“You’re almost thirty,” Dr. Bob pointed out. “Do you want to marry Matt?”
I knew this was therapy, but the question struck me as a little personal. “I mean, I don’t know,” I stammered. “Maybe. You know?”
Dr. Bob waited it out. When I’d been quiet for a while, he prompted, “But you love him, right?”
“Of course! Definitely. It’s just . . . I just thought I would know when I met The One. But with Matt I guess I don’t know without a doubt. Which is ridiculous, right? He’s sexy and smart and caring and patient—can you believe that in three years I’ve never heard him raise his voice?—and hard-working and honest. If you overlook the fact that he has finger toes, he’s the ideal man.”
“Finger toes?”
“His toes. They’re really long and look like fingers. I make fun of them all the time.”
“Really?” Dr. Bob looked a little disturbed. “I’ve never seen a finger toe.”
“Well, consider yourself lucky. They’re terrible. My point is, Matt is basically the perfect guy, but are we one soul dwelling in two different bodies? I wouldn’t go that far. How do I know if he’s perfect for me?”
“You don’t.” Dr. Bob crossed his ankle over his knee and adjusted his khakis.
“But aren’t you supposed to know these things for sure? Maybe the fact that I don’t know whether Matt is The One is a sign that he isn’t The One?” My eyes fell on Dr. Bob’s gold wedding band. Twenty years ago he married a Rockette, and they’d been happily wed since.
“Have you thought about bringing your concerns up to Matt?”
“No. Things are perfect between us right now. Why would I mess with that?”
He waited for me to go on.
“And what if I marry Matt, then later I meet some guy who’s exactly as perfect as Matt, but he’s also hysterically funny and not allergic to cats?”
“Matt’s not funny?”
“Sure, he’s normal person funny, but what if the guy I meet is, like, Conan O’Brien funny? What then?”
Dr. Bob made a pyramid with his fingers. “Remember when we talked about perfectionism?”
“I remember.”
Perfectionism is the fear of making mistakes. There are two sides to perfectionism. At its best, it’s motivating and inspires you to set high goals for yourself. But it can also get out of control. Perfectionists can turn into workaholics because their efforts never feel good enough. They engage in all-or-nothing thinking about their performance—if it isn’t perfect, it’s horrible. They give up easily. They procrastinate on goals, waiting for inspiration to strike or the timing to feel right. They avoid social situations if they aren’t feeling “on.” They organize their lives around avoiding mistakes and end up missing wonderful opportunities.
Dr. Bob leaned back in his chair and replaced the cap on his pen. “Here’s the reality of life,” he said. “You make decisions with imperfect information and achieve imperfect results. The alternative is to never make a decision and never achieve results. There’s no guarantee you or your spouse won’t get bored and find someone else. But taking your chances with someone who is nearly right is a better bet than waiting for a perfect partner.”
The next day I was standing on the runway at the airport gazing uneasily at the prop plane. It was about the size of my parents’ SUV and seated six people. On top of that, we were about to fly into a rainstorm. I pulled out my cell phone and called Matt. He was driving down from Albany and would take the ferry to Nantucket, where he’d meet me at our B&B.
“Remember the last scene in La Bamba right before Ritchie Valens gets on that tiny-ass plane and flies into a snowstorm and dies?”
“Vaguely.”
“That’s what this feels like right now,” I said, “except I haven’t accomplished anything noteworthy yet.”
“At least you’ve found your scary thing for the day. Any last words?”
Remembering yesterday’s conversation with Dr. Bob, I joked, “Yeah, if the plane goes down, you’re not allowed to move on and find someone else. If you do, I’ll haunt you and your wife until you divorce her and take a vow of celibacy.” Matt laughed, a little too heartily for my taste.
Five minutes later the puddle jumper was fighting its way through the air, the rain dribbling like beads of sweat down the windows. Flying made me rethink my life and consider my death like no other form of transportation. You hear about those crashes where the aircraft goes down with such zeal that the wreckage is reduced to pieces no bigger than a Post-it note. Maybe skydiving enthusiasts could find the silver lining and enjoy the free fall, but I hated the sensation of losing my stomach. During childhood trips to Six Flags, when my friends went on roller coasters, I sat on a bench and guarded everyone’s purses.
