education of women. I think she started loving me more when I decided to
go there.
“I had lunch with Vivian McLean yesterday, and she told me the most fascinating piece
of information. There is a single man living in Middleburg. Not divorced, not a widower,
just single and under forty. Dark hair. Cute .”
He was definitely going to be either a riding instructor or a horse breeder.
“He’s a riding instructor,” she said.
“I can’t date a riding instructor!” I groaned. “He will announce that he’s either
bisexual or gay-curious by the time we order a first course. Then he’ll want to borrow
my clothes.”
My mother shook her head and denied that the men in the horse world were almost always
same-sex-oriented.
“You should make his acquaintance!” she pressed. “I see thirty in your very near future.
When I was thirty, I had already given birth to your sister.”
“Well, that was a sound decision,” I said, chipping off my zebra-striped gel nail
polish with a salad fork. Once, when Iwas seven, my mother caught me checking my sister’s head for horns. Before she could
pull me away, I was positive I had found the little nubs where they had been sawed
off.
As she reshelved cookbooks and worried about her tired old celibate daughter, I sat
on a bench whittled by the British a century ago and watched the fire in the kitchen
fireplace start to die down.
“It’s a small town. You’re going to run into him anyway,” said my mom, picking a stray
thread off her Max Mara pants. “You might as well just meet him now. And Vivian didn’t
mention anything about—”
“Vivian McLean’s husband dresses as Princess Diana every Halloween!” I interrupted.
“Princess Diana from the 1980s at that. I don’t think she’s a good judge.” I shivered,
thinking about a man in a gold lamé dress and shoulder pads handing me Snickers bars
all through my childhood.
“Well, metrosexuals are all the rage. I read it in New York magazine. I don’t think you should be so closed-minded. I’ve always thought you were
meant to be with a man in jodhpurs.”
My mother actually looked hurt, and I felt a touch guilty. The woman just wanted to
play Episcopalian Yenta. But a man in jodhpurs? I might as well frequent a leather
bar in Tribeca to find my soul mate. I took my mother’s scheme to marry me off to
Elton John as my cue to retire to the animal quarters.
Julia was right. We were old. I had a working automobile and didn’t have to travel
by horse. Maybe I should move out of Middleburg to Logan Circle. I could probably
afford to live in a basement with ferocious rodents and several roommates. It would
be humbling, but I currently lived with my parents. Par-ents! I felt like a forty-year-old
Sicilian spinster forced to can spaghetti sauce all day to earn my room and board.
Finally, my frustrated parents would marry me off to a grizzled widower. “We have
toget you out of the house!” they would declare as I presented him with a dozen cans
of Ragu old-world style and my child-bearing hips. Realistically, my situation was
even worse. With my job, I would never have time to meet a grizzled widower.
The Saturday after my mother tried to set me up with a gay man, Elsa called to beg
me to come to her gallery on Fourteenth Street for an opening with too many people
and not enough wine. I declined. I had trouble going out these days if I couldn’t
find an angle to write a piece for the List . Who needed a social life? Or single men to meet? I was too tired to talk after most
days anyway, so my future partner would have to have a fetish for girls with bags
under their eyes and BlackBerrys glued to their faces. In case it came down to him,
I hoped this was what Vivian McLean’s homosexual riding instructor was looking for
in a bride.
With the joy of a work-free night ahead of me and a feast of lite beer and candy at
my disposal, I opened the
go there.
“I had lunch with Vivian McLean yesterday, and she told me the most fascinating piece
of information. There is a single man living in Middleburg. Not divorced, not a widower,
just single and under forty. Dark hair. Cute .”
He was definitely going to be either a riding instructor or a horse breeder.
“He’s a riding instructor,” she said.
“I can’t date a riding instructor!” I groaned. “He will announce that he’s either
bisexual or gay-curious by the time we order a first course. Then he’ll want to borrow
my clothes.”
My mother shook her head and denied that the men in the horse world were almost always
same-sex-oriented.
“You should make his acquaintance!” she pressed. “I see thirty in your very near future.
When I was thirty, I had already given birth to your sister.”
“Well, that was a sound decision,” I said, chipping off my zebra-striped gel nail
polish with a salad fork. Once, when Iwas seven, my mother caught me checking my sister’s head for horns. Before she could
pull me away, I was positive I had found the little nubs where they had been sawed
off.
As she reshelved cookbooks and worried about her tired old celibate daughter, I sat
on a bench whittled by the British a century ago and watched the fire in the kitchen
fireplace start to die down.
“It’s a small town. You’re going to run into him anyway,” said my mom, picking a stray
thread off her Max Mara pants. “You might as well just meet him now. And Vivian didn’t
mention anything about—”
“Vivian McLean’s husband dresses as Princess Diana every Halloween!” I interrupted.
“Princess Diana from the 1980s at that. I don’t think she’s a good judge.” I shivered,
thinking about a man in a gold lamé dress and shoulder pads handing me Snickers bars
all through my childhood.
“Well, metrosexuals are all the rage. I read it in New York magazine. I don’t think you should be so closed-minded. I’ve always thought you were
meant to be with a man in jodhpurs.”
My mother actually looked hurt, and I felt a touch guilty. The woman just wanted to
play Episcopalian Yenta. But a man in jodhpurs? I might as well frequent a leather
bar in Tribeca to find my soul mate. I took my mother’s scheme to marry me off to
Elton John as my cue to retire to the animal quarters.
Julia was right. We were old. I had a working automobile and didn’t have to travel
by horse. Maybe I should move out of Middleburg to Logan Circle. I could probably
afford to live in a basement with ferocious rodents and several roommates. It would
be humbling, but I currently lived with my parents. Par-ents! I felt like a forty-year-old
Sicilian spinster forced to can spaghetti sauce all day to earn my room and board.
Finally, my frustrated parents would marry me off to a grizzled widower. “We have
toget you out of the house!” they would declare as I presented him with a dozen cans
of Ragu old-world style and my child-bearing hips. Realistically, my situation was
even worse. With my job, I would never have time to meet a grizzled widower.
The Saturday after my mother tried to set me up with a gay man, Elsa called to beg
me to come to her gallery on Fourteenth Street for an opening with too many people
and not enough wine. I declined. I had trouble going out these days if I couldn’t
find an angle to write a piece for the List . Who needed a social life? Or single men to meet? I was too tired to talk after most
days anyway, so my future partner would have to have a fetish for girls with bags
under their eyes and BlackBerrys glued to their faces. In case it came down to him,
I hoped this was what Vivian McLean’s homosexual riding instructor was looking for
in a bride.
With the joy of a work-free night ahead of me and a feast of lite beer and candy at
my disposal, I opened the
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