I Like You Just the Way I Am Page 5

  Anya grew up in Allentown, Pennsylvania, where her first husband, Cletus, routinely beat her. After tricking him into thinking she’d killed herself by jumping into a quarry, she changed her identity and fled to Boston with her son, à la Julia Roberts in Sleeping with the Enemy, until she could save enough money to move out to Encino (where a weird aunt lived) to start a new life. Convinced she’d never love again, but still a romantic at heart, Anya waited for Bengie to be old enough before going back to work full-time, this time doing something she loved: wedding planning. Anya refused to date all through Bengie’s adolescence and only met Dr. Carl by accident when she got dragged to a turtleneck wine party at a close friend’s house. They hit it off instantly and started what would become a full-blown courtship. Trying to show the utmost respect for Bengie and his mother’s relationship, Dr. Carl didn’t start sleeping over until Bengie was out of the house and away at school. Now the cat’s out of the bag, Lisa’s dad is fucking Bengie’s mom, and everybody including Lisa can’t wait to have a hand in the wedding.

  No wonder he’d chosen her over me. My life story, however twisted, couldn’t compete with the one I’d invented for Anya. I suddenly wished I’d made my stories in therapy more compelling. I could have worked as a child prostitute for several months on the streets of Green Bay, Wisconsin, after running away from home. I could have been a sister-wife living on a Mormon compound in Salt Lake City. I could have backpacked across Asia and been wrongly imprisoned for drug smuggling like Claire Danes in Brokedown Palace. I’d made the hideous mistake of being myself in therapy, and now I was just another almost-famous starlet whom he’d eventually ask to endorse his forthcoming vitamin line.

  Dr. Carl was getting married—and it was none of my business.

  I couldn’t tell what was making me more upset: the fact that I wasn’t in the know about the wedding or the fact that I wasn’t in the wedding. Regardless of how I felt, Anya and Dr. Carl were to become one, and I had to learn to live with it.

  * * *

  “As, like, an exercise, I think it might be good for me to meet Anya,” I whispered to Eric one day in class.

  Dr. Wallace Shawn was blabbering on about how the human ego is a slave that must serve two masters: the id, the childlike pleasure-seeking part of the psyche; and the superego, its moralistic rule-dork counterpart.

  “You are like a full-time id,” Eric whispered back.

  “I need to know who my therapist is choosing to spend the rest of his life with,” I whined defensively. “Not knowing could be incredibly detrimental to my treatment. She could be a complete fucking whack job, and do I want to take love and relationship advice from a guy who’s about to marry a complete fucking whack job? I don’t think so.”

  Dr. Shawn stopped talking and glared at me with hate. Eric and I were handed our take-home midterms and asked to leave class early.

  “How is it that I’m a grown adult and still getting in trouble for talking in class?” I mused.

  “Because you are still doing all the same shit you probably did in high school.”

  “Fine, you know what? I’ll go to Anya’s work without you,” I fumed, and walked off.

  “Who said anything about going to her work?” Eric called out after me.

  “Where else am I supposed to run into her?” I said, my back still turned.

  “You’re fucking nuts!” Eric shouted.

  Maybe I was nuts, but it’s not like I was going to Anya’s work to threaten her life or tell her not to marry Dr. Carl. The only reason I called and made an appointment with her using a fake name was because Dr. Carl had built her up in my mind by refusing to talk about her with me. I had to meet her if I was ever going to put to rest the mystery of Dr. Carl’s private life and get my treatment back on track. I gave myself a pat on the back for taking such a proactive approach to my own mental health.

  When I got to Anya’s office that afternoon, I paced back and forth outside, weighing what I was about to do for a good thirty seconds. Then the front door swung open.

  It was Eric.

  “Sweetie!” he said in a weird, low voice that he clearly thought made him sound heterosexual. “I told Ms. Finklestrum that when you scheduled, you didn’t know I’d be able to take off work for this. But, well, here I am!” Eric finished with a flourish before going in for what was by far the most awkward kiss of my life.

