Because I Have To…

A situation came up recently, one of those events that prompts a family discussion while strolling the aisles of Bed, Bath, and Beyond. In other words, it wasn’t a kidney.

A family acquaintance had gotten engaged and the inevitable question of the purchase of a gift came up. I have nothing against buying gifts and sending wishes of many happy returns. As my mother and I are both single, we do an awful lot of gift giving and in the occasional sour grape moment my mother will invariably say what I’m thinking. So… while we were wandering Bed, Bath, and Beyond, we passed the “wedding/fine china/isn’t that picture frame adorable” area.

“So what should we do?” I said. “Should we get a gift?”

“No,” she said. “It’s enough already. We’re always buying gifts for other people. Is anyone buying you gifts? I don’t see anyone buying you a gift.”

(This, I confess, is true. I’ve seriously considered pulling a Carrie Bradshaw and registering myself just to see how the other half lives. And yes, I would adore a gravy boat in case anyone is wondering.)

I was sensing a septuagenarian meltdown coming on. I let the conversation go. However, the conundrum of the gift kept nagging at me. I sent something. The card listed both names. I mentioned this to my mother in passing a few weeks later. This is akin to the childhood ruse of doing something naughty and confessing after five years when no one cares anymore.

“I sent a gift,” I said and before she could respond, I added, “I had to.”

I had to? Where did that come from?

To “have to do something” belongs strictly to the adult lexicon. You will never see a ten year old lamenting to a friend that he ate all his Lima beans for dinner because, “You know how it is Jimmy. I had to.” No, he would say, “They made me.” Semantics, shmantics, There’s a big difference. Huge. Trust me.

The idea of the voluntary “I have to” intrigues me. From when cameth the “I have to”? Shakespeare wrote the “I have to” in his plays. In The Merchant of Venice, Portia is the example of “I have to” with a twist. She is bound by her dead father’s will to accept any oafish suitor who wins a “Price is Right” game of picking the correct casket. However, she devises methods to weed out all of the undesirables until she finds the man she wants. That’s making lemonade out of lemons, in spite of “I have to.”

But what does “I have to” really mean?

Polite Interpretation: I can’t deal with the inevitable guilt. Therefore, I’m going to do this so I don’t have to deal with the inevitable guilt.

Familial Interpretation: I don’t want to listen to (insert family member’s name here)’s mouth, so I have to.

Anxiety Interpretation: What do you want from me? If I step out of line the universe will go off its axis and karma will come back to bite me in the ass.

Every once in a while the world produces people who are not moved by “I have to.” Take Nietzsche, for example. A prime case of the homosapien anomaly that pops up every so often to make everyone shit their pants. Now I grant you the man was a nutbag, and syphilitic (maybe) …and a nutbag. But he didn’t care. His works could be summed up in a tweet:

I don’t give a shit.

I’m better than you.

I don’t have to.

#NietzscheRocks

While we all bitch and moan about how homogeneously vanilla our society can be, there are those that refuse to march to the beat of everyone else’s drum. They don’t have to. But they’re not really saying “I don’t have to.” What they’re really saying is “I don’t want to, and you can’t make me.” But if a large percentage of the population begins saying “I don’t want to” you can believe me that it won’t be too long before we’re tramping dangerously close to Lord of the Flies territory. And that makes everyone shit their pants and go into lock down mode to shut down the loose cannon.

The exemption to this is anyone over the age of 60. I understand liberal use of the “I don’t have to” is one of the few perks with advancing age, or so my mother tells me. She says “I don’t have to” all the time. She enjoys it. I’m even a little excited that someday the “I don’t have to” can be mine as well. It’s something to look forward to; like a little perk to compensate for the sagging breasts and underarm flaps.

There is an unwritten rule of adulthood that people do things because “they’re supposed to” which translates into… you guessed it, “they have to.” Why are they attending the birthday party of the sister-in-law they despise because she’s a gold digging bitch? Because they have to. Why does a daughter-in-law go to her mother-in-law’s house for Thanksgiving and endure the thinly veiled swipes and insults about her cooking and housekeeping skills? Because she has to. In mathematical terms, it’s like computing the “mean” of human experience. There are enough people doing what they “have to” to offset the rest of humanity who prefer to color outside the lines – in purple. No one thinks about this consciously, of course. No one does something because they “have to” and then thinks ‘Thank goodness I did that. I’ve balanced the negative energy of some batshit woman in Boise who wouldn’t drive her kid to dance lessons.’ No, no one thinks that.

