You're Not Pretty Enough (12 page)

Ray and I were discussing this memo at our own liquid lunch
the next day when “The List” came up. I told him I was going back to the office to confront my boss Jake, a real charmer with a gift for persuasion.

“Go for it,” he said.

Fueled by three beers, I marched into Jake’s office, sat
down, and closed the door.

“I need to talk to you.”

“OK…”

“I know about ‘The List.’” Jake’s eyes widened, a bit, and he sat up a little straighter.

“Who told you?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. Who told you?”

“I’m not going to say, and it doesn’t matter.”

This went on for what felt like several minutes. With
neither party looking like we would back down, I split-screened my brain to grab a grouping of words that would pull us out of the rabbit hole.

“Jake, I was here late one night and went into your office
to find something, and I saw it on your desk.” Jake stayed still for a few seconds.
Bingo!

“I’m sorry you saw that.”

“Me too, and it’s making us all crazy. So either pull the trigger or figure out an alternative, because we can’t keep walking on
eggshells.” And then I walked out. The next morning Jake pulled me into his office.

“Jen, I’ve done a lot of thinking about our conversation. I didn’t sleep at all last night.” I stared at him with my arms crossed over my
chest. “I just want you to know that you’re permanently off the list.”

“That just means that someone else takes my place, so…”

“Jesus, does nothing make you happy? Well, I hope you take
it as some form of consolation.”

Word got around about what I had done. A week later, Jake gathered everyone into the conference room for a rare all-staff meeting. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he began. “The truth is, we are a team, and I
care about all of you and the work you do. And though we’re not in the best financial place right now, I am going to make some changes that will hopefully turn that around. I’ll let you know what those are in the coming weeks, but no
one will lose their job. We sink or swim together.” Many people looked at me and winked or came by later to say, “Nice work with Jake.”

I was proud, and there were not many moments associated with that office that were making me proud lately. (Besides the actual work.
That
I was quite good at when I wasn’t distracted.) Jake’s pledge was slow to take, and after a little over a year, I visualized working for a company that had a more rigid structure and smart, dedicated people who would help me grow—people
who would teach me things and mentor me over coffee or a salad or a wrap versus a Jack and Coke.

I found another job within two months (these were the Clinton years after all). I gave my notice at the end of the day on a Friday,
e-mailed Ray to let him know, and went home relieved. On Monday, a card was waiting for me from Ray. It read:

“You know, about a year ago, I was just not feeling well. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something wasn’t right. So I went to my
doctor and he prescribed a new drug that was not yet approved by the FDA, called Jen™. He told me it was very powerful, so I didn’t take it right away—I just admired it for a long time. Finally, a few months ago, I tried it, and I
learned very quickly that it is definitely a mind-altering drug. It raises sensory perception to new levels. Since the FDA has not yet approved it, I have been taking it in private—under the table, so to speak—several
times a week. I don’t know many other people on it, but I want to be on Jen all day every day. It sharpens my senses to the extreme. Let’s say I am looking into the beautiful dark eyes of someone I care about a great deal. I feel like I was struck by a thunderbolt. And if this person holds my hand, it’s like she
has one of those gag joy buzzers in her palm—it’s shocking. And if I dare grab this person and pull her tight to me and bury my face in her thick, dark hair and put my lips on her neck—well, there’s probably enough
electricity running through me to light up Youngstown. And if I kiss her, well, it’s hard to describe because it’s different every time. The first time I kissed her, my body felt like it was riding on all the rides at Cedar Point
simultaneously. Not the lame-o rides like the Pirate Ship and the Mine Ride, but all the good ones, especially Demon Drop. Jen is a dangerous narcotic indeed, and I hope it never falls into the wrong hands. Fortunately and unfortunately, I am addicted. I take it orally now, but I’d even take it in
suppository form if it came to that. I just need it all the time. It unquestionably makes me more sexually aroused every time I just look at the bottle, which is great, but one drawback is that Jen can be frustrating. But
Jen is so good that when it’s working I don’t mind the frustration. Bad news, though. Now that I am hooked, my prescription is about to run out, and I don’t know when I’m going to get more. I know I won’t be able to get my hands on any
for quite a while, which is painful. If I have to quit cold turkey and go through withdrawal, they will have to put me in a strait jacket in a rubber room, shave my head bald, and draw a big “J” on my forehead in black magic marker as a warning to others who may be tempted to try this drug. The doctors
will walk by the room with the new interns, maybe tap on the window to make me look up, and sadly shake their heads. One intern may ask, ‘What’s up with this one?’ The doctor will reply, ‘Jen. He’ll never be the same, poor sap.’ The
interns cower and avoid my room as if the doctor had said ‘Black Plague.’ I slowly lower my head and add to the puddle of drool on my lap…

