The Way Life Should Be (2 page)

“I know!” she said. “Aren’t you happy for me?”

That night, after a dinner of four warm Krispy Kremes straight from the bag, I climbed into a sudsy bath and closed my eyes. How many people, I wondered, can actually claim to have found their soul mate, the one person in the world destiny has set aside for them? Not many, I’d bet. I’m skeptical that there is such a thing. I’m inclined to believe that the whole concept of a soul mate is like Sasquatch, the giant hairy ape-man of legend who turned out to be nothing more than a guy in a monkey suit running through a forest.

But now, sitting at my desk, I think—if Lindsay believes she’s actually found her soul mate, who am I to scoff and ridicule?

When you read the Sunday wedding section—the women’s sports page, as Lindsay calls it—to see how people met, you discover that it’s often in the most accidental of ways, in the unlikeliest of places. At a funeral. In the park. In the back of an airplane. At the grocery store. Which makes those of us who haven’t found the right one edgy.
Are you my life partner? Are you?
If I don’t go to this party, or if I stay in my apartment on a sunny Saturday instead of heading over to Central Park with a picnic blanket and the
Times,
will I miss meeting the man of my dreams? You could drive yourself crazy with the what-ifs and why-nots.

After a while you start appraising fire hydrants and telephone poles—hmm, tall, sturdy, good posture, could be the one.

The other day on TV a so-called relationship expert said that it’s when you aren’t looking for love that you find it. But what does that mean, exactly? The truth is, even if you make a pact
with yourself that you’re not looking and don’t care, a piece of you is always waiting for love to happen. Especially if you’re a woman who might someday want to give birth to a kid or two, and you’re thirty-three.

The problem with your best friend putting an idea in your head, even if it’s an idea you loathe (or perhaps especially if it’s an idea you loathe) is that then it’s in there, gestating, like the larvae of a nasty insect that burrows under your skin.

So…given the myriad ways in which people can and do meet, and the frank reality that I have managed to live for more than three decades without meeting my “soul mate,” perhaps I should give it a try.

And so it is that I find myself at kissandtell’s buoyantly graphic home page. “Never go on a bad date again!” promises the slogan at the top, and while that strikes me as unrealistic, I find myself caught up in the madcap hopefulness of it all. Pricking up my ears for the click-click of Mary Quince’s heels, I fill out the free entry form. I compile a shopping list of my requirements with the zeal of an early-bird shopper on the day of a big sale: male, between the ages of thirty-five—scratch that, twenty-nine—and forty; no kids; college educated. I specify my geographical locale as “New York region” and click “Done.”

A little human icon on the screen crosses its arms and cocks its head, as if considering my request. After a moment a database of postage-stamp-size photos and screen names pops up. I scroll down the seemingly endless list, most with suggestive or boastful screen names and subtle-as-a-mallet opening lines, only the first eight words of which are visible, followed by a trail of ellipses. The screen names generally contain a vanity-license-plate combo of numbers and letters, upper-and lowercase, puns and double entendres. Look4Love, Bod4U, SINgledad. (That one’s just creepy.) Though most photos are clearly intended to
show off the subject’s best features, the men tend to look either menacing, intense, meek, too pumped, or downright dweeby.

I click on a photo, and the profile is revealed. Chuck, thirty-four, is an actuary who knows how to have a good time. He has been burned before but remains confident that the woman of his dreams is out there. Robert, thirty-one, wants a mutually satisfying relationship with a fellow bodybuilding enthusiast from the tristate area. Colin, a thirty-nine-year-old firefighter, is looking for a red-haired beauty who is ready to start a family and would be happy living on Staten Island. It doesn’t take much reading between the lines to spot the guys who live in the same house with or next door to their parents.

As I consider these options, my gaze strays from the computer screen to the bulletin board on my wall. Tacked to the gray synthetic fabric is a photo, torn from a magazine, of a weathered elfin cottage on the Maine coast. Several times a day my glance strays to this photo; the image has become totemic, as unreal a place as Middle Earth. Just looking at it soothes me, the way sound machines of waves or rain can calm your nerves. I have never been to Maine, but in my imagination life there isn’t so complicated. I picture a lump of dough rising under a tea towel on a kitchen counter; pansies spilling from a window box; seagulls the size of small dogs, circling in slow motion overhead.

Impulsively—perhaps recklessly—I widen my search, inching up the East Coast. Near Boston I find fewer Italians and bankers, more Irish Catholics and lawyers. Curiously, my qualms about serial rapists and ax murderers diminish the farther north I go, as if all the miscreants and deviants in the northeastern U.S. have confined themselves to the New York area, and the rest is safe.

Moving up the coastline, the pickings get slimmer. Maybe there’s a dating website specifically for Mainers, or perhaps In
ternet dating hasn’t really caught on there yet. There is a grand total of six profiles. Most of the head shots feature guys wearing baseball hats with obscure local slogans. Then, all at once—hey! I am gazing into the ice blue eyes of a thirty-five-year-old with the screen name “MaineCatch.” His opening teaser is “Sail away with me…” No baseball cap, a nice tan, a full head of slightly tousled blond hair, navy blue tennis shirt. I sit up straight in my desk chair and click on his picture.

“…in the night, and all day, too,” the teaser ends. As I read the profile I have to remind myself to breathe. It turns out that Rich, thirty-five, runs a sailing school in a coastal town on Mount Desert Island (
Where?
I must Google it immediately). Five eleven and 180 pounds, he has never been married, is a nonpracticing Protestant, loves Italian food and shellfish. Besides sailing, his interests include curling up with a good book, “my dog Sam (short for Samantha),” hiking, and…cooking.

My heart thumps.

I click a button that says “Register for free!” I can post my profile and picture, and receive and respond to inquires, but if I want to contact someone, I’ll have to pay the monthly charge of $29. There’s a feature called “tagging” that allows you to comment on someone’s profile without joining by using one of ten canned lines they provide (“You’re hot! Check me out—maybe we can start a fire together”).

I fill in the blanks:

Name: Angela (no last name).

Age? Am tempted to lie, then realize that it might lead to a potentially unpleasant spurning scenario. 33.

Religion: Nonpracticing Catholic.

Profession: Event Planner.

Hometown: New York City.

Vital statistics: Hmm. Tempted to ignore or minimize, but
realize that this is risky. How is it that most people on this website describe themselves as “slim” when most Americans are overweight? I check “medium height, medium build.” Then, reconsidering, change it to “slim.”

Hobbies /activities: Watching old
Lifetime
movies in bed, drinking vodka tonics, going out with friends, reading the Styles section, trolling the Chelsea flea market, eating out. Going to the gym every four or five days and trotting on the treadmill for the duration of
Access Hollywood.

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

Had I the kind of lifestyle wherein one might actually cultivate interesting hobbies, what would they be? Not that I have ever actually done it, but if I did exercise in a nongym way, I think I might enjoy hiking.

So—“Hiking.”

The one time I went sailing, with friends at a time share in the Hamptons, I threw up over the side of the boat, but I’m sure I could grow to love it. I like everything except the water part. The beautiful wooden vessels, the salt-crisp nautical wear, picnics on deck with a glass of wine. The shiny, curving wood in the cabin and the rounded windows belowdecks.

“Sailing.”

When I was little I wanted a dog. I begged for years, and finally got a mutt named Rusty. He didn’t take well to housetraining and tended to snap, and when he was almost a year old he met an unfortunate end after ingesting rat poison left in the garage by my dad. But I have no doubt that I could grow to love someone else’s adored dog, particularly a Lab named Sam.

“Dogs.”

And then there’s cooking. For this one I don’t have to lie or fudge. I write, “Enjoys cooking Italian food and shellfish with friends, al fresco dining under a clear, star-filled sky.” The lyrics
of that oldies song about piña coladas and getting caught in the rain waft through my head.

So call it coincidence, call it kismet, call it what you will, but my interests dovetail quite nicely with those of MaineCatch.

Several months ago the publications director of the museum took a picture of me for the annual report. It’s like a yearbook photo—stiff smile, white blouse—but it’s all I’ve got. I fish it out of a drawer and hurry down the hall to the industrial-strength printer/scanner, scanning it through before I have time to second-guess myself. On the computer screen, I am cheered to see, I look a little better than in real life.

