Girl Walks Into a Bar (18 page)

A whole weekend date with someone you don’t know all that well can be intense and nerve-racking and fun all rolled into one. John commented that we were experiencing the “waterboarding” of dating, and I had to agree. The next time I saw him, he had a gift for me…. He had tracked down a T-shirt that said I
’D
R
ATHER
B
E
W
ATERBOARDING
.

After the July
Fourth weekend, John and I continued our long-distance, casual, fun, not-defined relationship. We talked on the phone pretty much every day. He definitely acted like he was courting me. He’d text “I miss you! Wish you were here!” I really wasn’t used to this dynamic at all—being pursued instead of feeling like the pursuer. A month later, he
came to New York and accompanied me to Fire Island, where I was doing an ensemble comedy show that I do from time to time. It’s always a hit—always gets laughs—but wouldn’t you know it, on this particular occasion, the first time he was ever seeing me perform, the show completely bombed. I was mortified. I sheepishly skulked up to him after the show and had to trot out the old Second City improv line: “This is usually really funny! I swear!”

As the cross-country visits continued, we would usually end up having a few major laughing fits together. He continued his surprise acts of chivalry and sweetness. When I went to wine country with my friends and happened to mention to him the wine we liked best, a wine I had never heard of from a tiny family vineyard, a case of it arrived at my apartment a week later. He had ice cream in his freezer called Three Twins, and when I tried it, I exclaimed, “Oh my God, this is some of the best ice cream I’ve ever tasted!” Wouldn’t you know it, six pints arrived in New York on dry ice. (Have you noticed a food and wine theme here?) He was always planning our next adventure. “Come meet me in Chicago!” he’d say when he had a meeting there. He came to Manhattan in September for a few weeks and stayed in a friend’s vacant apartment because “he’d always wanted to live in New York at some point,” but it sure seemed like he was coming east to hang with me.

Gore vs. W

Our relationship was perfect
for two people in their early forties who lived in two different cities. We both liked doing the same sort of things—travel, food, wine, nature. I wasn’t sure that on a soul level we were connected. I don’t think either of us was, like, “I’ve found the One!!” but neither of us was too concerned about that fact. It was enough to have a fun “date” and a nice guy to pal around with. There was no pressure to think of “Where is this going?” since it hadn’t been going very long at all.

In many ways, we were quite different. He’s a Midwesterner who was raised in a devout Catholic family and went to a small business college in Michigan that he calls “one step above DeVry.” I’m your typical East Coast gal from the burbs. John told me his dad is so devout that he goes to the church to babysit the statues a few times a week. I thought this was a euphemism of some sort—that he stopped by to make sure everything looked cool, but no—he actually goes and sits with the statues. Aside from the religious differences, though, John
possesses a lot of the qualities that I had on my “list.” I put the word
list
in quotes so you don’t think I’m one of those women who actually wrote out a list, but the truth is I did, so in reality those quotes are a bit of a lie.

John was funny, smart, handsome, very fun, generous, extremely thoughtful, around my age, open to meeting my friends, liked to travel—the list goes on and on. About a month or so after I met him, we were talking on the phone and something about politics came up. John made some comment that sounded a bit right wing to me—I think it may have been something positive about George W. Bush.

“Whooooa. Hold up, hold up, hold up,” I said.

“What is it?”

“ARE YOU A … REPUBLICAN?!!” I nearly shouted in a shrill tone.

Slight pause. “No. I’m an Independent.”

“BULLSHIT!” I cried. “YOU’RE A REPUBLICAN!”

Oh … my … God. I was dating a
Republican
!? HOW did this HAPPEN!!!? “OK,” I said. “Even if you are a Republican, you
have
to admit that George Bush is an idiot.”

John proceeded to list some of the “good things” George Bush had done. “UGH! I can’t
believe
this!” I was practically hyperventilating.

“Wow,” marveled John. “You’re really getting angry about this!”

OK. Reel it in, Dratch. He was right. He wasn’t getting angry that I was a flaming liberal. Yes, he would call me Al Gore when I insisted on recycling. Yes, he would later soundly mock me when I actually brought home empty plastic bottles
in my suitcase after we were in a place where recycling wasn’t available. But doesn’t he know that there’s an ISLAND OF PLASTIC THE SIZE OF TEXAS FLOATING IN THE DAMN PACIFIC OCEAN!?!! Deep breath. Anyway, he wasn’t getting worked up because I was a flaming liberal. Yet here I was, having a conniption fit that he was an “Independent.” (It can’t be true. I
know
he’s a Republican!) When I hung up, I had to give myself a talking-to. “Look, you haven’t dated anyone seriously in about five years. You’re not going to be able to have
everything
on your ‘list’ (again with the quotes).” But that was the thing I realized. I hadn’t even put Democrat on my list. Most everyone I know is a Democrat, with the exception of two girlfriends with whom I avoid talking politics entirely. Thus it’s kind of my own fault for not writing
exactly
what I wanted on the list. So I just don’t really discuss politics with John. I tried to venture there, on a topic I thought surely everyone could agree on. “I’m really upset about this oil spill,” I said. “Yeah,” he replied, “and the Obama administration waited, like, a week to really respond to the problem.” OH! YOU MEAN THE “PROBLEM” THAT BP CREATED AND HAD NO BACKUP EMERGENCY PLAN AND NOW HERE WE WERE A MONTH LATER AND THERE WAS NO SOLUTION IN SIGHT? But I didn’t say that. I noted my increased blood pressure and heart rate, remained silent, and thought, “From now on, I’ll just talk about this stuff with my other friends.”