This is not to say the “I don’t have to” can’t be useful. “I don’t have to” has often been a prelude to “and I’m not going to.” as in “I’m being mistreated and I don’t have to tolerate this and I’m not going to.” Technically speaking “I don’t have to” can be a powerful agent for positive change. Let’s be clear: I’m not referring to fighting social injustice. I’m referring to having your brother-in-law living in your basement because he married the wrong woman (and everyone told him not to) and now he’s divorced and the sum total of his assets can be listed on the back of a gum wrapper. Any why is he living in your basement when you wanted a playroom for the children? Because your husband says, “What do you want me to do? He needs a place to stay. We have to.” That’s right, you do.

It was disconcerting to me to discover that adulthood was exactly the way Thoreau described it. The mass of men (and women) do lead lives of quiet desperation; dealing with the first world problems of attending weddings when they don’t want to, going to birthday parties they could live without, staying in jobs they don’t like, etc., etc.,

I have heard stories of my great grandmother, a small, feisty, bun-wearing woman. She had four sons, two of whom she outlived, and a lousy husband who didn’t die so she threw him out. The urban legend goes that whenever my great grandmother spoke of her husband, she would say, “Brenen zolst afn fayer” or something like it, which loosely translates to: “He should burn in hell.” You know what the real translation is? “I’m not staying married to you. I don’t have to.”

Way to go Nana.

The Girl

I always wanted to be “The Girl.” I’m not referring to a specific “Girl” such as “I always wanted to be Audrey Hepburn.” No, “The Girl” is not a specific woman; she’s an idea, a concept. As a matter of fact, it’s only now that I’m able to verbalize the phenomenon of “The Girl.” I was watching Casino Royale. James Bond’s cold heart is melted by beautiful British Treasury Agent Vesper Lynd. In a fit of pique, Bond decides to blow his cover and assassinate his nemesis, Le Chiffre. Bond’s orders to his compatriot René Mathis: “Get the girl out.” In Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indiana Jones stands high atop the side of a canyon, a bazooka pointed at a band of Nazi’s holding the hijacked Ark of the Covenant and Indy’s love, Marion Ravenwood. The nefarious Colonel Dietrich asks, “Dr. Jones, surely you don’t think you can escape from this island?” Indy answers: “That depends on how reasonable we’re all willing to be. All I want is the girl.” It doesn’t end there. Charade, Dr. No, Ocean’s Eleven… There’s the hero…and then there’s “The Girl.”

Who wouldn’t want to be “The Girl?” Who doesn’t want to be with “The Man With The Hat” who can brandish his whip, physically and metaphorically, if you know what I mean. “The Girl” plays into the most common female fantasy, finding the perfect man. Film makes it simple. There are only 120 minutes available. The “love story” portion receives on average, what, 15 of those 120 minutes? Let’s get cracking, shall we? “The Girl” only needs to speak to the hero for approximately five minutes, the average length of one, perhaps two scenes, to know he’s “the one.” Like the perfect pig in a blanket, he’s a manly man wrapped in a Hallmark Card of sensitivity. Macho yet tender! Strong yet silent! Everything is perfect…until the sequel. Have you ever noticed how the hero can always get a new “Girl” to take the place of the original? Just ask James Bond. Women don’t seem to mind. After all, to be “The Girl” is hitting pay dirt. It’s the cheerleader dating the high school quarterback. Is it hard to be “The Girl?” Not at all, For all of the aforementioned perks, all you have to do is give up your identity; be “The Girl With No Name.”

I think about this phenomenon — a lot. Films frequently focus on a male character as a man in motion. He’s going places. However, the female character, “The Girl,” is in a state of suspended animation. I’m beginning to believe movies are an upgraded, live action extension of a Jane Austen novel—a novelist whose female characters were all perpetual ladies in waiting. In honor of today’s  anniversary of Ms. Austen’s birthday, I think the topic merits examination— and it’s not the first time.

