Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (31 page)

Had she mentioned her compassion and willingness to share in her online dating profile? Or was he lured there by her beach photographs, the one of her in a bikini, a dusting of freckles on her shoulders. Had he lied about his smoking habits or zodiac sign in his? I wondered why they chose to date each other, what the deciding factor was in their agreeing to break bread. Something seemed to work between them. Maybe it was the lighting. Though I think it was more.

According to Phone Therapist, there’s a subliminal fabric that ties us to people. It’s beyond attraction. We’re drawn to those who push our buttons and who will hopefully create a safe environment for us to work on our issues. I wondered why I was drawn to Stephen.

He was a pain in the ass, for one. He gave me my way, most of the time, but he made me work for it. Stephen challenged me when I acted out or pouted unfairly. We debated often, which usually led to teasing, which later I would learn sometimes led to sex. Verbal foreplay. But it was more than that. Part of what made us was the timing. I finally knew my worth, believed in myself, and didn’t need some guy to tell me how great I was to believe it, so I could see Stephen for Stephen, not for how much he liked me. It was no longer about need and became about want.

It wasn’t about the charming Jewish doctor with the Ivy League education and George Clooney looks. That’s what you look for in a guy when you’re incomplete. With Stephen, I realized it’s about a man who’s my equal and best friend, a man who loves me most when I leave him at the bar to chase down a stranger to get the photograph. For the first time in a long time, he was someone I wanted to make happy. I wanted to be the best person I could, for myself, and for him. And that would take work. It would mean opening the wounds that hurt and taking a chance.

My cell phone buzzed with a text. I knew it was Stephen before I opened my phone. When I looked at the screen, though, I saw it was a text message from Alexandra:

Dulce, Adele, and I are at Pastis having yumsies and drinksies. Scene is rye-dic!

Get your loverly ass here, my pritts.

I’d have jumped at the opportunity to be out, prowling once upon a time, but I was staying put. I still love to love my friends, but I punctuate those moments with solitude. In the past, sitting by myself at Compass, watching the couple beside me, would have instigated tears. I’d have scoured the pages of my journal, stared at my “life list,” and panicked about how off-track I’d become, chanting
But, I want that, and I’m running out of time
. I would have worried I was failing myself.

But now, sitting at Compass, I realized it’s about abandoning your stupid wristwatch and giving your compass a flick to make sure the needle still moves…having the courage to follow in the direction to which it points. I opened my journal to a blank page. I still do want that: the husband, babies, and house in the suburbs, but I’m no longer envious because I know I can have it, all of it, with Stephen or any other man. Success isn’t about crossing things off life’s to-do list. It’s having the grace and fortitude to move through change, curls intact, and smiling. I certainly didn’t need to craft a new “designs for life” list because the blank page of my journal wasn’t about what I didn’t have. It was possibility. The plan should be learning how to live without one, or how to carry a big fat eraser in your petite handbag. It’s comfortable to have plans, but you’ve got to be loose enough to accept change. Plans get revised, new blueprints get drafted to accommodate the expansive garden. And nowadays, I’m planting my own, even if it is in crapass Central Park. I’m digging my feet into the warm soil, retaining and nourishing everything I’ve got left—and that’s a lot.

My cell phone buzzed again, this time with a text message from Stephen reading:
So, whatcha wearin’, Red?

I laughed and responded:
A smile.