Meet Me on the Astral Plane

In spite of our outward
differences, John and I seemed connected on some sort of psychic level. Sometimes our connection on the spiritual plane gave me pause and made me think I shouldn’t take our connection on this plane so lightly. When I went to San Francisco the second time, we were staying at a hotel across from the food and wine fest where we were spending the weekend. When we awoke in the morning, I was aware that I had had some really bizarre dreams, some so bizarre I certainly wouldn’t have shared them. Namely, I had dreamed of a detached penis. It was the first and only detached penis dream I could recall ever having in my life.

“I had a really weird dream last night,” said John.

“Really? So did I,” I said. “What did you dream?”

“Well,” said John, “I dreamed of … a detached penis.”

Oh … my … God. I looked at him with wide eyes. “NO WAY.
I
HAD A DREAM OF A DETACHED PENIS!!”

“WHAT!?”

“YES!! A DETACHED PENIS! I’VE NEVER HAD A DREAM OF A DETACHED PENIS IN MY LIFE!”

The penii played different roles in our dreams. In his dream, we were in a car and we were pulled over by the cops. The cop, who, because this was a dream, was of course represented by Gary Busey, was saying, “You two are in big trouble!” and he was waving around a detached penis like a weapon. He was waving it in my face and threatening me with it, and John was trying to intervene. In my dream, there was a detached penis lying on the bed and it belonged to my old boyfriend. I was wondering if I could keep it for future use or if anyone would know I took it or if I would get in trouble for that. I don’t know—both dreams involved consequences and getting into trouble and … a detached penis. Though I did minor in psychology, I can’t really crack the code on this one. Maybe if I had majored in it, I could.

Since that happened, I would check to see if any of our dreams matched up again. When we were saying good night on the phone, I’d say, “OK. See you on the astral plane!” I didn’t see him on the astral plane until several months later, when we were on a trip together. When we awoke, I realized I had had a ton of vivid dreams that night. I mentioned this to John. “Did you have any?”

“No,” he said. “Actually, I was awake at, like, four
A.M.,
and I realized I left my blue fleece jacket on the plane.”

I stopped in my tracks. I clenched his arm.

“Oh my God! No way!” I cried.

“What?”

“I have chills!”

“What?! What?!”

“I dreamed that I was holding a blue fleece jacket, one that really exists in my apartment, and I was offering it to you, saying, ‘Is this yours? Does this belong to you?’”

In November, John
e-mailed me to say, “I have a business meeting in Florida. You could come down and meet me on such-and-such a date. Or … Kauai, December 18–27.”

These were some grand plans. I’d never been to Hawaii. It seemed very honeymoony. Maybe we weren’t serious enough to take that kind of trip together. If I had been in my early thirties, I would have asked myself things like
“Where is this going? What are the implications of this? Is this too big a move?”
But when you’re forty-three, you’re like,
“Who cares? I’ve never been to Hawaii. I have fun with this guy. I’m going.”

Kauai was so beautiful that my mind couldn’t comprehend it was real. On a hike, we would joke that we were going to look down and see an electrical outlet coming out of the rocks and realize we were just in some Disney World exhibit. We hung out on a private beach in the company of a monk seal and went on hikes through the otherworldly beauty. A truly bizarre thing was there were paparazzi on this remote nature trail following us to take pictures of … me? I wanted to tell them—“Guys! Save your energy! These pictures might fetch about two dollars on the mainland!” But other than that, all was very idyllic. Although John did manage to step on a sea urchin and we had to go to the ER to remove the pieces from his foot. The
trip had it all—nature, beauty, romance, and a little bit of danger, and it was all because I had said yes when John asked me to go to San Francisco for July Fourth and had said yes to Hawaii and didn’t listen to some dumb rules in my head about convention and what you
should
do.

Around the New Year
, back in New York, I was having a wicked case of PMS that I just couldn’t shake. The
P
of
premenstrual
kept on and on, with the
M
not happening. Then it occurred to me:
I’m going through menopause.
My mother had early menopause at age forty-one, so once I hit forty, I was always aware that it could be coming at any time. I looked up
menopause
on the Internet, curious whether raging PMS was a symptom. I called my friend Megan, one of my childhood friends from home. I have a group of friends I’ve known since I was a kid, and we all form a circle of amateur therapists, there at the ready for any problem that may arise. “How do I know if I’m going through menopause?” Ugh. I was feeling down. I knew it was a big change for anyone, but when you don’t have kids, it seems especially depressing and final.

“What are your symptoms?” she asked me, and I told her about the wicked PMS.

“Well, you could be pregnant.”

“That’s not possible.”

First of all, there was the aforementioned early menopause in my genetic code. Also, there was the simple fact of my age. As any lady knows, you are constantly bombarded by the media and medical establishment with how difficult it can be to conceive
after forty. At forty-three, two months shy of forty-four, forget it. It was impossible. I would need medical intervention to get pregnant at my age, and even then it’d probably take a miracle.

I went to class at the gym and started musing,
What if I were pregnant? Was there any way? Maybe I should just get a test to rule it out—a mere formality
. I went to the drugstore after my class. The lady checking me out picked up the pregnancy test and said, “Shee-it. These scare me. I don’t even want to
look
at that!”