My thesis for my Masters degree explored the lack of the female bildungsroman in female authored literature. The bildungsroman in literary criticism is known as the novel of formation and the character being formed is most often a man (think Pip in Great Expectations). In layman’s terms, it’s the guy who gets all the kick-ass adventures. He learns, he grows, and he discovers his unique place in the larger universe. Conversely, beloved Jane Austen was stuck in a parlor doing needlework and a slow burn while her brothers went off gallivanting to find themselves. Jane Austen waited; and Elizabeth Bennett waited; and Eleanor Dashwood waited. Flash forward two hundred years and Marion Ravenwood is sitting in a bar in Nepal. What is this smart, sassy, resilient, resourceful young woman doing? Waiting for the Man with the Hat. “Indiana Jones,” she says, “I always knew one day you’d come walking back through my door. Something made it inevitable.” The Girl, Exhibit A.

Interestingly enough, while Jane never stopped waiting, she wrote a happy ending of love, marriage and “happily ever after” for her ladies. Essentially, they were each “The Girl” picked out by the perfect man. I don’t blame Jane. Truly, I don’t. But in all these years haven’t women noticed that we’re accepting a romantic premise written by a woman who never married? I’m just saying.

Even if a woman does strike out on her own, the end game is always acquisition of “The Man” that can make her feel like “The Girl.” Films feed us this fantasy in what I like to refer to as “The Veterinarian Effect.” Dust off your VHS copy of  the classic Baby Boom and you’ll find Diane Keaton moving from the thriving metropolis of New York to a sleepy community in Vermont. Lo and behold, she finds Sam Shepherd, the town veterinarian; and he just happens to be single — and perfect. I wish someone had told me about this. If I had known it was this easy to find Mr. Right, I would have rented a U-haul and changed my zip code years ago.

As society modernized, Jane Austen’s “Girl” has been updated to incorporate sexual fulfillment. Thelma and Louise is a prime example of “The Girl” syndrome with a twist. Thelma (Gina Davis) has never had good sex with her boorish husband, Darryl. However, by the end of the movie she is liberated and ready to go over the cliff, literally. Why? Because she had “The Girl” experience of sublime sex with Brad Pitt. “Good God Thelma,” Louise cries upon hearing the news, “somebody finally done laid you right.” Game, set, match. Thanks for playing Thelma. You’re good to go.

As we commemorate another anniversary of Ms. Austen’s birthday, the final irony is society isn’t selling this “Girl” bill of goods to hostile consumers. Let me repeat myself: I always wanted to be “The Girl.” Truth be told, the seed of this post began with my musings over not only Jane Austen’s life and work but my own fear and self-loathing that I had passed the age of the ingénue; I had aged out of being “The Girl.”

And why don’t we admit that being “The Girl” is what we really want? Because it feels wrong to give our identity away, to be “the girl with no name.”  I wonder if Jane Austen felt conflicted as well. Society obstructed all means and opportunity for Jane to decide the course of her life. Perhaps not marrying was her only avenue to exercise control over her destiny. There is another possibility. Was Jane simply afraid to marry? Was she afraid if she made a mistake and chose the wrong man, what little emotional and mental autonomy she had would be stripped from her? For such a vibrant, intelligent woman, it would have been a fate worse than death. It is then noteworthy that Jane had no compunction about encouraging other women on the subject of matrimony. To her niece, Fanny Knight, she wrote: ” To you I shall say, as I have often said before, Do not be in a hurry, the right man will come at last…”

There is an endless duality to the lives of women. We remind ourselves that we are not supposed to be the sidekick but rather the heroes of our own lives. All the while, we keep an eye on the horizon, hoping that around next corner, or the next sleepy town, in a twist of fate we will find our “Man With The Hat.”  I may be “The Woman” but in my heart of hearts, I still really want to be “The Girl.” It’s a shame. I have the shoes picked out and everything.

Happy Birthday Jane…

Welcome To The World Judy Rooney!

