February 28, 2008
Leave the house
There's nothing more smug and insidious than a girl who has finally fallen in love and thinks she now has all the answers. She can save you from your sad, pathetic, damaged love life and cure you of your nasty man-repellant habits. No matter what condescending tip she's giving you, it always drips with the self-satisfied knowledge that the spinster bullet she so artfully dodged is headed straight for you.|
I hate that girl.
I can't turn into her, and maybe that's why I haven't written for the past nine months, since I met and fell in love with the first man I've ever been sure about. When it finally happened, it felt much more like dumb luck than brilliant man maneuvering. More dice than poker. I can't be gloating all the way to the altar because the fact is, I'm just a girl who left the house one Saturday night to have dinner with her girlfriends, saw a cute guy across the room and hit the jackpot.
The only magical insight I can share with you has to do with the leaving the house part. Even Eli Manning can't throw a touchdown if he doesn't break out of the huddle. That's really all I can tell you for sure.
There's always been a special place in my grudge greenhouse for those who peddle the idea that finding love is a skill that can be graphed, taught and sold. Books about love seem like a whole lot of mess to me, written largely by groovy grifters.
Take for example author John Gray -- you know, the "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus" guy? The guy who has sold more than 30 million books doling out relationship advice? Well, he married fellow self-help writer Barbara De Angelis, who penned "Secrets About Men Every Woman Should Know."
Between the two of them, you have to imagine this was the most blissful, evolved marriage ever. Too bad they're divorced. Yet somehow, both still hawk their wares. A special hats off to Gray for combining two brilliant swindles in his latest work, "The Mars & Venus Diet & Exercise Solution." I couldn't make up tripe like that.
So, when I ask myself how I finally stopped screwing up my love life, the only answer that comes to mind is the same one famously used by one of Ernest Hemingway's characters to explain how he went bankrupt: "Two ways, first gradually then suddenly."
The gradual part was the usual therapy in Tarzana with a nice lady who lets me joke about the therapist next door, Dr. Harsher. Seriously, that's his name. The suddenly part was meeting a guy who is so boundlessly good-natured and patient that he makes me want to bake him cakes and write syrupy e-mails. For the most part, I stopped being a subpar girlfriend and self-involved jerk, first gradually then suddenly.
In any case, I could have had all of the personal epiphanies in the world and still turned up snake eyes. Some of the most together people I know are alone, and some of the real doozies are paired up. It really does come down mainly to luck. Luck and leaving the house.
Aside from being self-conscious that I would come across unctuous and all-knowing about falling in love, there's another reason that for the first time in 10 years I haven't written a darn thing.
I'm ... happy? And happy people can be a bit dull, or at least that's the notion that's been dogging me. I introduced this concept out in Tarzana.
My Therapist: "Not all happy people are boring."
Me: "Name one happy person who isn't boring."
My Therapist: "The Dalai Lama."
Me: "Really? Have you read 'The Art of Happiness?'"
My Therapist: "You got me there."
Perhaps she should have suggested I set up a session with Dr. Harsher.
Since falling in love and losing what I perceive to be my "edge," I sometimes worry about being one quaint, self-deprecating tale away from being Erma Bombeck, and I loved Erma, but you know what I mean.
Oddly enough, the answer came from a co-worker. He told me that I was so deeply troubled that even if one part of my life was gelling, the nuttiness runs deep. He said I was like Mike Tyson, I wouldn't run out of crazy. And that was comforting, and the fact that it was a salve proved it true. I've got a backup generator of crazy in case the mishegoss goes out.
So, hopefully, despite the fact that I'm not suffocatingly lonely or in a relationship laced with toxic levels of resentment, I still have a fertile patch of pain from which insights can grow, like that brilliant one I had earlier about leaving the house. What a relief.