Diary of a Working Girl (32 page)

Unfortunately, myself does not come with any sort of road map.

21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 251

S e v e n t e e n

The Exorcism

On Sunday, though, I wake up with a renewed sense of hope. The ideas I’d been mulling over for the past twenty-four hours have formed some sense in my head. Of course, in the aftermath of what has been the hugest realization I have ever experienced, I am still just trying to get my mind around everything I have learned. I spent the better portion of yesterday in mourning. I’ve mentally waved good-bye to everything I’d thought life was about since I was a little girl. And although shame has played a key part in recalling my actions and emotions of the past, there is a process that accompanies letting go.

No matter how unhealthy and ridiculous my M&M ideals may have been, they were so much a part of me that I am not sure who I can be now. Even when I was at my lowest points, gluing glitter to “Anti-fairy-tale-ism” posters, I knew who I was; I knew the ins 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 252

252

D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y

and outs of my life, my value system. There wasn’t the faltering, the wavering that accompanies the unknown. I always knew what I would have one day, what I wanted. I had a plan, and even if my fantasies were detrimental, they kept me company. They dictated what I would do, how I would act, how I would feel.

There was no question, no way for me to take an alternate course. I didn’t have to think, I just had to hope and dream and wait for the day it would all come to fruition. After all of this time, my friendships were dictated by my role—the lonely one, the one who called to complain about a dateless Saturday night. The question in my mind reminds me of when I left my college dorm for the last time to start my adult life: Who will I be now? The unknown can be a scary thing.

But after spending yesterday concentrating on the difficulty of the loss, today I wake seeing a lightness that hasn’t occurred to me before. The pressure that I felt to find that one perfect person—

that culmination of every daydream, every journal entry, a bit of Hugh Grant, a slice of Tom Cruise, a lover like Richard Gere—has completely disappeared. My entire life, I’ve walked around with that weight, that ghost of the M&M haunting me.

He hovered in the corner of my bedroom, clucking his tongue at every boyfriend who wasn’t a fabulous kisser, at every lover who couldn’t go all night long. He sat at the empty seat in restaurants when my companion didn’t hold my hand or stare deeply into my eyes at the moment I deemed appropriate.

He laughed on my couch when I opened the door to reveal a boyfriend who hadn’t bought flowers for a special date that I’d built up in my mind. He was always ready with an “I told you so”

when a wonderful man presented me with a thoughtful present—

a new cordless phone with a very professional headset, “Because a 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 253

D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 253

talented writer should look the part,” rather than the perfect pair of earrings or sexy lingerie.

He’d frown menacingly at the one who, instead of ripping my clothes off while I cooked what I’d envisioned to be the most romantic meal for two, spent the time downloading MP3s from the Internet to create a song list that he hoped would commemorate our perfect evening forever.

Now that I see him for what he is—someone who controlled my thoughts and my life for that matter, I want to make sure that he is gone from my other haunts, the spots I’d visited in the past that served as clear indications that I was a have-not, as compared to all the haves that surrounded me.

My first stop: Central Park. As much as I’d always loved this urban oasis, the trees, the reservoir, the funky dancing Rollerbladers, the playful dogs, the majestic cityscape, I feel I’d never really gone through a day there without focusing on how alone I’d felt. I need to clear my head of these hindrances, and start anew, and with the glorious spring weather in full swing, I can’t think of a better spot.

I am not looking for diversions today. I pack no book; I bring no Walkman to listen to love songs and separate myself from the real world. I want to become part of the present and live for today—

the real day, rather than the ideal far-off one.

When I enter the park at Sixtieth Street I notice Rollerbladers, bikers, runners in brightly hued clothing, and of course lots wearing the urban uniform—black. I see a hot dog vendor selling his treats.

I decide to indulge in one, rather than worry that I’ll have to maintain the perfect body for the perfect man. The smell is fabulous, salty and strong. I notice the spiciness of the mustard, the sweetness of the ketchup. It is the absolute best lunch I have ever had.

I walk past a bench where a couple is sharing a hushed conver-21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 254

254

D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y

sation, their eyes oblivious to passersby. And, here, I smile. Rather than taking the role of the have-not, I am a have, and what I have is so precious and has taken so long to figure out that I once again recall that last day of college. But this time I remember the other set of feelings—the splendor of victory, the freedom, the feeling that you can have whatever you want in this world.

Normally, I find the rolling hills and the wide-open space of Sheep’s Meadow a lonely place in the face of the couples sharing wine and cheese from a picnic basket, tossing around a Frisbee. My eyes always skip over the single people enjoying the sun’s rays or indulging in some magazine reading, never seeing the smile on their faces, the serenity of their experiences. Instead I have always focused with tunnel vision on the pairs, never considering the possibility that a solo venture could be anything but lonely.

But I am not that girl anymore. When I do spot couples, I am delighted in the knowledge that I have learned the secret they share. And as I see them, I begin to grasp more and more what this is all about. There is no such thing as perfection. And while they may seem as happy as newlyweds right now, and probably genuinely are, they have faced lost jobs, weathered arguments, worked to make their sex lives fulfilling. Perhaps one has thought about cheating, maybe one already has. One has probably gained weight, lost hair, suffered through illness, questioned their happiness, felt bored. At one point, they had to tuck their fantasy person deep into a drawer and throw away the key to accept what a real relationship is. They had to make sacrifices and concessions for things.

They had to accept reality.

