You’re at a party, and you meet an incredible, funny, sexy guy. You discover that you both like “Breaking Bad” and soft pretzels with mustard and you agree that Nabokov was a good writer, but overrated. So you start to flirt, and you find a quiet corner where you can talk (and kiss) and talk some more, and he asks you out… and suddenly you’re Kate Hudson and he’s Matthew McConaughey, and you’re starring in your very own chick flick.
Life, as they say, is good.
You drift into a relationship. Every weekend is spent together, at the movies, in fancy restaurants or hole-in-the-wall dives, playing miniature golf or skee-ball or bumper cars – all the typical, romantic, silly stuff you do when you can’t get enough of each other and you hold hands everywhere you go and you even walk together, arms around each other’s waists, bumping hips. Gradually his stuff migrates to your place – or yours to his – and you think to yourself, wow… this could really be serious.
Except the guy turns out to be a shit. Maybe he has mommy issues. Or ex-girlfriend issues. Or he’s not ready to commit to white bread or wheat, much less to a life together. Mention words like “Ikea” or “Bed Bath and Beyond” and he breaks into a cold sweat and mutters something about having an upcoming, extended business conference… in Alaska.
Or maybe the problem is you. Maybe your laugh irritates him, or you criticize the way he folds the laundry, or you don’t like his friends. Maybe you no longer want to share the bathroom/pretend to like his grilled cheese and jalapeño sandwiches/look at his collection of Battlestar Galactica videos (original AND remake) occupying an entire shelf of your bookcase.
The things you originally found endearing about him are now just… annoying.
So the relationship ends. He moves his stuff out – or you reclaim yours – and that’s it, you’re done. It’s over. You nurse your broken heart by watching back-to-back episodes of “Dr. Who,” or the entire first season of “Downtown Abbey” (which he just didn’t get), and you curl up on the sofa with the two men you admire most, the two men who never, ever let you down – Ben. And Jerry.
And you vow that never, ever again will you fall in love (or even in like) with a guy. No more bad boys. No more boys, period.
You briefly consider becoming a lesbian. Hey, it works for Ellen, right? She and Portia are happy! After all, they’re women, and women understand each other. They know each other’s plumbing, so to speak, and share the same mood swings and hormones. But as quickly as it comes, you discard the idea. You just don’t roll that way.
No, you decide, you’ll go it alone. Like Greta Garbo. You don’t need a man to be complete. Needing a man is anti-feminist, outdated, and a sign of female insecurity and dependence, right? Of course it is. You’ll travel, and go to parties, and dine at fine restaurants – alone. It’ll empower you. It’ll be good for you.
Except, you soon realize, you don’t much like being Greta. Dining alone over a plate of exquisitely prepared lobster fettucine – no matter how delicious it is – or standing by yourself at the rail of a cruise ship as a tropical paradise slowly passes you by – well, you can’t help but think how much more enjoyable these things would be if you shared them with someone. You feel like you’re starring in your own sad movie.
And you’re getting tired of the same, unhappy ending.
Then, just as you start to feel comfortable in your own skin, just as you tell yourself that maybe this “alone” thing isn’t really so bad after all, you meet a guy. He’s incredibly funny and sexy. He likes the Yankees and he loves to get up early and he knows the words to The Cure’s “Lovesong” by heart.
So you begin a new relationship, because… well, you never know. This guy might just be different. He might be The One to end all the broken promises and the half-hearted, ‘yeah-sure-I’ll-go-to-the-art-exhibit-with-you’ lies that you’ve heard before.
This guy might just be The One who actually remembers your birthday, who puts the dishes away without being asked, or (most important of all) who holds your hair back when you’re bent over the toilet hurling after one too many Zombies.
If this guy can deliver all that, he might even (maybe, possibly) be The One to break up your long-standing relationship with Ben and Jerry… forever.
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