“Coming!” I hoarsely yelled, my parched throat begging for a glass of water.
I tugged on my robe, and then staggered to the door of my condo.
“Rise and shine! I brought coffee!” Missy gleefully announced from outside.
I opened the door to glare at my friend.
“Why are you here? And so early?” I groaned, traipsing back to bed.
“First of all, it’s not early. It’s nearly noon. Second, I’ve given it a lot of thought and I know how to help you,” she babbled, thrusting one of the coffees my way.
I needed to drink some coffee before I could figure out what the hell Missy was talking about. Completely lost, I felt as though I came in on the middle of a conversation. After a few cautious sips of my nonfat café latte, I sighed in pleasure. There’s nothing like a little caffeine to perk a girl right up.
Missy sat on my bed, rumbling through a large tie-dye bag.
“Missy, why are you here?”
“On the way home, you cried about how you wanted to get married by your thirtieth birthday. I’m here to help you make your dreams come true.”
Say what? I had no recollection of crying last night.
I sat there racking my brain, trying to remember what happened to cause me to...Oh God.
The kiss from my mystery man. Feeling as though I’d never find anyone who would make me feel like he did. Jealous my brother would go on his honeymoon to Hawaii, while I would go home alone to my empty life.
When Missy drove me home last night, I told her about the kiss. She asked me questions to help me determine his identity, but I couldn’t remember anything other than how good he kissed. His height, build, whether he had facial hair, all the discerning details, gone from my memory, thanks to my two bottles of champagne. Missy pointed out it could have even been a woman, for all I remembered.
I whined that I was tired of being single. I told her I had to get married by the time I turned thirty. No, I didn’t just tell her. I swore on my Nana’s grave, I would get married within the year, even if I spent my entire life savings.
“I might have exaggerated somewhat last night. After all, I’d drunk a few glasses of champagne,” I reminded Missy.
“Are you saying you don’t want to get married by your thirtieth birthday?”
Did I? Was I ready to share my life with a partner? Did I want someone to stay in bed with on Sunday mornings to read the New York Times, someone to accompany me to family dinners, and someone who would remind me not to drink too much champagne?
“I do,” I confided to both Missy and myself.
“Then you need to put yourself out there and jump into the dating pool,” Missy advised, as she pulled out her Dell laptop computer from her bag.
“Haven’t I been doing that for the last ten years? I’ve been dating since my freshman year of high school, so really, I’ve spent more than half my life already searching for my soul mate. If I haven’t found the one by now, what makes you think this time will be any different?”“
“Take a deep breath, sweetie, and listen to me. Yes, you’ve been dating for roughly fifteen years. How many dates do you think you average a year, not including the times you were in a relationship? Maybe three at most?”
As I thought it over and tried to calculate with my still hungover brain, I deduced Missy probably overestimated the amount of dates per year. I spent the last two years without any dates at all. Sadly, it had been even longer since I had sex. I was practically a born-again virgin.
Even though Missy was my best friend in the world, I couldn’t reveal the truth of my pathetic love life. I couldn’t admit I lied to her many times throughout the years, telling her I went on a date, when I actually stayed home watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and eating an entire package of Girl Scout Samoa cookies before passing out high from a sugar binge. Some things were just too private and painful to share with even my best friend.
Women literally threw themselves at Missy’s feet. I’m not kidding. I’ve seen it happen.
After seeing Les Miserable at the theatre, we visited a gay bar in the city. I figured I owed her, since she always came with me to the hetero bars. Plus, I have to admit, I was curious about what it would be like. Since women look deeper than physical appearance, I thought I had a shot at being hit on. I visualized having to politely reject some beautiful lesbian.
Not only did I not get hit on, three women bribed the DJ to play “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling,” in order to serenade Missy just like the scene from Top Gun where Tom Cruise and his buddies sang to Kelly McGillis. She ended up dating one of them for a few weeks after, but then broke it off because the woman sang too much. I mean, what did she expect?