feel good about my looks.
Several months into my relationship with Joey, he and I spent a weekend in Saratoga and Lake George. We hiked all day, then went out for dinner at a nearby pub. Over chicken and mashed potatoes, Joey told me how happy he was to have such a great girlfriend. Me . By the time I dropped him off at his apartment Sunday night, I was happy, too. I was falling in love.
That night, I lay in bed thinking about the next milestone in our relationship: Joey was going to spend Thanksgiving with my family. This was big—I hadn’t brought anyone home in a few years. My family was loud and ethnic, probably nothing like Joey’s liberal, Jewish neurosurgeon dad and fine-painter mom. I pictured my dad telling Joey how much he admired the Jews because “they stick together.” I shut out that nightmare by thinking about my mother’s out-of-this-world feast. She was an amazing cook—her food would counterbalance any political incorrectness on my dad’s part. Joey’s visit would be fine.
The anticipation mounted until a couple of days before the holiday, when, after an ordinary Friday-night date of dinner and a movie, Joey, propped on his elbow in bed and wearing the same Adidas shirt from our first date, told me he’d met another girl.
“I don’t know if I like her, but I want the freedom to find out.”
Joey never made it to Thanksgiving dinner.
I was devastated by the breakup, even though I recognized my hand in the situation. I said I wanted to find love in a real relationship, but I hadn’t exactly picked the best candidate. Ishould have gone after a balding lawyer, not a hot rocker with girls slipping him their numbers every night.
I kept up my resolve to quit him, but a few weeks later, he began leaving voice mail messages at home and work, pleading for me to call him (“Call me back just so I know you’re okay”). When he sent me flowers at the office a few days before Christmas, I caved. “I miss you and I think I made a mistake,” the note read. When John saw who had sent the bouquet, he made his opinion known. “Are we going to get rid of that guy, or what?” he said.
The answer was no. I called Joey and invited him to a Knicks game the night before Christmas Eve. John had given me a pair of tickets for his amazing courtside seats—the kind where you’re cheering next to Woody Allen or Spike Lee—and I wanted to impress Joey. It would be such an awesome night that he would ditch whoever he was dating and we’d get back together.
Our chemistry was still strong; we met at his apartment at the start of the evening and almost missed the game. As we sat down with our feet literally touching the court, Joey said, “I hope they don’t put us on the JumboTron.” I ignored his remark, thinking, He’ll come around.
At the end of the night, Joey announced he had a Christmas gift for me, and my heart beat fast with the thought that maybe this was a pronouncement of some kind. I ripped open the lumpy, manhandled wrapping paper. Inside the little package was a brass Zippo lighter. Okay, not exactly diamonds or perfume, but all hope was not lost: there was a card—perhaps it held a meaningful, romantic sentiment. I read the one line: “Best of luck in the New Year, Joey.”
Best of luck?
On the phone with Carolyn the next day, I went off: “Who fucking says, ‘Best of luck in the new year’?”
“Why don’t you ask John?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“When we first started dating, John called me and, right before he got off the phone, said, ‘Don’t be a stranger.’ I was so pissed I called him right back and said, ‘Don’t you ever say something like that to me again.’”
Of course, for Carolyn, that worked. Her demands were met because John was respectful and a real man. Joey was a stoner who had to stop at home to smoke pot before we went to dinner and often called me “dude.”
Yet that didn’t stop me from giving it one last try when he
Several months into my relationship with Joey, he and I spent a weekend in Saratoga and Lake George. We hiked all day, then went out for dinner at a nearby pub. Over chicken and mashed potatoes, Joey told me how happy he was to have such a great girlfriend. Me . By the time I dropped him off at his apartment Sunday night, I was happy, too. I was falling in love.
That night, I lay in bed thinking about the next milestone in our relationship: Joey was going to spend Thanksgiving with my family. This was big—I hadn’t brought anyone home in a few years. My family was loud and ethnic, probably nothing like Joey’s liberal, Jewish neurosurgeon dad and fine-painter mom. I pictured my dad telling Joey how much he admired the Jews because “they stick together.” I shut out that nightmare by thinking about my mother’s out-of-this-world feast. She was an amazing cook—her food would counterbalance any political incorrectness on my dad’s part. Joey’s visit would be fine.
The anticipation mounted until a couple of days before the holiday, when, after an ordinary Friday-night date of dinner and a movie, Joey, propped on his elbow in bed and wearing the same Adidas shirt from our first date, told me he’d met another girl.
“I don’t know if I like her, but I want the freedom to find out.”
Joey never made it to Thanksgiving dinner.
I was devastated by the breakup, even though I recognized my hand in the situation. I said I wanted to find love in a real relationship, but I hadn’t exactly picked the best candidate. Ishould have gone after a balding lawyer, not a hot rocker with girls slipping him their numbers every night.
I kept up my resolve to quit him, but a few weeks later, he began leaving voice mail messages at home and work, pleading for me to call him (“Call me back just so I know you’re okay”). When he sent me flowers at the office a few days before Christmas, I caved. “I miss you and I think I made a mistake,” the note read. When John saw who had sent the bouquet, he made his opinion known. “Are we going to get rid of that guy, or what?” he said.
The answer was no. I called Joey and invited him to a Knicks game the night before Christmas Eve. John had given me a pair of tickets for his amazing courtside seats—the kind where you’re cheering next to Woody Allen or Spike Lee—and I wanted to impress Joey. It would be such an awesome night that he would ditch whoever he was dating and we’d get back together.
Our chemistry was still strong; we met at his apartment at the start of the evening and almost missed the game. As we sat down with our feet literally touching the court, Joey said, “I hope they don’t put us on the JumboTron.” I ignored his remark, thinking, He’ll come around.
At the end of the night, Joey announced he had a Christmas gift for me, and my heart beat fast with the thought that maybe this was a pronouncement of some kind. I ripped open the lumpy, manhandled wrapping paper. Inside the little package was a brass Zippo lighter. Okay, not exactly diamonds or perfume, but all hope was not lost: there was a card—perhaps it held a meaningful, romantic sentiment. I read the one line: “Best of luck in the New Year, Joey.”
Best of luck?
On the phone with Carolyn the next day, I went off: “Who fucking says, ‘Best of luck in the new year’?”
“Why don’t you ask John?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“When we first started dating, John called me and, right before he got off the phone, said, ‘Don’t be a stranger.’ I was so pissed I called him right back and said, ‘Don’t you ever say something like that to me again.’”
Of course, for Carolyn, that worked. Her demands were met because John was respectful and a real man. Joey was a stoner who had to stop at home to smoke pot before we went to dinner and often called me “dude.”
Yet that didn’t stop me from giving it one last try when he
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