“I think that in the farthest deepest wrinkles of
everyone’s brain we all develop our own concept of the consummate member of the opposite sex. Most people wait a futile lifetime for that person to come along. Very few people ever meet their ideal person; most settle for someone else who may grow to become that ideal. We never stop looking, though. Like everyone
else, I used to have a model of perfection, someone I’d never find. But I did. As you know, I am ecstatic that I found my ideal woman. But silly me! I had the bar set too low. Jen, everything about you has gone beyond my expectations. I
don’t want to ramble on…You know how I feel about you. You’re not
the
perfect woman, you are
my
perfect woman. Please don’t forget about me—I will never forget you. I got a silly card so I could write something to express
my gratitude and tell you how I feel. But I could fill one thousand cards and still come up short. I’ve missed too many opportunities with women in my life, so the last few months have been the greatest. I’ll miss the daily stuff—just
seeing you, the random rendezvous, especially the confiding in each other. But this is not the end of the journey; it’s only the beginning. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Good luck in your new job. I know it will work out great because you’re like, good ‘n’ shit.”

I felt sad. Ray had never expressed himself to me this way before. To the non-marketing mind, the prescription analogy may come off as crazy, but when you’re a copywriter you often want to go bigger. It’s hard to
do that with corporate clients, so people with that sensibility tend toward the dramatic in their personal correspondence. Still, I was sad because it highlighted how differently we perceived the affair. For me, it was a transitory port in a storm. For him, it was obviously something more indeed.

We had a couple beers on my last day, but it was awkward. How do you say good-bye to someone with whom you were barely, but strangely, physical yet bared your present emotional state so freely? Who
took
it.
You steer conversation to the funny, and hug him on your way out is what you do. A month after I left the job, I received a card from Ray. On the cover was a woman looking over her shoulder with the words “Where on earth has she been?”
It read:

“One would think that with all the thousands of specialized greeting cards on the market today I could find one that says exactly what I want to express. Something about how I’ve been thinking about you, how I miss you, miss holding you, miss being close to you, and how I
especially miss your spirit, for lack of a better word—something along those lines. I guess I’ll keep looking and let you know if I find one, Jenny. At least the chick on the cover of the card looks exactly like you (if you hold
the card at arm’s length and squint).”

Ray e-mailed me from time to time, and when I had news I’d tell him, including the fact that I had started to date someone named Josh. The day I told him that, he took it in stride and said he was planning to attend a
going-away party for our mutual friend Rachel from the firm. The next day, Rachel called to give me the details.

“…plus, Ray was groping me all night.”

“What? Ray?”

“Yeah, he kept saying he wanted to leave with me.”

I felt at least a half dozen emotions. Duped. Pissed. Jealous. Surprised, from thinking those last three things. Hurt. Ashamed. I sent Ray a vague e-mail saying so on a Thursday evening. On Friday he was
frantic, so I agreed to meet him the following Monday for lunch and finished out the week confused. Over the weekend I gorged myself on TV
and a diet that consisted entirely of crackers, cheese, and ice cream. I also practiced
the conversation I would have with Ray in my head.

OK, here’s what I’m thinking. You be Ray.

OK, go.

Ray, I’m sorry, but this…relationship…we have…doesn’t
mean the same thing to me as it does to you.

