You're Not Pretty Enough (11 page)

With a decision made, a weight was lifted, and I was able to find a new place to live and schedule a move-out date. I still feared Leo would be able to talk me out of going somehow, so I packed and planned the moving day
for when he would be attending a weeklong conference in California. Some friends helped, and I had a moment where I froze—
holy shit, what I am I doing?!—
and my friend Cathy had to slap me like Cher did Nicholas Cage in
Moonstruck.

“Snap out of it!”

I picked him up at the airport the night after I moved out, my last wifely duty, and peppered him with questions to keep him talking. We pulled into the garage and then opened the door and entered the house. Leo
looked around and turned to me.

“Where’s the coffee table?” he asked.

For me, this transition was fairly easy, but for Leo the finality triggered his grief. After I moved out for good, he often called me
and cried, or sent me letters, or parked outside the house I shared with a new roommate. But it was too late. Men generally mourn relationships after they break apart, but women mourn relationships while we’re still in them.

****************

Four years later I randomly ran into Charlotte on a Cleveland street. “Hi!” I called out enthusiastically.

“Oh my God…Hi!” She looked a little different, with shorter, less blond hair, and older.

“How are you? What have you been up to?”

“Let’s see…I got married a couple years ago to a guy who I
thought
was the love of my life…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he…uh, well, he cheated on me.”

“No shit!?!”

“Yep…” she said. “I guess what goes around comes around.”

I smiled. “I guess so.” We wrapped up with some small talk, hugged, and then went our separate ways.

As far as I know, neither one of us ever looked back.

So let’s take a moment and recap: I was raised by some pretty cool, loving parents who validated and supported me and encouraged my
independence. This produced many wonderful things, like The Sex Papers. And moxie. Which led to me meeting Jon Bon Jovi. Even the weird stuff, like some of the experiences with my stepfather or violence on campus, built character. They
are what made or reinforced that side of my personality that is all pluck and courage and
I will be heard.

But at twenty-six, I was reeling. I just didn’t know it at the time.

I was recently divorced. My ex-husband Leo and I had both
contributed to the downfall of our marriage, but then he had an affair. Throughout our seven-year tenure, we weren’t very good at communicating
about
the relationship. In the early years, when we were happy, talking about our
relationship seemed irrelevant unless it was to express our glee. When we were unhappy—soon after we married—that lack of communication foretold our unraveling.

Throughout the divorce process and for months after, I’d
blow off the topic if friends or family asked how I was feeling. I thought I was doing myself a favor by not dwelling on it, by “moving on.” And I thought I was doing them a favor by not burdening them with the sadness of another marriage gone wrong.

“Great!” I’d say. “Couldn’t be better,” and that’s usually all I had to convey to nudge the questioner to the next topic
.
But the truth was I could have been better.

I was angry.

Angry over the death of a future vision, which included
being a happily married mom at an early age so I’d have the energy—and a partner—to manage both career and personal life. Sure, I was still young and had opportunities to meet people, but after my divorce I wouldn’t easily
commit myself to someone else. I didn’t see the
point.

Angry with Leo, who was so cavalier and never wanted to discuss anything difficult. My mom provided some consolation: “You know, Leo
might not ever experience the real lows in life,” she said, “but he also won’t experience the real highs.” As a last-ditch effort to try and save our marriage, Leo had arranged a trip to Las Vegas where upon entry we were lulled into a
no time for talk; too many lights and noises and cocktails to drink
trance.
Unless me sniping, “You fucked another woman!” at him every five minutes and him replying, “Come on, we’re here for fun—let’s go hit the slots,” qualified as talk.

And I was angry with myself for ignoring the red flags and
marrying someone I knew in that little place in the back of my mind where I locked away the “bad feelings” that he was not right for me. That he could do me in. I left him when I could see that staying in the marriage would diminish
the fight in me.

The day we left the courtroom—divorce papers in hand—he said, “Let’s go have breakfast.” I went. I didn’t have anything else to do.

“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?” he asked.

“Wow, I haven’t even thought about it. What about you?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” he said, but not in an unkind way. He just stated it matter-of-factly.

I carried this anger into a new job at a marketing firm,
which I started the very same week I got divorced. The firm was made up primarily of married men in their thirties and forties and comely women in their twenties. We worked long hours. We drank as a group together at least
three times per week—sometimes at lunch, sometimes after work, and sometimes from lunch until way after work.

A typical working lunch

I didn’t know it then, but this dynamic was like a siren song calling for me to channel my frenzied ire.

Within a few months of starting, I was promoted to account
manager and my boss, Jake, put me on many of his key accounts. He gave me full access to clients and sometimes took me to expensive, long lunches to drink-talk through ideas. Many times Jake would take long liquid lunches with the other executives or potential clients, and he’d call me late in the
afternoon to meet him at a bar so he could regale me with antics and victories from his day until he needed to head home.

“Great work, sir!” I’d say with a smirk. “You put in another
solid day!”

“OK, you asshole,” he’d beam. “Don’t stay out too late. I need those concepts by noon tomorrow.”

“You didn’t tell me that!” would often be my reply.

“Well…I’m telling you now,” would often be his.