Each time the plane bobbled, I inhaled sharply and tensed up. My position of choice during turbulence was to clench the edges of the seat cushion and pull upward. The lone upside to a dramatic death was, of course, the prospect of making the cover of the New York Post. But now, as I tried to conjure some punchy headlines, I worried that my passing wouldn’t have as much significance because I wasn’t engaged. If Matt and I were betrothed, I could make the front page: “Fiancé Recalls Last Phone Call with Plane Crash Victim: ‘Never Marry.’ ” But as a free agent I didn’t stand a chance. Sure, it was sad when someone’s girlfriend died in a plane crash, but when a fiancée died in a plane crash? Then you’re cooking with propane. Now there would be no wrenching scene with investigators handing over a half-scorched engagement ring, asking, “Sir, was she wearing this the last time you saw her?” and Matt collapsing into their arms, sobbing, while they fanned his face. No, instead they’d have to go the old “identifying body marks” route. They’d take Matt aside and ask, sotto voce, “Sir, did your girlfriend have a tattoo of a dolphin on her butt?” (It seemed like a good idea at the time. But what doesn’t when you’re sixteen?)
The plane dipped abruptly, and the passengers collectively gasped. “Sorry, folks! Little bit of rough air here,” the pilot called out from the “cockpit,” which had no door and was so close he didn’t have to raise his voice. I thought about who would come to my funeral. I was anxious that my media friends wouldn’t have anything to talk about with my college friends. Then I realized they’d be talking about me so it wouldn’t matter.
“To tell you the truth, I hadn’t seen her that much in the last year,” someone would say over cheese cubes speared with festively colored foil toothpicks.
“Me neither,” another would jump in. “I did get a kindly worded text message on my birthday, though.”
After fifty minutes of the plane never really calming down, it began its final descent and we wobbled down to the sweet, wet earth.
As I staggered off the plane, all I wanted was to get to our B&B. Everything about the island was quaint—the gray shingled cottages, cobblestone streets, even the plump raindrops. When I arrived, our small, surprisingly airy room was empty; Matt must have been caught in traffic. I wriggled out of my damp T-shirt and waterlogged jeans, kicking them across the wooden floor in the general direction of the radiator. Wearing only my bra and panties, I vaulted onto the high four-poster bed, sprawling on my stomach on the white down comforter.
Television options in the late afternoon were grim. I settled on a romantic comedy about a spoiled figure skater forced to team up with an oafish ex–hockey player to compete at the Olympics. Romantic comedies, I’d noticed, occasionally ended with a wedding, but they were almost never about marriage. Movies about marriage were dramas. Things ended badly for married couples in movies. Jack Nicholson tried to break into the bathroom with an axe. Glenn Close was shot in the bathtub. Thelma escaped an abusive husband only to drive off a cliff with Louise. Matt burst through the door of our hotel room just as the figure skater beaned the hockey player in the head with a puck.
He took in my bra and panties ensemble.
“No need to get all dressed up for me. But I’m glad you did!”
I laughed. “It was all part of my master plan. Now get over here so I can have my way with you.”
He set down his leather duffel, hung up his trench coat, and pulled off his wet shoes and socks. In three strides he was standing over me, leaning down to give me a kiss. Right before our lips touched, he shook the rain out of his hair, making me squeal. He flopped down on the bed next to me and propped himself up on one elbow. I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively and set upon unbuttoning his shirt.
“Let’s get those wet clothes off,” I said. As he turned his face into mine, his feet grazed my ankle and I stopped. “But first you have to get those finger toes off me.”
He grinned and pressed his feet more firmly into my ankle.
I cringed. “Seriously, I love you a little less right now.”
“Oh, shut up and kiss me.”
