When my grandmother died five years ago, my mom asked my oldest brother, Mark, to invite his friend to the vigil. Not because the guy knew my grandmother (he didn’t), but because my mom thought he was the love of my life. According to my mom, he was a doctor who “stared at me” at Mark’s wedding. She also saw him as bait to lure me back to Michigan.
Mark, who works in finance, dropped the idea without my request. But my mom had a point. She also succeeded a few months ago when she sent my Maltipoo, Benedict, a turquoise handkerchief with the message in white letters, “My mom is single.”
She knew who I was. I was smitten with a man 16 years older than me who often lived in different zip codes during the years we dated here and there. At the time, Jack was in Burma for six months. I was living in Hollywood. Most of our conversations took place via Gmail.
I marked time by his visits. Once, when I knew he was going to spend New Year’s Eve with me, I created a PowerPoint and saved it as an “upcoming attraction. In it, I included photos of Benedict, chess and Yai (his favorite Thai restaurant). The last slide included a photo of me and the note: “Costume optional.”
He spent a few days with me at Franklin Village the summer before my grandmother died. He was doing crossword puzzles while we drank Bulleit in bed. we walked Benedict to Griffith Park as we always did. Jack made dinner. Then he did something new. He had a return ticket to LA in December. He put some stuff in a plastic bag and put it on the treasure chest table in my living room. I danced.
I vowed to respect his privacy until my mom popped by for a visit a few weeks later. We sat side by side on my couch, staring at the table. She instructed me to investigate. After all, I am a journalist. We had also been drinking, so I opened the case and pulled out the bag. It included the usual stuff: a couple of shirts, one with ruffles. Then my mom found the tickets. The greyhound tickets kept unfolding in her hands and unfolding on the floor of my living room. He came back to me for just a few days before embarking on a journey that would take him all over the bus stations of America. She laughed. I giggled. A little later I would be crying in the corner of the bathroom.
I can do that kind of thing: fall in love with someone who’s been on a plane for about 17 hours with no commitment. When I first met him in my 20s, I missed out on the education of having a traditional boyfriend. For years, it was too easy to go to events like New Year’s Eve alone and deal with the cockroaches dancing on my oven alone. (My pink Dyson vacuum drank them all in; my screams outweighed the sound of the vacuum, but my walls were thick.)
When Benedict collapsed on my floor, I strapped on his leash and took him in the wrong direction to the vet. But we made it. I took out my own trash and have done so for years. Often without garbage bags. Once I threw my trash down the building chute on a windy day in Santa Ana. Q-tips and toilet paper crashed down three floors and the wings of a Stayfree menstrual pad hit my cheek before I could close the chute.
Certain signs were too obvious. I lit the hinge, something I had resisted for years because I believed I was only connected to a man who lived in Rangoon.
I went on my first date at the local bar in Franklin Village with the wrong person. Watching me approach someone’s real date didn’t impress. We had a drink and said goodbye.
I swiped right again, and in 2019, I met Chris. in my hinge profile, I mentioned that I would know the person I met while serving me meatballs at the bar. So when Chris wrote, “How’s your meatball supply going for the next few days?” I laughed. I picked a time and then chose Musso & Frank, the Hollywood joint where Fitzgerald and Hemingway used to hang out.
We sat at the bar. The martinis and meatballs were easy to joke about. He had just moved from Orange County for a job and owned an apartment a few miles from me. Over the next few months, Chris will plan things: movies, restaurants, New Year’s. Usually, this feels like too big a commitment for someone who is used to having none. I asked several of my friends if he was a good fit. Then Chris’s employer started sending him to China. Often.
When he officially told us to quit smoking in February 2020, I bought us Sugarfish. he didn’t eat it. I would eat sushi alone later.
What my grandmother told my mother when she was dying: “Tell her to be strong.” She meant me.
When we were urged to begin quarantine the following month due to the COVID-19 pandemic, I put on a makeshift mask and walked outside with Benedict. We cheered through Scientology Church, Oaks Gourmet, Gelson’s and a cul-de-sac. He barked at passersby. I put his handkerchief around my nose and mouth that read, “My mom is single.”
The author is a senior editor at Bankrate and hosts FinTech Check on LinkedIn. she’s on Instagram at @mmwisnie.
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