  “Sweetie. Wow. I— Just— Wow.” I turned to meet Anya—the Anya—in person.

  “Hi. I’m Anya,” she said, extending the hand I had no real interest in (the right one).

  “Wow, beautiful engagement ring,” I said, staring at a modest two-carat cushion cut on her left ring finger.

  “Thank you.”

  “We were thinking of just getting tattoos,” Eric blurted out. He did some sort of gay-guy hand gesture to emphasize his point.

  “So what kind of wedding are you two thinking about having?” Anya asked, showing us to a nearby love seat.

  “I’m not really sure yet,” I said, and then slyly added: “What are you doing for your wedding?”

  “I was thinking,” Eric cut in, “of topiaries comprising succulents as centerpieces.” He proceeded to out himself about five more times. “I’m into leathers and feathers, like maybe a bit of a ‘Coachella, vampire, summer harvest as shot by Sofia Coppola’ vibe.…”

  Before I could do damage control, my phone vibrated with a missed call. Looking down, I saw that it was, finally, my agent. I anxiously excused myself to the restroom and was listening to the message (and possibly taking a peek in Anya’s medicine cabinet) when I heard the front door open outside. I looked out and saw that, walking straight in, carrying nearly five pounds of Jerry’s Famous Deli turkey sandwiches, was Dr. Carl. I closed myself back into Anya’s restroom as fast as I could.

  Now I know why he can never do lunch sessions, I thought to myself, enraged that I’d been passed over in favor of nosh with the fiancée.

  I needed to formulate a plan. I scanned the room for a window or crawl space I could fit through.

  Outside, I heard Anya introduce her fiancé to my “fiancé.” This was so bad. Pacing in a small circle, I could think of nothing else to do but check my voice mail and hope my agents were outside the building, waiting to move in and extract me.

  “Hey, Jenny, it’s Rico. I don’t know if you got my e-mail but I think it’s time we let you go. Call me if you have any questions.”

  I took a minute to sum up the situation: I was currently locked in a bathroom, hiding from my therapist, pretending to be marrying a gay ex-con, and getting dropped by my mid-level talent agency. All at the same time.

  “You okay in there, sweetie?” Eric called out meekly.

  I opened the door and yanked Eric in.

  “What the fucking fuck are we doing?” he screeched. “I should have never come here. This was the worst idea ever. Like, I can’t even believe my life has devolved in this way. I’m even wearing agate stones to protect me against negativity, but somehow your insanity is overpowering them.” He touched one of his Chan Luu wrap bracelets and backed away from me like I was that little girl from The Ring.

  “You two okay?” Anya asked, tapping on the door.

  Eric opened it slightly, making eye contact with Anya.

  “We are kind of going through something and I think we need a little space!” he shrieked flamingly.

  “Do you two want to come back at a different time? I completely understand how this stuff works and—”

  “No. I think we need you to leave,” Eric said. He sounded like a bitchy queen at the start of an ecstasy-fueled rave-rumble.

  “What?” she asked, completely thrown.

  “I said, my fiancée and I need a few minutes alone, and we would like you to clear the fuck out.”

  “Um. Okay. Sure. We’ll just take a walk around the block,” Anya said, cowering away from the door.

  When we were sure they were gone, Eric and I scrambled out the fire exit. I threw myself in Eric’s
car and reclined the seat all the way back down to “therapist’s couch” position until he rolled away and it felt safe to pop back up.

  * * *

  I don’t think Dr. Carl ever put together that I was the nutcase in his fiancée’s bathroom. And I never got the chance to come clean, because I never went back to treatment. I booked a very serious job on a SAG ultra-low-budget indie that landed me in nearby Sylmar for two weeks. And the demands of playing Wendy in Ring Around the Rosie were just too intense to juggle with grad school, so I dropped out.

  In a way, I guess Dr. Carl was right. My learning that he was a normal guy who ate Jerry’s Famous Deli sandwiches and would probably spend his honeymoon at a Courtyard by Marriott did affect the way I saw him. I couldn’t continue to project my fantasies onto him. He wasn’t my father, my fiancé, or my lover. He wasn’t even my therapist anymore. He was just a middle-aged divorcé with reasonably good style and a car that wasn’t the Mercedes E class I’d been trying to break into. Turns out, he drove the Hyundai with the COEXIST bumper sticker parked next to it.