Good, direct. State your thesis upfront.

…so, I need to start on a path that is more healthy…

What if he says he’ll leave his wife?

I don’t WANT him to leave his wife.

I’m just saying, it could happen…You’ve led him on; in fact, you’ve kind of been an asshole. And you know, as Alanis would say, “Isn’t
it ironic…”

…OK! I’ll take that under advisement! But nothing in that song is ironic.

That’s not the point…

Jesus help me—I
am
my own worst critic. What
I really want to get across is: In a weird way, you were the friend who helped me most. You asked question upon question, to get to know me, and when I raged you took all the hits, often without a shield. I hate that part of my
personality—the part that would use you like that—but I can’t give you what you want. Nothing more will ever happen between us. Not just because I’m not interested but also because the consequences of continuing…whatever this is…are too grave.

Yeah, go with that.

At lunch it came off a little more curt. “It’s unhealthy,” I started. He nodded in agreement as I continued, but I saw him shut down. We spent the rest of lunch filling in the awkward space—gossiping about the
firm, talking about our weekends—and I returned to my office relieved. Until I received this e-mail:

Dearest Most Holy Bitch Queen:

Some lunch, Fucker! Next time I’ll just tie a computer
monitor to my ankle and jump off the Main Avenue Bridge! How dare you fuck with my emotions like that, Bitch? You fucked with me and NOBODY fucks with me!!!! I thought we had something great and you go and shit on me like I don’t even
matter…like I don’t exist! Go ahead, slut, toss me aside and move on to the next one. Men mean nothing to chicks like you. You used me like Kleenex then moved on. Oh! Oh! Jenny! Here I am! Please scrape the dog shit off your high heels on my face, please! Oh, thank you, goddess! Wench! Am I supposed to
disappear whenever you say? Poof, and I’m gone? Who the fuck are you, David Copperfield? I must warn this Josh fellow that you are a sneaky minx before it’s too late and you fuck up another good man. I hope he’s real good at
imitations and can do an imitation of a man about to get his heart ripped out and stomped on by a slut with spiked heels. There’s probably a trail of men in your wake, all fucked up and emasculated, imitating Forrest Gump, unable to
raise a decent erection because of your little whore games. I, however, saw through the games and have an endless supply of fine erections, thank you. Go suck on your blue bag briefcase, Bitch! If you think I’m serious, you’re wrong. I’m not. Just joking to see if you still had your sense of humor. Ha Ha. Jenny,
I once told you that I would never do anything to hurt you. I meant it then, and I mean it now. I love our relationship, and I love being close buds. At one point in our relationship, you told me you loved me, as a friend. I take that
sort of thing to heart and hope we can continue as confidants and grow a private, personal closeness. And drink beer too! I know you are a proponent of recycling, and if ever things don’t work out with whomever, I am 100 percent
recyclable. I love you.”

I stopped responding to his e-mails and calls (he stopped finally too), but it made me realize two things for sure:

1) I am making bad choices, and I want to stop.

2) Please don’t let me meet someone I could fall for now. I am
not
ready.

Those sharp, jagged emotions I hoped would lay dormant after my divorce? I guess they rose to the surface. I guess they wanted to be processed, but I didn’t know how to do that yet, so I just kept pushing them to
the side.
Time to focus on work,
I thought.
I’ll deal with…that…later.
It’s like I vomited but never cleaned it up.

I was creating a lot of messes.

Starting with the aforementioned Josh. We worked together and drank together (old habits die hard), and man, he was sweet, but sweet only gets you so far in a relationship that’s rife with incompatibility. I was and still am very independent. I
need
to be alone as much as I
like
being with people, and Josh was an I-want-to-be-around-you-24/7 kind of guy. There’s nothing wrong with that if that’s your thing, but it’s like nails on a chalkboard to me, so with that dynamic in play, what started as something sweet
soon rolled into something sour. Add to the mix that most of our conversations revolved around
the relationship
and well, this girl can get cranky. If I went out with friends, I’d come back to questions: