Emily's Reasons Why Not (17 page)

Then why does the car still bother me? Am I shallow? Or is it that I have worked damn hard, taken a lot of bull, put in too many weekends and nights, to have nice things, clothes, and a decent car? So why do I feel like a piece of shit for
wanting the man I am having sex with to have the same? Perhaps there is something to be said for not “needing” anymore, but “wanting.”

Wow, self-realization without Dr. D. I feel like I am evolving.

But then again, I don’t want to have sex with his car, and besides, I drive everywhere anyway.

Just for the record.

Reason #1
:
Monetary gaps in the bridge over the river of a relationship make it unsteady
.

I am breaking one of my cardinal rules, never cook on the first five dates. I am cooking dinner. I love to cook, particularly for a man. My mom now says, well after Stan, that I will spend the rest of my life cooking, so date outside of the kitchen for at least a month before going there, that I don’t need to prove I am a perfect homemaker, because I am. Which I know deep down, but can’t let go of the need to hang it out there like my American flag.

The “right” man will know and eventually get the privilege of seeing that side of me. But here all bets are off, because I
know
Lance is not boyfriend potential. He is a tasty biscuit, plus he is a little strapped for cash, so this is fine. I am cooking.

The candles burn while Miles plays on the stereo. I am grilling halibut and peppers, and almond rice simmers in the pot.

Lance walks around the house inspecting every picture and book, making mental notes. He pulls out a poetry book by Neruda from the shelf. As he flips the pages of
The Captain’s Verses
he starts to recite a poem. I stand there, frozen in my living room, as in a hushed whisper he recites a poem. Only toward the end he closes the book, and continues the poem because he KNOWS IT BY HEART!

OH MY GOD! He is such a potential boyfriend.

How is it possible that my arm candy has turned into a cerebral, sensitive poet guy?

“We’re studying Neruda in class.” He places the book back into its slot.

Class? Did he say CLASS? As in a school classroom? What class, college, my God, he is still in college.

“I’m studying music at UCLA. Our teacher says poetry is one of, if not the best source for lyrical inspiration.”

I suddenly have images of him as a teenager while I drop him off in the white Chevy outside of Townsend Middle School in Tucson, Arizona. I shake it off.

I am torn between sending him home and tearing off his clothes.

Maybe it doesn’t matter that he’s a starving artist in his senior year of college. He is young, yes. Maybe a little naive, yes. But firm, sexy, introspective, dark, and mysterious. Yes. Yes. Yes. Such an oxymoron of a male specimen. And those old-soul brown eyes. Why think about it too much, no need to think, DON’T THINK, IT HURTS THE TEAM …no need to make a list. He isn’t a boyfriend, he’s a tasty treat. I
am confused by the whole situation, but I am still very hot and bothered and the night is as young as he is.

Rule #2
:
Male or female, dating someone in college is too young if you’re in your thirties
.

He lights a cigarette and sits down at my kitchen table to watch me. “Need some help?”

Did he just ask me to help? My arm candy is asking to help with dinner. Ahh, love him already. Housebroken and all, he’s not a pup.

He gets up and opens the kitchen cabinets. “I’ll set the table.”

I watch him set the table and we talk about the fleeting and temporal nature of life as he rounds the table with Sam at his heels. He leans down and scratches Sam under the muzzle as they share a look. He doesn’t think we get second chances in life. He doesn’t believe in heaven. He thinks it’s a place we create here on earth. In the ocean (sitting in the surfing lineup, waiting for the wave, judging the peak, paddling into position, and that moment when you know you have it, when you feel its power accelerate beneath you, when it picks you up and throws you down the face), he has been taught. Taught about love and opportunity. Taught him how to seize the moment. He loves the freedom. He loves knowing that for the next few moments life has nothing to do with the world onshore.

He helps me with the dishes, all the while wooing me with those puppy-dog browns and his knowledge of my favorite
poets. I empty the bottle of pinot noir into our quarter-full glasses and he pulls a little cigarette from behind his UCLA backpack and asks me if I want some. Surprise, it’s a joint. Mary Jane, Ganga, weed, pot—I am cool with that, but haven’t really gotten high since college. Not that I have a problem with pot, but simply that every time I smoked it I got cravings for things like mayonnaise sandwiches, chips, dips, cookies, cake, ice cream, fried chicken …anything, and not in small amounts.

When the “freshmen fifteen” turned the corner heading for twenty with momentum, I gave up bong hits for a waistline. Lance lights the end of the joint and I take a little puff, followed by extreme coughing, eye-watering, and laughter.

It feels good to laugh, to be at ease, to forget about having the upper hand.

Lance hands me a glass of water. “Would you like some ice in that?”

“Sure,” I say, watching him make himself at home in my kitchen. He pushes the dispenser and puts an ice cube in his mouth. Leaning down, he lets the ice cube slide from his mouth into mine with a HOT! HOT! HOT! kiss.

That night in bed, I think I am going to have to tie him down like Nuke LaLoosh in
Bull Durham
, but instead we just lie in bed taking turns reading
The Story of O
out loud to each other.

He takes off one piece of my clothing every few pages, and slowly touches every inch of my body. He asks me what I like, and I have no problems telling him. I like it here and
there and everywhere and for a moment I feel like Dr. Seuss …

Fifteen days later: Living on Macro Bid … my prescription for a bladder infection.

“I am not making him into a boyfriend. I am not making him into a boyfriend. Shit, I am making him into a boyfriend,” I say, looking at Dr. D.

“Yes, but you have been since you saw your, what was it, lollipop?” Dr. D. smiles.

“Arm candy.”

“Yes, arm candy. Emily, if you want to find the right guy, why are you wasting time with someone that you knew was wrong from the moment you met him? Are you somehow setting lower standards for yourself, so you won’t be disappointed? Won’t be alone?”

Yes, I am. Why wouldn’t I? I mean, every time I think that a guy has potential, like Reese, they turn out to be a complete piece of shit. Why not just keep the bar low in my wanting? If I don’t want him to be my boyfriend, he can’t hurt me. Then if he turns into my boyfriend, well, presto …

“Lance is great. Lance is smart and sexy. He’s just a little young,” I argue. “I didn’t know that he was going to be someone that I would like … I mean, like-like.”

“You’re making him into someone you can like-like. Tell him to go home.”

Reason #3
:
When your therapist flat-out tells you that the guy you’re dating is wrong for you, he probably is
.

“No,” I say, crossing my arms. “I am happy.”

“Do you want to find true love?”

“That’s not fair, you know I do.”

“Than send
the boy
home!”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to tell me what to do. I thought you were, as a therapist, supposed to help me come to my own conclusions.”

“You’re a special case.”

The clock cuckoos and I look up. “Oh, lucky me. Time’s up.” I pick up my bag and swing it over my shoulder. I do not look at Dr. D., who is still sitting in his chair as I open the door…

“Make the list for him,” he barks just when I thought I’d escaped.

Maybe he was right. Lance hasn’t really left my house except to go to class, as he doesn’t really have a home to go home to. He still lives with his parents, but in the guest house.

But he still lives with his parents.

Reason #4
:
He lives with his parents
.

Fucking Dr. D. got me all worked up. He did have a point about wasting time. But when is it really wasting time? Tick-tock. I can hear my ovaries dying. If only I were twenty-two again, time wouldn’t matter. Am I supposed to sit at home waiting for Mr. Right, Mr. Reese Callahan, to just knock on the door and pronounce us man and wife? Why is it so bad to
kill some time with someone who makes me, well, hot coffee before going off to work in the morning? None of this would matter if only I had ten years back. Why can’t I just enjoy my arm candy and not worry about it? Tick-tock …

“He lives with his paaarreeennttts?” Reilly almost spits out her drink.

Reilly, Grace, and I sit at our usual spots at the bar in Atlantic.

“Wow. How young is he?” Grace asks.

“Twenty-three, but he has an old soul.”

“Where is he tonight?” Grace questions.

“Waiting for me to get home.”

“Your home?” Reilly asks.

“Yes.”

“Nicely trained.” Grace tings my martini glass.

“We
do it
a lot. In the kitchen. On the table. Over the sofa. In the shower. In the back room. You name it, we’re doing it, and it is amazing. I don’t know. I mean, I am not making him into my boyfriend or anything, but …”

The girls both roll their eyes, knowing that I am indeed molding Lance into the guy I want.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I was molding him. But so what? There is a fair amount of training that goes into every guy, into every relationship.

“WHICH ONE?” LANCE
asks, holding up two shirts. I feel sick, as both are thrift-store Hawaiians and we are having dinner with my new boss at The Ivy.

“Why don’t we jump over to Barney’s and take a look around.”

“Barney’s? The big purple dinosaur?” he says, almost making fun of me.

“No, Barney’s the big overpriced trend store on Wilshire, baby.”

“I know what you mean, but I can’t afford Barney’s,” he says, pulling on his shirt.

“Yes, but I can,” I counter with a lift of the eyebrows.

“Touché,” he says, tossing me my keys.

After watching the salesgirls fawn all over my tasty treat, I leave less $400 plus two shirts. But, he looks smokin’ hot in Armani! If I could just fix that hair.

Reason #5
:
If you want to dress up your boyfriend, buy a Ken doll
.

On our way home I stop in Umberto’s to buy shampoo and various products as a ploy to see if my hairdresser, April, is working. April takes Lance’s semidirty hair and snips away the curls, giving him a George Clooney buzz cut.

We went to dinner that night and it was like dating a different mannequin …I mean man. Can you dress them up and take them out? What was I doing to poor Lance?

“I admit it. I have a problem.”

“Thank you,” Dr. D. says.

I am successfully changing Lance. I have taken things that were cool about him and sterilized them. I have made him
into a straight version of Stan. But somehow I know that deep down, Lance is not Stan. Lance at thirty-four is going to be hot, smart, sensitive, and wow, I will be like …mid-forty-something, taking care of him and the kids while he has sex with college girls.

For now, I am still obsessed with the training and validation. I have noticed little nuances that need fine-tuning beyond the apparent hair trimming and new clothing, things like Lance’s eating habits. Maybe it is a guy thing, maybe it’s a young thing, but why is it that when a man holds utensils he holds them like a sandbox toy? I’ve seen Lance eat soup, ice cream, and cereal, all with that damn shovel.

“Hey, nice shovel,” I murmur as Lance slurps Cap’n Crunch at 6:30
P.M
. into his very stoned body.

“Ssssorrryyy,” he says, awkwardly embarrassed with his mouth full of milk. He changes spoon position and continues.

This is not a good sign. There are definitely things that I do to make my man the way I want. A fair amount of house-training needs to take place before one says, “I do.” But I have become passive-aggressive in my obedience school training. I have become the dominant alpha she-wolf. Which is fine at work, but doesn’t work for me at home.

Rule #6
:
I don’t want to be the boss at home
.

To dress one’s boyfriend the way I like him and then school him on table manners has got to be a reason. A penalty somewhere in the Emily dating handbook. Some
women want to be the boss, I mean, really, we are the bosses. But at home I just want my man to be the man. And I have a man-child.

But at that moment, while contemplating breaking up with Lance and sending him home … he puts down his cereal bowl and makes his way to the sofa, on his knees. He lifts my flowy skirt and kisses my inner thigh with his cool, milky mouth. I lay my head back and lightly moan. All of the buzzers and whistles stop and I am reminded why …young is good. Young is nice. Young is … oh, God, yes!

11:15
A.M
. the next morning. Pop home from the office between a meeting over the hill in the Valley and heading back to the office. I have been up since 5:00
A.M
., taken Sam to see another specialist, did yoga, made seventeen calls, one conference call, showered, dressed, and am back home.

I open the door of my bedroom and look at Lance, still sleeping. I smile a sort of GET THE FUCK out of my bed smile. The door creaks shut and his sleepy eyes open and he says…

“Babe, can you leave me five bucks for a sandwich at Subway?”

I smile a weird little awkward grin, squint, and close the door.

I am pretty sure that I am not supposed to leave my boyfriend LUNCH MONEY.

Rule #7
:
Leaving lunch money for your boyfriend is a no-no
.

Two weeks later: Lance still has not gone home. I’m torn by the fear of sending him off to be alone versus keeping him here to waste time, as we know he is not the right guy.

I truly do love spending time with Lance.

We’ve successfully visited Banana Republic, the Gap, Hugo Boss, Kenneth Cole, and various restaurants, bars, and day spas. I sit at the kitchen table and balance my checkbook. In exactly thirty-two days I have spent $4,822.42.