those meetings were people who “really had problems.” For years, my father seemed to think he fell into another category. I suppose this had a lot to do with the fact that he had managed to stay functional even during his hardest drinking days. He held down a job, renovated his first home and, when he remarried, completely overhauled his second home, though he was a bit older and a lot less fit for the job. All with the assistance of good old Johnnie Walker. But now that he was retired and found himself falling off of rooftops, I guess he figured it was time to face a few facts.

  I began to feel cautiously optimistic about him. And I might have been more hopeful if Deirdre hadn’t mentioned that he was still vigorously seeking a new lawyer for his lawsuit against the harness company. I guess he still couldn’t let go of the need for a scapegoat yet.

  And I should know. I had a few scapegoats of my own, I discovered. Namely, Rebecca, who, I realized, I had turned into the one reason why I would never succeed in life.

  It seemed that in the weeks following Rebecca’s rise to power I had become the unsung heroine of the weary and disgruntled among the ranks of Bridal Best. People like Lucretia Henry with her dead-end job and Marcy Keller, who lacked an inner emotional life, took every opportunity to let me know how strongly they felt that the promotion should have been mine, how I had been a victim of the kind of mismanagement that would one day bring the magazine to its knees. I will admit that my survival at Bridal Best in the weeks after Rebecca moved into her freshly painted office, complete with a door and a window with an East River view, was dependent on this kind of bitter commentary. How else could I go on if I didn’t convince myself that Rebecca, with her power suits and freshly trimmed bob, hadn’t blindsided Patricia and everyone else into thinking she was better than she actually was?