“I’m so stupid.” I shake my head. “I got my hopes up, and it turns out all he wanted was to watch the game, order a pizza, and then maybe fuck me? Prince Charming, right? Apparently this is what constitutes romance these days . . .. at least on Tinder.”
“What an idiot,” Zach laughs, as he grabs my glass to make me another drink, throwing the bottle of gin in the air and catching it as effortlessly as Tom Cruise in Cocktail.
“He’s so sexy when he does that,” Della whispers at me conspiratorially.
“You’re the one who’s sexy.” Zach smiles at her, revealing a dimple in his right cheek that Della once told me she sticks the tip of her tongue into every now and then because it’s so cute and she can’t help herself.
“Are you guys even listening to me?” I plead, aware that I sound pathetic, but I’m so dejected right now that I really couldn’t care less.
“Most guys are assholes,” Zach sighs, running a hand through his shock of blond hair. “You should see the douchebags that come in here on a regular basis. Their idea of romance is calling a girl an Uber at three a.m.”
“So did you just leave?” Della pats my leg softly like I’m a wounded bird.
“Of course I left!” I say, taking a sip of the fresh drink Zach slides in front of me. “What was I going to do? Listen to his shitty armchair commentary all night while drinking cheap beer?” I shudder. “Did I mention he was wearing sweatpants?”
“The horror,” Zach whispers under his breath, channeling Brando in Apocalypse Now.
Della giggles and leans to kiss him across the bar. Usually, their adorable couple-ness gives me hope, but right now, it’s like a big flashing neon sign:
You’ll never have anyone to love. You’re going to die alone.
I down the rest of my drink and grab my bag. The only thing that could possibly redeem this night is my own bed. And that Pepperidge Farm coconut cake I have stashed in the freezer for three-alarm emergencies.
This is definitely a layer cake kind of night.
“I’m taking off, guys.” I give them a wave. Della comes up for air long enough to give me a sympathetic look.
“I’m sorry about your date, babe. Maybe the next guy?”
“Or the next. Or the one after that.” I salute, and head for the back stairs, pausing on the landing to take off my heels before I continue up the other two flights to my apartment. Sure, the commute is a bitch, but I have calves of steel now, and I’m never more than eighty seconds from a cocktail.
But tonight, booze is the last thing I need. And even my trusty Pepperidge Farm can’t fill the aching void in my chest.
Another shitty date. Another guy who can’t seem to care less if I’m even in the room.
Is this really the most I can expect from dating? God, I might as well swear off men for good and go sign myself up for a convent at this rate, like a reverse Maria from The Sound of Music, except without annoying singing children. Or Nazis.
I’m just so damn tired of trying.
I sink down on the couch and sigh. I’ve been doing this too long: the first dates, getting my hopes up only to have them smashed to smithereens amongst the dirty laundry on my date’s floor. It’s been three long years since Todd walked out, and I’m closer to getting a loyalty card at my local sex toy store than I am to finding a decent man.
“At least with a vibrator, you know exactly what you’re getting,” I say aloud. “Sure, they won’t cuddle, but they don’t use your chest for target practice, either.”
OK, talking to myself. Not a good sign.
I grab my laptop, praying my sister’s online so I can avoid slipping into dubious mental health territory, but her status icon is marked unavailable. I slump back, then I see the video icon winking at me. All my emotions are still bottled up, and I know I need to get this out if I’m going to sleep tonight, so I push my hair back, set the computer on the table, and hit record on a message for her.
7
Lizzie
11.22 p.m.
RECORDING: ON
“Is this thing working? OK. Hey, it’s me, I know you’re probably off snuggling with your dear husband, but some of us are still in the trenches trying not to drink ourselves into oblivion just to make it through the night.
Yup, I had another shitty date. And yes, I know, I just have to keep trying, but come on, if the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and expecting different results then I’m certifiably crazy by now. I don’t understand it! What the hell happened to men? I mean, I know getting nostalgic is stupid, and the past was full of all kinds of terrible things, like polio, and lynching, and women needing permission from their husbands before they can get a job in the typing pool, but I don’t know . . . I feel like we lost something along the road there, some kind of courtship, or romance, or men acting like they gave a damn about love, and it wasn’t just some game to pass the time they could swipe for on a fucking app and have us show up on their doorstep like they called out for dry cleaning, you know?
You remember that story Mom used to tell us, about how Dad swept her off her feet? He saw her in class, and brought her flowers every day for a week before she agreed to go out with him. And then he kept showing up with that same bunch of white roses on their anniversary every year. At least, until, you know . . . And yes, our parents are like the worst role models for a functioning relationship, but that story always made me feel better about them, somehow. They tried. It may have all gone to shit in the end, but it started on the right track, didn’t it?
And now, all I can think is that nobody is even willing to try for me. Not even one tiny bit. Do you know how much effort I put into these dates? I mean, these days, I’ve cut it back to like the bare minimum, but that still means I have to shave my legs, and put my contact lenses in, and pick out an outfit, and wear cute-but-debilitating shoes, and make sure I go to Vilma the evil waxer once a month, and make sure I don’t eat my body weight in carbs, because god forbid I get to be thirty and single and overweight. It’s OK for you, you have love. I mean, you really do. You have someone to talk to, and snuggle up with at night, and hold your hair back when you’ve got food poisoning, but some of us are still out here vomiting on the bathroom floor alone!