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.