September 22, 2009
I’m an award-winning therapist. No book deals, no alignments with Oprah. Embossed ivy league degrees or hourly state certifications are not hammered onto the crown-molded walls of my office. I don’t even have an office. (My office consists of the floor of my bedroom layered with throw pillows to leverage my laptop.) But in place of academia honor, my credibility stands as the trust of my girlfriends.
I’ve always valued my friendships with that girl who’s over there, sniffing a glass of chard while stealing a drag from a menthol, that girl who’s lip-synching to the latest Broadway plays and sampling the trendiest bites in Manhattan, that girl who’s pushing through the back door of the seedy, local comedy club. So what’s the common thread of them all?
My closest girlfriends all have men or, rather, a man in her life. And they always turn to me. You know, for those choking phone calls during the thesis of my thirty page essay, for those yes-I’ll-help-you-move-out-of-your-fiance’s-house-note-I-can’t-physically-move-a-four-post-bed-but-I’ll-be-by-your-side-Saturday-morning-to-glare-at-that-mother-fucker.
Take today, for example. I have been giving that girl, after hundreds of texts, calls, and BlackBerry messengers advice that he is not the one. He is not the one if he still won’t commit (even after you’ve begun to put out after the second and a half date). He’s not the one if he doesn’t invite you to that Europe backpacking trip with his friends of both sexes. He’s not the one if he openly tells you that he’s having sex with other women and that Aqua Net under the sink is not yours. And what do you know via multiple texts and voicemails received in an hour’s time, today? After seven months of dating, he is definitely not the one.
Through their tears and discarded tissues, maybe the subject of my stagnant dating life really isn’t a homerun from the conversation ballpark.
Sometimes I require sofa sessions, too.