The Knocked Up Plan(6)

But we were spark-free. He didn’t make me weak in the knees, and I’m pretty sure there was no growl in his throat when he saw me naked. Not that I don’t look good in my bare skin. I rock the nude look, thank you very much. And it’s not because I’m a perfect ten. It’s because I like to accessorize every outfit, including nudity, with chin-up confidence. That’s my best asset, and it’ll last longer than perky boobs.

The thing is, Greg and I were good separately, but together we were toothpaste and orange juice.

Several weeks into our engagement, the lovely little diamond slipped off my finger in the shower, courtesy of my Vanilla Spice body wash. The ring slipped into the drain and hasn’t been seen since. For all I know, it’s been swept into the great sewers of Manhattan, and a rat is wearing it as a tiara. I was devastated at first, but then decided fate was giving me a sign. I didn’t want to marry a man who didn’t make me swoon, and so I called it off. Greg married someone else a year later and invited me to the wedding. He and his wife appear outrageously happy, so it worked out for all of us, not just the rat.

Since then, I’ve had some memorable dates and some not-so-memorable ones. I even went out with a guy from the local dog park who owned a Papillion and a Great Dane, a combination I found utterly delightful, so I stayed with him for four months. The problem is the dogs were so damn cute together that it took me three months and three weeks longer than it should have to realize the guy didn’t give me butterfly flutters—it was the pups causing the swoops and dives.

Like I said, the love portion of me is defective. I just don’t feel it. I do, however, feel gobs for my friends, my Ruby, my amazing mom, my pain-in-the-butt brother, and every single one of my callers and readers. That’s why I can do my show from a place of conviction.

As we round a bend, I say, “I’m just one of those girls who is better off going it alone. Maybe I’m too picky. Maybe I’m a hard-ass. Maybe I’m simply too cynical about love.”

“Ironic that the dating guru is a cynic,” Delaney says, clucking her tongue.

“I do believe in love,” I say, correcting her. “I’m just not entirely sure I believe it’s ever going to happen for me. And that’s okay. I’m fine with my single lot in life.”

See? I’m already in the acceptance phase of the five stages of I’ll-never-fall-in-love grief.

“It will happen in its own due time,” Penny says, waggling her own engagement ring as a gaggle of geese splashes in the water. “There’s a goose out there for you. Geese mate for life,” Penny adds, in case I’ve somehow forgotten Penny often looks to the animal kingdom for dating analogies.

“Perhaps I need to spend more time looking in lakes, then, for Mr. Right,” I quip as Ruby yanks gently toward a squirrel scampering up a tree. A quick tug from me reminds her to stay on track. Ruby raises her face, meeting my eyes with a look that says, See, Mom, I listened to you.

“Good girl,” I tell her.

Delaney inhales deeply as we prepare to run up a steep hill. “In all seriousness, though, why do you think it won’t happen to you?”

She asks a good question, and since my job is to zero in on matters of the heart and the bedroom, I’ve applied the same rigorous examination to myself. I have the answer handy. “Here’s why. I believe that writing about dating and love and sexual fetishes has made me immune to love. It’s the nature of the beast. The more time I spend breaking down habits and strategies, the more I become resistant to them. I’m like a doctor who can be exposed to all sorts of viruses but won’t catch them.”

Penny quirks her eyebrow. “So, love is a virus?”

“Absolutely. And it seems I’ve got more antibodies to it than I expected,” I say as a mom crests the hill pushing a three-wheeled jogging stroller in the other direction. My heart skips a beat. My eyes snap to the sweetest little bundle of joy in the stroller—a baby girl, decked out in a cute, pink onesie. A blond angel I just want to smother in kisses, and I don’t even know her. Butterflies launch a full-scale fiesta in my chest. Trumpets blare.

“Oh my God, your little girl is so adorable,” I call out with a bright smile.

The young mom returns my grin, her ponytail swishing as she jogs. “Thank you.”

“How old?”

“Six and a half months.”

“She’s a little princess.”

“She is, indeed,” the mom says. “Thank you for the sweet words.”

I sigh happily as I jog, and twenty feet later it occurs to me that I’m alone. I stop and bounce in place, looking around for my girls. Penny and Nicole are frozen in their spots, jaws languishing on the running path, eyes the size of fried eggs.