I would like to introduce you to someone new… brand new… Okay, not BRAND BRAND new. Judy Rooney has been around for about two years, floating around like flotsam and jetsam in my brain, existing as half scribbles on scraps of paper. But… here she finally is…

Ladies and Gentlemen… Judy Rooney

So, what’s a writer who should be working on her next novel doing with a comic strip? A comic strip, by the way, called The Secret Life of Judy Rooney. Good question. I’m beginning to think that creatives have little or no control over their creativity. If the heart wants what it wants, as Woody Allen famously said, then the brain wants what it wants. And Judy was a character I couldn’t get out of my head.

My first book, Project Jennifer, was published in 2008. It’s a tale of the trials and tribulations of 30 year old Joan Benjamin.  That was 2008. Things change.  I changed. I wanted to do something that focused on the 40 year old woman. A little older and maybe a little wiser. However, as Judy’s bestie Phyllis says…

“Who needs wisdom? With age comes attitude.”

With all the countless “Walter Mitty” moments we experience in our lives,  I thought it would be fun to explore work/life/love possibilities with Judy, both real and imaginary…

Now comes the Shameless Marketing Moment: The very first Series of The Secret Life of Judy Rooney is on sale now exclusively at Amazon Kindle.

It’s called “The Secret Life of Judy Rooney”: Series #1: Happy Birthday Judy!! If you click on the link, it will take you to the Amazon page.

Shameless marketing moment is now over.

I am already working on Series #2. I hope you will give The Secret Life of Judy Rooney a look. Besides, you know never know what you might find…

2nd Shameless Marketing Moment: If you do like Judy, would you please consider forwarding this post or the pics in this post, or the link to the Amazon Kindle page, or my web address http://www.jillamyrosenblatt.com to as many people as you know?? One of my Walter Mitty moments is Judy Rooney going viral on the internet… 🙂

2nd Shameless Marketing Moment is now over. Oh the humanity….

And now, like the Daily Show’s “Moment of Zen,” here is a “Moment with Judy” (click on the strip to enlarge)

Do I still want to write more books? Absolutely. I have a notepad of ideas and the list keeps growing. But for now, it’s all about Judy. And that screenplay I just finished. But that’s another blog post…

J.

Here Comes The Bride…

It’s that time of year again. The weather is warm, the birds are chirping, and I received my first invitation to a June wedding. Oh joy! Let me just say I have nothing against people who enjoy weddings, but I am not one of them. For the single woman, a wedding is the crème de la crap of social events; Jean Paul Sartre’s No Exit with a choice of meat, chicken, or fish. Consider this my official posted request: leave me out, take me off the mailing list; lose my address. Just tell me where to send the gift card.      

This is what happens when a single woman is invited to a wedding:

 First, you dig out all the party dresses from the back of the closet and find that none of them fit. You then spend $300 on a new outfit (mandatory uncomfortable shoes extra).

Next, you attend the wedding… and wait. Wait at the church, wait to greet the bride and groom, wait for the reception to start, and wait for the wedding party to make their big entrance to the ear-splitting decibels of “Rocky.” You may as well wait for Godot; I’m sure he’ll arrive before the cocktail hour when you can rush the buffet tables like Dick Butkis to get a melon slice and some sesame shrimp before the guests swarm in like the locusts in Egypt.  

You sit with the other single pariahs at a table in the back next to the kitchen. You are part of the cadre of single/divorced/widowed women dancing off to the side of the dance floor. This is to leave room for the normal, well adjusted, arrogant couples to shake their bootys. You entertain a fleeting thought of sneaking into the kitchen to stick your head into any available, unoccupied oven. Been there, thought that. I’m just saying.

 You receive a sympathetic eye roll from a non-party loving male hunched in his chair, looking like he’d rather be seeing his proctologist. He throws a filthy look at the screaming DJ as he leans over and shouts, “I’M GOING TO NEED A COCHLEAR IMPLANT.”  You nod; you are not alone in your misery. That makes you feel better. For about two minutes.

A red faced, obese wedding guest is doing the funky chicken on the dance floor and you’re afraid he’ll go Code Blue. You’re about to ask if the establishment has an AED  when the napkin in the bread basket bursts into flames. Realizing you set it too close to the votive candles, you shrug,  douse it with your water glass and order another drink. As the DJ screams “Where’s the bride and groom? Let’s get that garter off, my man,” you begin to wonder if your insurance will cover a cochlear implant. At last, the bride and groom cut the cake as Joe Cocker kvetches “You Are So Beautiful.” The groom cackles as he smushes the cake into the bride’s face, causing an uproar. You somehow feel better about your life and have another drink.

You are herded on to the dance floor. Activities include swaying and singing the chorus of “Sweet Caroline,” while swatting at the groping obese guest. Singing along with Barry White, he lets you know that he “can’t get enough of your love, babe.” You escape by hitching onto the caboose of the “Love Train,” hanging on to the non-party loving guy who shouts “I’M GOING WITH A MIRACLE EAR.”  Bravo my friend, you think, bravo.

At one in the morning, the rats desert the sinking ship to the sounds of “That’s What Friends Are For.”  A good time was had by all, well, almost all. Like Scarlett O’Hara you vow that this is the last year you will be single and you will never attend another wedding ever again.

I’m with you.

When Men Were Men and Women Were… Men

            Ever since the publication of John Gray’s Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, men and women have been encouraged to understand the emotional and psychological Grand Canyon between them in order to build successful relationships. However, there’s a strange phenomenon that research has entirely missed. Sure, there are some signs that men are moving into traditional women’s areas, such as Weight Watchers and plastic surgery. I’m not talking about that.

            Something happens to the single woman after 40. I’m talking about our habits, our attitudes. As we become more comfortable in our own skin, confident with who we are as single, independent women, we relax. After all, we spent over twenty years grooming, perming, waxing, and plucking in the hopes of snagging Mr. Right and Mr. Right didn’t materialize. Don’t we deserve a little down time? Yes we do. But we may be relaxing a tad too much. Women over 40 are exhibiting the attitudes and habits of… men.

            Skeptical? Not sure about this? Okay. I’ve devised a little quiz. Answer the following ten questions. I’ll meet you at the end. Got your pencil ready?

Question 1: How would you describe your nightly dinner experience? Do you…

1. Cook a full meal, set out the placemat, dishes and silverware, sit at the table, no TV, and enjoy a quiet meal?
2. Order take out and eat out of the container in front of the TV? If you use a plate, is it paper?
3. Nuke a frozen dinner and eat in front of the TV?
4. Rummage the fridge/cabinets? Is dinner a bowl of cereal, a dozen pistachio nuts, a slice of cheese, and two coffee cakes?

Question #2. Complete this sentence. You come home from work and change into…

1. You  don’t change. You stay in your day outfit. You never know who might come to the door.
2. A blouse and jeans, freshly pressed.  
3. A blouse and jeans, previously worn.  
4. Rumpled t-shirt and sweat pants. Date of last cleansing: unknown.  

Question #3: Complete this sentence. My laundering system is…

1. All clothes are grouped and categorized in the closet. Max wearing: 2 times and into the hamper.
2. Clothes are a hodgepodge in the closet. Max wearing: 4 times and into the hamper.
3. Clothes are strewn between the closet and chair and/or treadmill (an excellent clothes rack). Max wearing: six times. Laundry loads are light.
4. Clothes are rarely moved to the hamper. “Dirty clothes” is a relative term. You’re flexible and you like to keep your options open. You have been known to give an outfit the “smell test.” Co-workers keeping their distance is a laundromat indicator.

Question #4: Finding a Life Partner. Your theory is…

1. That special someone is out there for me. I will find my spouse and my soul mate.
2. I’d like a boyfriend so we can enjoy each other’s company.
3. Three dates a week, max. He can come to me. I’m not going out after work. I’m tired.
4. Is he going to talk? I’ll date him if we just have sex and he doesn’t talk.

Question #5: Complete this sentence. My housekeeping regimen is…

1. Full house cleaning is done weekly on the same day.
2. Some clutter. Bathroom and kitchen are regularly cleaned (bi-monthly).
3. Much clutter. A clear pathway is maintained to the kitchen and bathroom. Bathroom resembles an airport restroom at 2 p.m.
4. I own a vacuum. I can’t remember the last time I saw it. Bathroom and kitchen are classified as a biosphere. Last week the bread moved by itself.