Love is not the perfect dinner conversation or an all-out boink-fest. It is not someone ordering the chicest appetizer or saying the perfect thing when you open the door. In short, it is none of the surface things you pick up from leading men who know how to 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 255

D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 255

keep the heroine dying for more. Love only happens when you are willing to forgo all of those stereotypes of perfection and exchange them for an appreciation and love of the unique things that
your
someone does, to the best of their abilities, to make you happy. And while I know it is fruitless to revisit the many relationships I have destroyed in ignorance of this understanding, many of the scenes play in my mind anyway, and I can only hope that in future scenarios, I will recognize the everyday wonders that fall outside the stereotypical mold.

With the death of the M&M, the power of happiness lies in my hands alone. And I have to wonder: Will I be capable of discerning not only the good bits, but which concessions are the right ones to make? How much is too much to give up?

Although I am glad to have rid myself of my M&M ghost, I have become so comfortable with him that the idea of leaving him behind for good seems daunting. I will have to start life anew. It feels like mourning. My black ensemble seems pointedly appropriate. I have carried and nurtured this dream and had it keep me company on many a lonely night, and now I have to let it go. I get the sense that I should be tossing something into the river to start fresh, like when I was little and we celebrated the Jewish New Year by scattering bits of bread into the water. But what would it be?

Liam springs to mind as an appropriate choice.

But really, I shouldn’t be angry with him. I now see that I should be thankful that he allowed me to see the world for what it really is. Despite the lies, he was just as sad and foolish as I was. It is not so difficult to see how he got to that point—that very far-gone and ridiculous point. Was he really so much more far-gone than I?

Was I not creating my own reality, just as he was? Perhaps I’d wished him into existence. If I hadn’t been so open to the whole scenario, it wouldn’t have worked.

21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 256

256

D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y

The lovemaking we had shared was very much like a movie—

two characters playing the roles they had spent a lifetime creating.

Had I not already created my own Liam the very first time we’d met? Had I not weaved together the pieces of his life as I wanted to see them? I’d pictured his bathtub, his family, his home in Provence.

I’d fancied that I could unbreak his allegedly broken heart. I’d loved the drama. I’d pictured us making love before we’d even kissed. I’d outlined the way he would tug my hair, the way his kisses would start out slowly and build up to deep, hungry cries of passion. And the prophecy fulfilled itself.

It wasn’t real. I could see it so clearly now—the chocolate cake, the ravaging kisses. This was less of an exchange between two people and more of an act—what we both thought the script of love should read like. And when I thought back to the compliments, the moans, each time my name was repeated after the words, “Oh my God,” they are now empty, not for me, not inspired by me. And that is what was missing from the puzzle: The fact that I could have been interchanged with virtually any lovesick girl. Lane Silverman was never there.

When I get home, I decide to create my own rebirth ritual.

Rather than sit on my couch and go through tape upon tape of movies that have helped fuel my ridiculous existence, I decide to do a little housecleaning. Since I am going to start a new life, I need to rid myself of the artifices I’ve employed in the past to propagate my deceitful life.

I start with my bookcase. After two hours, I have lots of shelf space available and four boxes of love stories. I am not going to throw them away. These books are not bad, after all. It is I who did not know how to put them in their proper place. Now I know that I can only blame myself. What I am going to do is put them 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 257

D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 257

in the storage area in the basement until I am ready to revisit them.

Next up is my collection of films. Looking at each one, I see hours and hours of time wasted, weekends, days I could have spent working, living. I can’t blame fate for the days I spent feeling jealous, watching and crying and considering myself unlucky. And with each tape I remove, I laugh. This whole time I’ve been trick-ing myself, hiding them in drawers like an alcoholic locking a liquor cabinet, rather than admitting there is a problem.

“I’m Lane and I’m a love-a-holic.”

When I take the books and files to the basement, I feel quite sure that I will have no need to look at them again. And once the super locks them inside the storage room, I feel light as a feather. I am taking a step I should have taken long ago. I know that in the future I will be able to revisit my cherished books and movies, but not for fulfillment; it will be for entertainment only. But before that time comes, I have a lot of living to do.

When I return to my apartment again, I don’t get that lonely feeling I normally do on a weekend without plans. I am not saddened by the single place settings of bowls, glasses, plates that are stacked in my cabinet. My single-servings of chicken cutlets and hamburgers tucked away inside Ziploc bags in the freezer do not serve as reason to shed tears, to despise couples walking hand in hand down the street. I feel no need to sit at my window, counting those whose fortunes outweigh my own. And please don’t misun-derstand. I have not resigned myself to the fact that I will never love. I have just realized that I hold the key to love—that I’ve held it all along.

21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 258

E i g h t e e n

A Painstakingly

Researched Article

When Monday rears its head, and I am at home, having taken the day off to begin my article, I feel the pressure of this assignment in such a tangible way that I can barely bring myself to sit down at my computer. This whole experiment has blown up in my face. I have learned something, but not achieved my goal. The pressure of finding my M&M, of having to truly think about what it takes to be with someone forever caused me to realize that I was not equipped with the realistic notions required. If I had taken a step back and seen what was really going on—seen that the perfectly good men I was tuning out because they did not send tingles up my spine at first sight were probably worth a thousand Liam’s—perhaps I
could
have done what I set out to do.

And despite what I had originally thought, it’s not the geograph-ical environment that you are in that makes it possible to meet The One. It is the environment within—your heart, your mind, your 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 259

D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 259

willingness to take someone for good and bad, your willingness to forgo fantasy for reality. If you can do that, then you can find happiness in love. If you can’t, then you will always find some sort of excuse as to why not—geography being only one of them.

But the fact remains that I have an article to write. I feel like a fraud, having posed as a real, dedicated writer, when, if you really think about it, I have behaved like a stupid little girl. Now I have to act like an adult. And the only thing an adult in this situation could do is to take her experiences and write the best article she can think to write and convince her editor that this is, in fact, the better story.