  4.

  I Need Everyone to Love Me

  I need everyone to love me. My feelings of inadequacy and lack of parental attachment have made me one of those sick bitches who can’t tolerate feeling ignored. My parents say all the right things when they are pretending to listen to me. But the truth is, they are more like cats. They accidentally had a litter of kittens, and then emotionally moved on to whatever ball of yarn rolled past their line of sight. When self-obsessed people breed, they make empty people like me who spend the rest of their time on earth trying to gain the love and approval they didn’t get as children. This doesn’t excuse my behavior. It’s just to say, if my parents had actually noticed me, I probably wouldn’t care so much about whether everyone else on the planet adored me. Unfortunately, I’m a bottomless pit of need, and here are several people who have suffered because of it.

  My Future Ex-Boyfriend

  Before you meet the love of your life, there’s usually one guy you date that you try to convince yourself is him. Let me save you some time: He’s not.

  In my early twenties, my friend Chad attempted to set me up with a friend of his from work. He explained that Lance and I were exactly alike in thinking we were better than other people, and we would no doubt have a million more things in common. I was intrigued. Chad typically hated the idea of me with any man. It took away from my time being the stand-in for his out-of-town girlfriend, Erica, who was dating another guy, not returning his phone calls, and in no way considering herself his girlfriend. I knew if Chad was willing to doff off his plus one, this guy must be worth it. So I agreed to meet him.

  After a few days of silence, I called Chad.

  “What the fuck? I thought you were setting me up with my soul mate?”

  “Yeah. Well, turns out he’s dating someone and it just kind of got serious.”

  “So, a week ago he was willing to be set up and now he’s in something serious? I don’t get it.”

  “Well, he bought her a Christmas present,” Chad explained. “He said he’d still love to hang out as a group one night, though.”

  Eww. Fuck this guy. He thinks I’m fucking desperate enough to go out under the pretense of “hanging with a couple of friends,” just because I need to meet him?

  “Tell this guy to eat a hundred-calorie pack of dicks. Also, I’m really offended you would think I’m anything like this douche.”

  “What do you mean? Meeting someone while you have a boyfriend is totally a ‘you’ move. You’re like the queen of the unintentional date.”

  I hung up on him.

  It was true. I’d often found myself having coffee or dinner or a weekend away with someone who, I’d learn over the course of conversation, thought we were an item. I’d done this with neighbors, stepbrothers, people sitting next to me on airplanes, and even my college guidance counselor (who did help me graduate in less than three years).

  Chad had a point. In fact, maybe Lance was the male me.

  For the next two months, every action I took was a strategic move to make Lance, whom I’d never met, throw himself off a bridge. I couldn’t believe I’d been rejected sight unseen. We never even spoke on the phone. He had no knowledge of my love of German literature, my eclectic taste in music, or that I was able to do a one-handed back walk-over. According to my father, whom I still kissed on the lips, I was the catch of the century. I was a goddamn debutante, and this fucking guy thought he could just pass on ever knowing me altogether? It made no sense.

  I hope he dies in a grease fire, I thought.

  Six months later, Chad called me from work. Lance was apparently single now and suggested the three of us go out to dinner.

  Well, well, well. Look who decided to come crawling back. I told Chad I’d need to check my schedule and get back to him, then did a victory “fuck you dance” around my apartment.

  “This is what happens when you play out of your league!” I screamed at the mirror before taking a dramatic swing at it and severely injuring my fist.

  An hour later, I called back and agreed to a Friday night dinner.