The next day, the ceremony was all whiteness and light. The inside of the church was painted a gleaming eggshell and the high arched windows bathed the room in sunlight. Even the bride and groom were pale blonds. While Tom and Casey vowed to spend the rest of their lives together, I shifted uncomfortably in our pew. Just as flying forces you to reevaluate your life, weddings force you to reevaluate your relationship. Would Matt and I be repeating those lines to each other one day? Or would we be saying them to someone else whom we hadn’t even met yet? That thought filled me with sadness and I squeezed Matt’s hand, as if to confirm that he was still there.
At the reception I was introduced to Matt’s ex-girlfriend of five years and her fiancé. Their wedding was in two weeks. The fiancé and I shook hands and tried not to picture our significant others having sex.
After they walked away, I asked Matt, “Are you okay? Was that weird at all, seeing her?”
“Nah, we broke up eight years ago.” Noticing that I looked anxious he added, “Nothing to worry about.”
I smiled at him. “I know. It’s not that. I haven’t done my scary thing for the day yet,” I said. “Usually something would’ve come up by now, but it hasn’t.” I cast a desperate glance around the room, looking for some daunting situation I could throw myself into.
He thought for a moment. A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face. “I have an idea. Follow me.”
Before I could protest, he had placed my hand in the crook of his elbow in an exaggerated gentlemanly gesture and was leading me up the stairs. When we reached the end of the hallway, he opened a door and steered me into a room. Suddenly we were standing on fluffy peach carpeting, the kind that begged to be walked on in bare feet. There was a large canopy bed in the center of the room.
Matt moved behind me. “Now,” he said, sliding his hands over my bare shoulders, “let’s get these wet clothes off.”
“But my clothes aren’t wet.”
He grinned naughtily. “Let’s get them off anyway.”
“Wait! We can’t defile Casey’s bridal suite!” I hissed, untangling myself from his grasp. “It’s disrespectful and not entirely sanitary.”
“This isn’t Casey’s suite. Her room is at the other side of the hotel. There’s another wedding going on here tonight. But don’t worry,” he murmured into my ear, “everyone’s going to be downstairs for hours.”
“Still, it’s not right,” I insisted. “Come on, let’s go.”
As I started to walk away, Matt caught my hand and twirled me into the deluxe bathroom, agleam in ivory marble. Pressing his body into mine, he backed me against the door, which eased shut with a barely audible click. He skimmed his fingers across my hip and flicked the lock.
I wasn’t one of those people who got a thrill from having sex in non-sex-having places. The most daring place I’d had sex was our shower in Aruba, which wasn’t really adventurous but for the off chance we might slip, crack our heads open, and have our pruney, fused-together dead bodies discovered by the turndown maid. This wasn’t much more courageous. Did having sex in someone else’s hotel room make me nervous? Yes? Was it technically a fear? Under normal circumstances, it probably wouldn’t pass inspection. But what the hell? I’d wave it through. Barring any forced participation in a dance floor conga line, this might be my last scary moment of the evening.
“There’s nothing sacred about a bathroom though, right?” Matt said. His lips were already working their way down my neck.
“There won’t be when we’re done with it.” I laughed, letting him pull me away from the door. As he kissed me, there was a soft whirring sound as he unzipped my navy satin dress. I closed my eyes and relaxed into him.
“What’s that?” I whispered into his lips.
“What?”
We waited, and out of the silence came the unmistakable rattle of the doorknob.
“Why is this door locked?” a high-pitched voice screeched.
“Oh my God!” I mouthed at Matt. Like a dog chasing its tail, I spun wildly trying to reach the zipper at the back of my dress. I hoisted it up so fast that I pinched my back fat. I screamed silently.
Matt scanned the room for a place to hide. No shower curtain or linen closet.
A chorus of female voices attempted to soothe the woman’s nerves. Bridesmaids.
“It wasn’t locked earlier!”
“Are you sure it’s locked? Maybe it’s just stuck.”
“There has to be a key somewhere. I’m sure that old lady who checked us in has one.”
“Well, let’s find her,” the screechy voice ordered. “I’m not using the communal bathroom at my own fucking wedding!”
