How You Doin’ Blondie?

People’d call, say “Beware doll, you’re bound to fall”

To the men I date, I am their trophy. I am tall, I am blonde, I’ve got the measurements women take out second mortgages for. I look good in their recently acquired late model luxury car (usually red), and I look even better on the deck of their yachts that managed to escape the hatchet in divorce court. I’m intelligent, so when they dress me up and show me off to their friends, I don’t embarrass them by saying something vapid or staring vacantly into my wine glass. They love the way the men in their social circle congratulate them discreetly, and the way the wives of those same men glare at me with unadulterated envy and scorn. Everything I do is cute, every idea I have is refreshing. Anything I express even a mild interest in, I get.

But I am never introduced to their children. I am never invited to family functions. Pictures are taken of us as a couple, but they never manage to make it to the coffee table or the wall. Though I graduated from the University of Pennsylvania with Bachelors degrees in both Applied Mathematics and History, I am rarely asked for my opinion concerning business or social matters. I have never made it past the engagement phase. I used to give the rings back when the wedding plans fell through, but now I keep them. They never ask for the gifts back, so I never had to make a conscious decision to keep them. I own more luxury cars than Shaq, and I have more bling too. My baubles make the Hope Diamond look like junk from a vending machine.

But I’ve never had a wedding. I’ve never had a man look at me with hopeless love and devotion. I’m an object. A symbol of a phase of their life they’ll laugh about someday with their second wife, a woman older than me and probably not as attractive.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a twenty something home-wrecker, I see a little girl who wants so desperately to be loved that it hurts sometimes. On the few occasions my family gets together, I can’t bear to look at Dad’s new girlfriend, can’t stand to see how beautiful, how young, how intelligent she is. But the worst part, the part that is truly sick, is that I’m content being an object. Actually, I’m more than content, it thrills me. I get an indescribable sense of euphoria from being that hot thing hanging off some middle-aged millionaire’s arm. But what happens when I’m not young enough to be a trophy anymore? Then what? How do I find someone to love me? Do I just raise my age requirements? Start dating men that are older than the ones I date now? What happens when I’m 40 years old and my friends all have husbands and families and daughters old enough to be trophies themselves? What happens when all I’ve got to show for all my relationships is things, things that can’t talk to me or touch me or love me?

With this new man, this one I’ve been writing about, I sense that things will be different. His attitude is different from all the other ones, I can actually picture myself saying “I do.” That’s why he’s so important, so very, very important to me. I don’t want to be alone, living in the shadow of my “Daddy Issues” forever.

The Man Next Door

What is he not understanding? Do I have to literally say to him “I find you very attractive, please ask me out on a date so we can explore this relationship further”? I’ve dropped so many hints, OBVIOUS hints, so many, obvious, hints in fact that I can’t in good conscience believe that they’re flying over his head. He said that he couldn’t believe I was actually interested in him, maybe that’s what’s setting him back. I want to just grab him by the shoulders and scream “BELIEVE IT! I’m 24 and you’re 41 AND I DON’T HAVE A PROBLEM WITH IT! I am a tall blonde TKO and I WANT YOU! DEAL WITH IT!” Is it really that difficult to process? He isn’t the doormat type, so I know he couldn’t possibly be waiting for me to make the first move. Plus, he’s old enough to belong to the generation that privately abhors the overly assertive female anyway, so if he thought I was the type to invite HIM on a date, I doubt very seriously we’d have even made it this far in our relationship. You know what the funny thing is though (and by funny, of course I mean bitterly/tragically ironic), he said his initial intention was to set me up with one of his buddies at the firehouse, Keith. In retrospect, I thought it was kind of odd that every time he talked about getting together at a bar sometime, he always managed to work in how “Keith and all the guys” would be there. Like I knew who he was talking about or something. Um, hello, brand-new to the neighborhood (not to mention the STATE), do you THINK I know who Keith is? Do you think I care? It’s not Keith’s house I’m trying to get invited back to now, is it? He said he thought I’d be good for Keith because he figured I was too young for him, but what he really meant was all he ever saw me in were my work-out clothes, we always ran into each other while I was out walking my dog. He said he realized I wasn’t “right” for Keith about 2 minutes after I walked into the bar to meet him that night. Yeah, no kidding, 2 minutes huh? And you know why that is? Because 2 minutes is how long it took is eyes to come back into focus after he saw me. And he kept touching me, lightly nudging my leg or my arm under the pretense of getting my attention, when really he knew my attention was all his from the beginning. And the bar was loud, so he’d lean in really close so he could talk into my ear, and it gave me goosebumps. He has me hooked, and he HAS to know, so why hasn’t he called? I knew not to expect anything until today because he had his kids from Tuesday until Sunday, but Monday and Tuesdays are his nights without kids! So what’s the deal? I texted him and told him I had a good time and told him that I hoped we could do it again sometime. Is that not the PERFECT set-up for a guy to arrange a second date? Do you know what he did? Nothing. Not a single thing. No text back or anything. Well guess what, I don’t like playing games. If he doesn’t make a decision soon, I’m moving on, and it’ll be his loss.

Hey, it’s not bragging if it’s true.