When these “deadlines” emerged, I needed to work directly with Ray, who ran one of the divisions. He was in his early forties and handsome in a suburban dad kind of way. He had dark, thick hair and olive skin. He wore
khakis or jeans with polo shirts and was fit but carried an extra fifteen to twenty pounds that said to the world
I’m OK with drinking a few beers and skipping the workout.
He was funny, talented, and emotional, but dark and inappropriate as well. He was also married with children.

“Ray, we’ve got one of those ‘make it happen specials’ you love. We have to meet now.”

“By when?”

“Jake wants them by noon.”

“What the…? How are we supposed to get that done?”

“Like we always do—by pulling it out of our ass. I’ll get the flip chart, you grab the coffee.”

“Geez, you’re bossy this morning.”

I was. I learned it was the only way to get the job done; plus, Ray practically glowed with a desire to be bossed.

“You’re leading this meeting, right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Thank God.”

I quickly began charting out concepts and explained my ideas along the way. Ray nodded along in excitement and began adding elements that improved the themes. I began to put the presentation together on my laptop while Ray sat next to me and rested his head in his hands, gazing at me with
sleepy fascination until my irritation forced me to say, “What? What are you looking at?”

“Just the most compelling woman I’ve met in a long time.”

“Wow. Where’s your number-one husband mug?”

“You’re mean.”

“Ray, you’re married.”

“I know, but I’m not happy.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“I’m happy when I’m with you.”

“You’re just infatuated. Keep it to yourself.” And really, when this kind of chatter first started, I wanted it to stop. But it also felt validating after spending seven years with someone who told me late in our
marriage that I wasn’t pretty enough for him.

“But see, just that right there,” he said. “The way you act, like you don’t care—that just makes me want to know you more.”

Oh God, he thinks I’m mysterious.
I am many things.
Mysterious is not one of them.

“Really? Well, that makes you stupid. Obviously, I’m going to have to be the workhorse behind these concepts…
AGAIN!”
And then I grabbed the ever-present blue plastic grocery bag that comported various work
papers and snacks and headed toward my office. The bag split open, as one did every week or so, and I bent down in a huff to gather my things.

“Time for another ‘briefcase’ already?” asked Ray, using air
quotes.

“Funny,” I said, because it was.

The longer we worked and drank together, the more we melded into a dominant/ submissive magnet, and it became harder for me to delude
myself that nothing was happening between us, even if it was hard to define. At first the connection was just an outlet for me to be acerbic, with Ray standing in as a surrogate for Leo. But every so often, I’d let my guard down and open up and let him comfort me. And then I’d listen to him talk about his life and
be able to respond in an authentic and warm way. These rare occasions usually occurred after drinking with our coworkers. We would sit in his car or mine in a nearly empty parking lot, listen to the radio, and stare out the window at
the sparse lights that make up the Cleveland skyline. No one knew about us. Not that it would have mattered to our coworkers. That office reeked of hedonism.

We kissed a handful of times. The first time I felt
obligated somehow. He was giving me what I thought I wanted—a place to project my feelings for my ex-husband. Wasn’t it fair that I gave him something he wanted in return? Plus, he looked at me with such yearning.

“You’re pathetic,” I said, but I was smiling.

“Come on, don’t say that.”

“You are. You’re convinced I’m this ‘angel’ who has come into your life…”

“Well, not
an
angel,
my
angel.”

“That’s what I mean! That’s so ridiculous. You’re married. You don’t even know me. I treat you like shit…”

“No you don’t; you’re just hurting. Let me heal you…”

And the truth was I did want healing. I just stared at him,
and then he leaned in slow, eyes open, and kissed me. But it didn’t feel good.

After about six months of this push and pull, our relationship reached its breaking point, at least for me. The more he wanted to
spend time together, the more I wanted to bolt, which then made him more desperate (isn’t that always the way?). Daily, he’d e-mail or call and plead for a hug or a walk around the block so he could touch my hand or my hair.
Sometimes I’d say no and he’d back off. Sometimes Ray would plant himself in my office and feign depression or some sort of “block” and say he’d need to see me at our “place” right away if he was to get on with his day. That place was the parking garage attached to our building.

“Fine,” I’d say, rolling my eyes. Then he’d leave first, with me following minutes behind. I would meet him on the third floor stairwell, and he’d immediately latch on to me, his hands like spiders crawling
to my ass where he’d knead desperately until I could feel him get hard and then I’d push him away, disgusted.

“Better now?” I’d ask as he stood panting against the wall before I turned on my heel to leave, counting down the hours until I could have
enough drinks to dull my recall. I realized this state of affairs was becoming untenable.

Untenable, as it turns out, was also the firm’s financial condition, though the executives were slow to acknowledge it. They spent wildly
on entertainment and never slowed down when company revenue started dropping. As a means to reduce costs, “The List” was produced. On it were the names of several positions that needed to be cut, with a rotating list of names attached. A vice president who was close with the middle management and junior
staff leaked “The List” daily to a select few, but never by e-mail. Depending on your favor, you rotated on and off “The List,” and because the office included fewer than forty people, word got around. People were freaked out
because one day you were on “The List” without any understanding as to why, and the next you were off without having done anything special. It was draconian, as was this sentence that one of the firm’s executives laid in a memo after
returning from a five-hour drinking binge:

“Not to come off as draconian, but we will no longer tolerate staff going out and drinking at lunch.”