I finish filling out my profile and hesitate over the screen name. It should convey cool nonchalance as opposed to sluttish desperation. What would appeal to Mr. Catch? I try out a few. “Ready2Sail”? Too obvious. “NewYorkCatch”? Erk. I flash through a few possibilities—SpicyGirl, LemonLover (like my grandfather, I do love lemons, but—no)—before trying out NewYorkGirl.

NewYork…Girl. I think about it for a moment. It’s a stretch, but anyone can see my age on the form. It’s breezy. I’m going with it.

Since I am disinclined to pay for this, I scroll through the short list of generic options and fix on the one that seems most neutral: “I’m intrigued! Check me out.”

I send my profile and the canned tagline to MaineCatch and get a confirmation notice from the website. I feel a flash of regret, and then a tingle of hope. It’s the same feeling I had when I was ten and stuffed a message in a bottle and tossed it off a pier into the ocean. Now that I remember it, the bottle kept washing up onshore with the tide and I finally gave up—but still. My message is out there, and now all I can do is wait and see.

CHAPTER 2

Mimes and jesters, it turns out, are a dime a dozen, but a good
fire-eater is hard to find. After half an hour of following leads, I am finally on the phone with one of them, a cranky, demanding guy named Frank. I’m doing my best to get him to give me some references, but he doesn’t want to cooperate.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, sighing dramatically. “I’ve got references, but I gotta dig ’em out from god-knows-where, and frankly, right now I don’t need the work that bad. Fire-eating’s big these days, Cirque du Soleil or I don’t know what….”

“Sure, I understand,” I say. “It’s just that it’s a formality. I can’t hire you unless I talk to someone. Anyone. Your dog, even, if your dog could talk.”

His laugh sounds vaguely evil. “Well, that can be arranged.”

As we’re talking I click idly onto kissandtell again.
Oh my God!
MaineCatch has written back. Now Frank wants to know which other carnies I’ve been talking to—“It’s a small world, kid, believe me, and I can’t stand the half of ’em”—but I can’t resist peeking at what I’ve reeled in.

You intrigue me, too. But why is a city gal like you interested in a country boy like me?

Frank is going on and on, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from hanging up on him.

“Well, you’re my number one choice,” I tell him. “I’m not signing anybody else until I get you.”

Runs a sailing school. Lives on an island. Dog named Sam.

Maybe opposites attract,
I write. And send.

“Let’s talk about your fee,” I say to Frank, settling down to business. The price seems exorbitant to me, even given the fact that he shoves fire down his esophagus for a living.

I click back to kissandtell.
So maybe we should find out,
MaineCatch has written. Already! My heart pitter-pats, then thumps, like the tail of a friendly dog as you get closer to petting it.
Let’s take this conversation off-road. Call me, 207-555-2814.

I sit back in my chair, flummoxed. A number! Isn’t Internet dating supposed to be anonymous, at least for a while? Doesn’t this break the rules? (And isn’t the guy supposed to call first?)

For advice on these and other questions, I do what any sane woman would do: I call my best friend.

“He gave you his number? He wants you to call
him
?” Lindsay repeats.

“Uh-huh.”

“That seems a little—fast.”

“He’s from Maine. He lives on an island.”

“Maybe that explains it,” she says. “He clearly has no idea what he’s doing. There’s an etiquette to this, for God’s sake!” She pauses for a moment, then says, “What are you doing hooking up with a guy from Maine, anyway?”

“Oh, he says he wants to move,” I lie. “So—what should I do?”

“Just ignore him and he’ll go away. Something’s not right about this guy.”

I hang up the phone and brood. What’s so wrong with talking to him? Hearing his voice? You can tell a lot about a guy by his voice.

There’s a sharp rap on my door—instantly identifiable as
Mary Quince’s knuckle—and I click quickly to another screen. She pops in, all business, frameless glasses perched on her head and lavender cardigan buttoned at the throat. “Big Apple Circus,” she says, click-clicking over to my desk and looking over my shoulder at the screen. “Are we having any luck?”

“Just got off the phone with a bona fide fire-eater,” I report. “I’m about to call his references.”

Mary looks at her watch. “We’re cutting this close,” she says, as if the party is minutes away. Her watch has no calendar; it’s a symbolic gesture. Also, she doesn’t mean “we,” she means me. I’ve never actually missed a deadline or botched an event, but that doesn’t stop Mary from obsessing. It’s what she does best.