Question #6: Complete this sentence. You have company. The television is on when they arrive. You…

1. Turn off the TV and pay attention to your guests.
2. Carry on a conversation, glancing occasionally at the screen.
3. Watch the TV in ten to twenty minute increments, coming out of your stupor when  someone asks you a direct question.
4. Stare entranced at the TV, vaguely hearing voices around you saying “next time we’ll call before we come” and the opening and closing of the door.

Question #7. Describe your proficiency with the remote control.

1. I  can surf 300 channels in 20 minutes
2. I  can surf 300 channels in 10 minutes
3. I  can surf 300 channels in 5 minutes
4. Give me the remote control. You don’t know how to use it.

Question #8: You are thinking of redecorating. Which style describes you best?

1. Modern, with sleek functional furniture in stark black and white.
2. Comfortable, couches with overstuffed cushions in warm browns and blues.
3. Formal, with hard backed chairs, heavy draperies, coasters for the glasses.
4. One recliner and a 70″ flat screen TV. Cup holder and power massage included in the recliner, of course.

Question #9: Eating Habits. You’re at a restaurant. The meal is served with a baked potato. Your response is…

1. I  can eat the potato but I have to eat it dry.
2. I  can eat the potato with a little butter but I have to work out four times this week instead of three.
3. I’ll eat half the potato with a few pats of butter. It’s okay as long as I don’t finish it.
4. Miss, please bring me extra butter for my potato.

Question #10: You’re at a wedding. What’s on your mind?

1. Does this outfit make my butt look big?
2. I  hope I meet someone.
3. Cocktail reception? Sweet. Where are the pigs in blankets?
4. I’m missing Sports Center for this?  

Okay, time for scoring! Here’s the points breakdown:

A = 1, B = 2, C = 3, D = 4

10-14 points: You are a bastion of femininity, style, and grace. You are an independent woman yet you are emotionally grounded in your feminine lifestyle.

15-22 points: You are teetering close to the edge of “man land.” You are hanging on to your feminine sensibilities but the siren’s song of the single male “just relax” mode is calling to you. Be careful.

23-32 points: You are in up to your waist. Pretty soon, it’s going to be you, a box of Twinkies and the remote, sitting in front of the flat screen in the basement. And you don’t own a home with a basement. You’re in the danger zone.

32-40 points: You are over the edge. You’re in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, a beer in one hand, the remote in the other, watching the hockey game and belching in the recliner. You are oblivious to all sounds of life around you. You have abandoned all feminine sensibilities. You own at least 31 pairs of panties so you can do laundry one time per month. You are all woman—living like a man. Don’t despair. You are not alone.

Maybe men play an important role we never realized; they keep us on the straight and narrow of our feminine ways so we don’t degenerate into… them.

As we navigate the prickly path of being the over 40 single woman, we have to deal with our mental and emotional changes, not just the physical ones. On the other hand, maybe we should take a few tips from the guys. After all, they are notorious for keeping things simple—and that’s not such a bad thing. I’m going to think about that as I get ready to do my laundry. It’s time. I’m wearing my 30th pair of panties. 🙂

Valentine’s Day Edition: Take My Advice…

              What is it about advice? Everyone likes to give advice; almost no one wants to take it. But that doesn’t stop anyone from giving it. Unasked for, unsolicited advice is a fact of life. It always stands to reason, someone, somewhere, at the most inopportune time, wants to bestow the benefit of their wisdom or experience. The most popular topic of advice, of course, is relationships and the most popular demographic to advise is the single woman. In honor of  Valentine’s Day, for the benefit of single women everywhere, I would like to share my experience with unsolicited advice in the hope you will be comforted, you are not alone…

            While the unfortunate “advice session” can happen anywhere, hair salon, book club gathering, one of those nice home parties for stuff no one needs, I received my “advice to the lovelorn” during a Brazilian bikini wax.

            No, I’m not kidding.

            There I was, hot wax boldly going where no hot wax had been before, listening to the piquant ripping sound of cloth tearing away wax and hair, and hopefully, no dermis. My esthetician liked to take periodic smoke breaks, because, you know, causing someone excruciating pain is tough work. This is what happened…

            She squints at me through a haze of smoke. “You okay babe?” she asks in her lilting, unidentifiable accent.

            Yes, oh spawn of hell, I’m just fine. Thanks.

