Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy (27 page)

The problem was that I had no idea what to do instead. It had all become such a habit, a reliable routine. I’d never worked out what I would use to replace it. I loved Jonathan, but thinking about his love did not relieve my angst. What was my emotional Nicorette? Food? Video games? Religion?

Everyone avoided making eye contact as I walked among them, except for that one woman, my big cheerleader in the crowd. She bee-lined in my direction. She was stunning in that au naturel kind of way, pulling off an adorable boyish haircut and cut-off jeans. I couldn’t tell if I was attracted to her or just jealous.

“You were wonderful!” she bellowed in a voice that did not
match her exterior. Was it an Eastern European accent of some sort? I couldn’t pinpoint its origin, only that she sounded a bit like my waxer. She extended her arms, inviting me in for a hug.

I agreed to it even though it felt patronizing. She gave me a hug that had meaning. Her body pressed right into mine, and her Pilates-trained arms gripped tightly around my back. It felt like a warm straightjacket. Was she coming on to me? Or just trying to make me feel better? I wrestled with the ethics of cheating and for a fleeting second thought,
It
doesn’t count if it’s with a woman, right?
Even in my head it sounded pitiful, like an alcoholic justifying a glass of wine with dinner, knowing full well it would turn into hiding in the bathroom, guzzling Robitussin within days.

“Aw. That’s very sweet. Thank you,” I said, freeing myself from her embrace.

I looked right at her. She had fanatical eyes. They were espresso color and far too wide open, as if they were actually caffeinated. The expression on her face was somewhere in between scared-to-death and wildly excited. Why do I always attract the crazy ones?

“I’m Ophira,” I said, extending my hand, which was ridiculous after body smushing.

“I already knew that! I’m Marcy. Your show was very, very funny, and I’ve seen Ellen DeGeneres. You made me laugh way more.”

“Thank you,” I said robotically.

Are these the kinds of things groupies tell guy comics? No wonder they have confidence to spare. Her compliment meant nothing to me because I knew it was nonsensical overexaggerated bullshit—and
I wasn’t being coy. A ridiculous statement like that had more to do with Marcy not knowing what the hell to say, so she went with something fantastical. It’s like looking at a child’s finger painting and comparing it favorably to a Jackson Pollock. Either Marcy really needed to be liked by me, was totally deranged, or was actually one of Ellen DeGeneres’s exes.

That being said, if she went with honesty and introduced herself by saying, “Hey, I could see you trying up there, but I guess it didn’t work out this time,” I would have punched her in the face.

“If you want another cuddle, you know where I am.”

Was she offering to mercy fuck me? Comfort me? Or wax me? Women are complex, especially with a thick accent. The path of least resistance, for once, was to stick with my loyalty plan.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Marcy. I know how these convention halls work, so I’m going to try to grab some food from the buffet before they take it away.” Sure,
now
I sounded like a professional.

With my head hung low at the buffet, I shoveled some cold spaghetti onto a plate and disappeared up to my hotel room. I was too tired to wallow in the “what the fuck am I doing with my life?” debate, so I put the social suicide thoughts on hold, collapsed onto the bed, and watched a couple reruns of
Frasier
. Before I passed out, I called Jonathan. He tried to soothe me by promising that the gig probably wasn’t as bad as I made it out to be; after all, I was my own worst critic. I tried to convince him that no, this was different. I wasn’t exaggerating for the sake of drama, and this
was
really embarrassingly horrible, but he switched subjects to this new restaurant in our neighborhood
that he wanted to check out when I got back. I was a little pissed that my pity party had ended so abruptly and told him that I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be up for scoping out the new sushi joint in the hood right away. I wanted to get home, take a hot shower, and sleep for a week.

And then find a therapist. Who worked on a sliding scale.

ALL I COULD
think about on the bus home was that much like Peter Pan, I had to grow up. I was worried though: Could my relationship carry me through the crappy times? Would it take the edge off a bad gig? How do other people do it? Was I going to have to learn about Reiki?

When I walked into our apartment hours later, I expected the familiar sight of Jonathan sitting on the sofa, crouched over his laptop, watching some documentary on TV. The first thing I noticed was that the place was clean. Suspiciously clean. Jonathan materialized from our yellow kitchen, gave me a big kiss, and said, “I made us some dinner!” What had happened while I was gone? Was he hiding something? Then again, the last time I thought I caught him surfing porn, it turned out to be a website called Mugglecast, a site for Harry Potter enthusiasts. No, when it came to Jonathan, my problem wasn’t other women—it was other wizards. Besides, if he really was covering something up, he was doing a damn good job of it with the cleaning and the cooking. I applauded his time-management skills.

The foldout table was set, and Jonathan served up one of the two recipes he’d mastered: grilled salmon with grilled asparagus. The other
one was grilled steak with grilled asparagus. I settled into my foldout chair (everything in a 350-square-foot apartment is foldout) and gulped down my dinner. As I mopped the salmon juice with the last asparagus spear on my plate, Jonathan casually took out a piece of red origami paper and started folding it. I know that sounds strange, but one of Jonathan’s many hobbies is the Japanese art of paper folding. Not wood working, learning guitar, drinking whiskey, or even fetishizing Asian women—just the ancient Japanese art of paper folding. You can’t be angry at someone for being into the Japanese art of paper folding. It’s like yelling at someone for loving badminton. You have to let it go.

In a booming announcer voice, he started, “There are all these stories in Japanese folklore about a thousand cranes.”

I looked around for a hidden studio audience, but, no, it was still just me.

I returned a crooked eyebrow, but he continued.

“Like if you fold a thousand cranes, it will bring you luck, or if you fold a thousand cranes, it will bring you health. But the one I like the best is, if you give the person you love a thousand cranes, your love will last forever.”

He thumbed the final crease, checked that the wings flapped properly, and handed me the little red paper bird.

“This is number one thousand.”

Time slowed as I accepted the crane. I looked at it confused. I knew something was up, because none of this was normal, but I didn’t get it. Or I didn’t let myself get it. Jonathan directed my eyes to the floor in front of the TV where the banker’s box from the closet was now sitting.

“Why don’t you open it up?”

Here we go. Here’s where I see the severed head.
Please God, don’t make her a blonde
.

I slowly lifted the lid like I was defusing a bomb.

Inside, I found 999 hand-folded paper cranes in a range of vibrant colors and sizes. It was breathtaking, one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen. Also—a bit creepy. In the way that one ladybug is adorable, but a thousand is an infestation or an organized attack.

Jonathan explained that he’d been folding cranes for years as an exercise in patience. It helped with anxiety, and he loved the precision of it. As he continued to fold and collect them, he decided to attempt to reach a thousand. And when he did, the love of his life would be standing in front of him.

There I was, looking like a FEMA rescue and smelling like a bus. I couldn’t believe he was talking about me. It was the most over-the-top amazing gesture I’d ever witnessed, only second to being told I was as funny as Ellen DeGeneres.

Had I found the most romantic man on the planet? Or was he obsessive-compulsive?

At least our doors would always be locked.

“Reach into the box,” instructed Rain Man.

My hands dove in, and nestled among the cranes I felt a smaller box.
Holy shit
. I pulled it out slowly, letting the cranes fall away. I wanted to stop and take it all in, but the minute that little clamshell box was in front of my face, I could do nothing to stop myself from cracking it open.

Inside was a diamond ring.

Suddenly, I felt very drunk, even though I hadn’t had a sip of anything.

Astonished, I looked up at Jonathan. I could feel blood circulating in my head.

He returned a nervous smile and asked, “Will you marry me?”

Marriage—the broken institution.

My single life flashed before my eyes. Sure, I’d traveled boldly from dance club to cocktail lounge to dive bar for years, getting myself in and out of subpar situations. But there were only so many walks, cab rides, and—heaven forbid—Metrocard swipes of shame one girl can endure. Finally someone was offering to make an honest woman out of me.

I was terrified.

I’d always maintained that the odds of a marriage lasting were less than 50 percent. Then again, the odds of making it in stand-up were far worse. Of anyone, I should know that 50 percent can also mean, you’re gonna make it.

I’d certainly washed enough sheets, deleted enough phone numbers, and seen enough Garfields to have a pretty good idea of what I wanted. Or at the very least what I didn’t want.

For a fleeting second I thought,
Shouldn’t I count the cranes first? It looks like a thousand, but who knows? What if it’s only 885?

I gazed into Jonathan’s innocent eyes—he didn’t have one dog-fart joke in him.

I took a deep breath and stepped toward the next stage.

“Yes. Of course! Yes!”

We hugged and kissed, letting euphoria fill our little apartment. A unique feeling flooded through my body. I think it was joy.

My mother was right: You never really know someone until you live with them.

G
etting married was one thing, but a wedding was a whole other ball of vanilla-scented wax. I never wanted a wedding even though I love going to them. I’m the first to hit my spoon to my glass to try to make the newlyweds kiss, I’ll try to drink the open bar dry, and once the DJ starts, I’ll dance like no one’s watching. Who doesn’t like a party? It’s the ceremony I take issue with. On some level, I see it as equal to bridal capture, and I wanted no part in any ritual where I’d be given away like a possession. Fuck that.

What I
could
swallow was a simple civil service at city hall. It’s possible that I would have thought differently if I were still in my twenties, a sorority sister, or believed in Jesus, but with none of that getting in the way, I was free to strip down the kidnapping ceremony to something that jibed with my philosophies. Convincing Jonathan would be another story. I hit him first with pragmatism, pointing out the major roadblock to throwing a wedding in New York: the expense.
Why would anyone short of a millionaire waste tens of thousands of dollars on a boring rental hall and dry chicken breast dinner? Jonathan agreed—about what a waste it would be to spend the money on such a pedestrian affair—but he wanted a wedding. More than that, he wanted a
wedding spectacular
. If cash flow and the laws of science were no issue, he would have us flown to the top of the Guggenheim on the back of a hippogriff while a gospel choir sang “Tradition” from
Fiddler on the Roof
. He’d wear a bespoke tuxedo, and I’d be dressed in a gown made of bubbles and sparkles. Jean-Michel Basquiat would be his best man, and Harvey Pekar would marry us. This would be followed by hot air balloon rides for all the guests, virtual reality games, and an IMAX screen playing
Once Upon a Time in the West
and
2001: A Space Odyssey
.

So we compromised—and got married at city hall.

Jonathan was concerned that the city hall idea would not go over with his family. His mother and father would be disappointed and at the very least demand to be there. Then his brother would have to join us, and then his cousins would feel left out, and within minutes the whole thing would turn into a stressful, messy gathering. On the other hand, there was no way that my family would bear the expense and fly out from Western Canada for a civil service.

So we settled on inviting
no one
.

We would elope in secret. Of course, the idea of a covert private wedding totally appealed to me: Could anything be more of a slap in the face to the ridiculous, overpriced wedding industry? Could anything be more fitting for a woman who’d gone against the grain of
commitment her whole life? This was the only way to make sense of the madness and bring it back to what it should be: a simple practice required to obtain a piece of paper.

Frankly, I was surprised that Jonathan was cool with this idea. The guy can’t keep a secret about a birthday gift, let alone a milestone. As he was a tireless romantic, getting married was precisely the kind of thing he’d want to shout through a bullhorn to the rest of the world. Facebook and Twitter were made for people like him. But he agreed—and I don’t think it was just to shut me up. There must have been a part of him that was as apprehensive as I was, and thought,
If it fails, we can just get divorced and no one will know about that, either
. We’d both experienced feeling strongly about a life decision before, only to have it fall apart or require a change of heart. Neither of us had a tattoo . . . or even a gym membership.

Then again, how could one little piece of paper change us?

Or perhaps the better question was, how could it not?

We picked a day at the end of May and stuck to our plan not to tell a soul. Sharing this kind of major secret definitely had a thrill factor. We’d find ourselves talking about it rather sensibly—the times, the dates, the paperwork—and then catch each other’s eye and exchange big dumb grins.