I pressed my ear to the door. The wood was cool and smelled faintly of chemicals. I heard her dress swooshing indignantly as she turned to walk away, and the slightly frantic steps of the bridesmaids following her down the hall. When the sounds of bustling taffeta had faded into the distance, I whispered to Matt, “Okay, I think they’re gone. Let’s sneak out while they’re searching for—”
Before I could finish, the voices were back and growing louder.
“It shouldn’t be locked,” trilled a matronly voice. “I assure you, it’s your own private bridal suite. No one else is permitted to use it.”
Matt looked hopefully toward the window. A two-story drop. I snatched up a couple of fluffy peach bath towels. Maybe we could knot them together and rappel out the window like in the cartoons? No, there was no time. The voices had stopped outside the door. “I believe this is the correct one,” the hotel matron was saying over the sound of tinkling keys.
Screw the towels. I dropped them to the floor. We stared at each other in frozen horror.
“You can hold on to this key for the rest of the night,” the woman reassured the bride. There was a sound of metal hitting metal as the key entered the lock.
For a moment I considered hiding behind Matt, who would surely come up with some charming excuse when that door opened. Instead, I stood a little taller and smoothed down my dress. We could wait for them to storm in, I realized, or we could go down like heroes. I looked over at Matt and he nodded. Then I reached over and flung open the door with a flourish. A sixtysomething woman fiddling with the lock jumped back. Next to her was a bride with jet-black hair teased high on her head. Her hands, which had been on her hips, instinctively sprung into the air, acrylic nails ready to attack. Three bridesmaids in strapless lavender gowns squeaked in surprise. Matt and I linked arms. With straight faces and heads held high, we marched out of the bathroom. As we squeezed past the bride, the situation finally registered. Her forehead wrinkled in disgust.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” she shrieked, nostrils flaring. “WHAT THE FU—”
“Run!” I whispered to Matt and we charged, giggling, down the stairs.
The majority of guests were from Ireland, including the guy sitting next to us at dinner. We’d just sat down but he was already in that happy, drunk place where you can no
longer tell what’s inappropriate and you no longer care. While tuxedoed waiters passed out the salads, he turned to Matt and me.
“So are you two getting married then?” he asked loudly in his booming Irish brogue.
There it was. The question we hadn’t raised in three years of dating. It had only taken a total stranger and about half a bottle of Jameson to bring it up. All heads swiveled in our direction, and I turned my head as well and stuffed a dinner roll in my mouth. When I turned back my cheeks were engorged with French bread, so everyone’s attention shifted to Matt. He paused. I wondered what he was going to say.
After nine months of dating, Franklin proposed to Eleanor during the weekend of the Harvard-Yale football game. He had invited her as his guest and on November 23, 1902, they managed to ditch their chaperones and slip away for a walk by themselves. By the time they returned, he’d asked her to marry him and she’d said yes.
Predictably, Franklin’s mother disapproved of the match. She’d wanted a more attractive wife for her only son. In a move that’s almost impressive in its deviousness, she suggested the couple keep their engagement secret for a year. Then she took Franklin on a five-week Caribbean cruise, hoping he’d lose interest in Eleanor. Their feelings only grew stronger. Franklin returned for his final term at Harvard, and they wrote passionate love letters back and forth.
“You are never out of my thoughts dear for one moment,” Eleanor wrote to her fiancé. “Everything is changed for me now. I am so happy. Oh! So happy & I love you so dearly.” When Eleanor told her grandmother about the proposal, Mrs. Hall asked if she was really in love. “I solemnly answered ‘yes,’ ” Eleanor later said, “and yet I know now that it was years later before I understood what being in love or what loving really meant.”
They married on St. Patrick’s Day in 1905. Uncle Teddy escorted Eleanor down the aisle, having chosen this date because he’d be in town to kick off the St. Patrick’s Day parade. Eleanor was, in her words, “decked out beyond description.” Her dress was constructed of stiff satin and the same lace her mother and grandmother wore at their weddings. She pinned her veil with a diamond crescent that belonged to her mother. Sara, who was never one for subtlety, gave Eleanor a high-necked pearl dog collar with diamond bars. It was from Tiffany and cost $4,000, but the symbolism was priceless.
My Year with Eleanor Page 8