            More wax, another strip, another assault on my nether region.

            “So babe, you with anyone?”

            This question, for the benefit of those already coupled so long they don’t remember being asked this question, is extremely annoying to the uncoupled. We have our spiel, “No, not right now,” or “No, I’m too busy with work and school.” What we really want to do is leap to our feet (if seated) and shout “NO! I’M ALONE! OKAY?  SOLO! UNO! ONE IS THE LONELIEST NUMBER! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?”

            I don’t say that. I say, “No, not right now.”

            Wax. Cloth strip. RIP.

            My left leg is now hanging off the table. This is not comfortable. My right leg is bent at a 45° degree angle. I am strategically stretching my panty, ironically enabling my own pain and agony.

            What women do for beauty. Unbelievable.

            “It’s hard, babe,” my esthetician mumbles, cigarette smoke trailing from her nose.

            Do tell.

            Wax. Cloth strip. RIP.

            Wincing,  I take a deep breath, contemplating a move to France where they don’t shave, pluck, or wax anything there. At least that’s what I heard.

            My esthetician stretches, taking another long drag on her cigarette.

            Yes, relax, minion of Satan. I don’t want you to be tense.

            I lie there, hoping against hope this conversation, like her cigarette, will burn itself out. My singleness is not a happy thought. I’m still hoping for Mr. Darcy in a pair of Dockers.  I was born in the wrong century. I understand this.

            More slathering of wax. I squirm, glancing at the clock. The deforestation of the Amazon rainforest didn’t take this long.

            Wax. Cloth strip. RIP.

            “So, what you do with yourself babe?”

            I sit in my lonely room, watching rom-coms, devouring chocolate, and weeping.

            I don’t say that. I say, “I’m very busy with work and school.” Then I forget the cardinal rule of conversations about my singleness. Less is more. I should have quit while I was ahead. I didn’t. “I like going to the movies,” I add.

            “Who do you go with?”

            “I go alone. I don’t need company.”

            My esthetician takes this quietly. Now, my right leg is hanging off the table and my left leg is bent at a 45° degree angle in order to evenly distribute the pain.

            “Let me tell you something, babe. When you can go to the movies by yourself, you’re ready to have a relationship.”

            She rips off the cloth strip.

            I mull this enigmatic piece of advice while tears of pain pool in my eyes and my esthetician sucks on her cigarette.

            What, exactly, does that mean? There are many ways to take that. Does it mean “You’re pathetic. You need to get back on E-Harmony PRONTO.” Or does it mean “You’re pathetic and don’t bother trying to find someone. Just buy yourself a supply of Orville Redenbacher’s Jumbo Movie Theater Butter popcorn, rent some chick flicks, and call it a life.”

            My esthetician says nothing else, her expression unreadable. There are thousands of estheticians in this world and I have an enigma waxing my private parts, a Buddha with a Popsicle stick and cloth strips.

            At least the conversation is over.

            So I think.

            It isn’t.

            We’re at the finale, one leg up in the air with my heel resting on her shoulder and I decide this is my first and last Brazilian bikini wax. I even make a silent vow Scarlett would be proud of: I don’t care if I do meet Mr. Right, as God is my witness, I’ll never get waxed again. He gets a road map and a flashlight; rough it my friend.

            She takes a drag on her cigarette, then places it in the ashtray next to the heating wax. The smoke swirls into the air as she places the strip and says… “Babe, you have to learn to love yourself.”

            RIP!!!!!.

            Once the lightning bolt of pain recedes from my brain, I have time to think about her advice. Do the men of this world avoid me because I give off “Hey, I don’t love myself” vibes? Do I not love myself? I pamper myself, spend time and money, endure sweat and pain to keep myself manicured and fit. Am I missing something?

            I leave my esthetician with the area below the waist clear and the area above the neck more cluttered in confusion than when I arrived.

            I do not make a return appointment…

            This is the moral of my Valentine’s Day story: Don’t confuse single women with advice, let us work out the situation on our own. And if we want to do that with rom-com’s and chocolate, that’s up to us. However, if anyone is considering a Brazilian bikini wax, let it go. From what I hear, they’re not in style anymore.

           Thank God.