  When Friday rolled around, I started to get nervous. I knew I had to restore the scales of dating justice. There was too much at stake (my ego). I rummaged through my closet and changed outfits three times, but nothing seemed to work with my swollen elephant hand. Eventually, I decided to go with a pair of lace fingerless gloves I had left over from Halloween and a black sweater with jeans. I was aware that maybe my gloves looked a tad unconventional, but I didn’t have much of a choice and what I lacked in style I vowed to make up for in personality. After all, my goal wasn’t to date Lance; it was to make him spend the rest of his life wishing he’d dated me. He rejected me, triggering all my infantile feelings of worthlessness. Now it was time for him to regret it forever.

  Walking into the Mexican restaurant Chad picked in West Hollywood, I instantly felt transported to the places in East L.A. that I lock my doors when I drive past. The restaurant was dark and dingy, obviously something Chad had a coupon for. Standing next to the Pac-Man machine in the corner was Lance. He was cuter than I expected in an awkwardly tall, total-dork-I-would-have-cheated-off-of-in-high-school sort of way. He had long shaggy hair that he tucked behind his ears and brown eyes that almost seemed too big for his face.

  Lance saddled up to the machine to take a turn. His disturbingly long spider legs angled out on either side as he whisked the joystick around. He crushed level four. And five, and six, and seven. I realized I wasn’t dealing with some cocky asshole who was going to try Neil Straussing me into fucking him. He was an actual, bona fide geek—maybe even a Rain Man.

  “Hey, guys! Isn’t this place great?” Chad said with an earnestness that made me wonder how we were even friends.

  The three of us were escorted to a table in the back of the room. The dinner was innocuous and the conversation light. Lance talked a lot about manifest destiny and all the things he loved about Batman.

  I drunkenly got fingered by my agent’s assistant in an attempt to spite you, I thought to myself, watching him show Chad a wizard trick with his straw.

  Once we finished, Lance asked if I could drive him back to his apartment several blocks away. Reveling in the fantasy that he didn’t have a car, I obliged. This poor, innocent fool needed my compassion. Sure, he was relatively good-looking and had a job far more stable than mine, but that was no reason for me to like him. I’d shown him that I was irreverent, engaging, and uninhibited, and now it was time for him to never see or hear from me again. Unless, of course, it was on TV and I was riding Brad Pitt naked in flattering lighting that didn’t make my boobs look like penne pasta noodles.

  When we pulled up to his place, he brazenly invited me inside. Taken aback, I agreed. Mainly just so I could rub my perfume all over his couch, pretend to be interested in his Lord of the Rings boxed set, and then leave him with the hug that would launch a thousand hard-ons.

  His apa
rtment was clean and sensibly decorated. Knowing I wasn’t there to hook up with him, I didn’t do my usual “excuse myself to the bathroom and make sure he doesn’t have a Valtrex prescription” routine. Instead, I plopped down at his desk and started fucking with some sort of model spaceship he was building.

  As he sat on his couch watching, I knew there was no way in hell he could resist falling in love with me from afar. And so, after accidentally twisting off the forward fuselage and crew cabins, I apologetically put his spaceship down and stood up to leave.

  At that exact moment, Lance’s home phone rang. His answering machine responded before he could.

  “Hey, Lance, It’s Kate. I’m just listening to the Strokes and thinking about how we used to fuck all the time to this album. I’m sooooo wet right now.” Beeeeeep.

  The fuck!? Did I just hear that correctly? My mind started spinning.

  “I. Um. Wow. I swear I haven’t spoken to that person in at least—”

  I stood there flabbergasted for about thirty seconds, trying to process what I’d just heard before finally asking, “Who has sex to the Strokes?”

  Bright red, Lance looked at me and shook his head, speechless. Like Pac-Man, he was backed into a corner. And so, sandwiched between the Ghost of Girlfriend Past and the Ghost of Girlfriend Future, he did the only thing he could do. With one of his long Inspector Gadget hands, he reached out and pulled me into an embrace.

  My perspective on Lance had changed suddenly and completely. Before the phone call, he was a total geekbot. After the phone call, he was a stud—or, at least, he was someone attractive to someone other than me. That meant he had someone else to think about besides me, and that I couldn’t allow. Passionately, I kissed Lance with my best “you’ll never forget me” semi-tongue kiss.