Seeking John Galt

Just in time for a new season filled with weekly doses of Tim Gunn, I’ve discovered another infestation.

They’re in my closet, this time.  And frankly, I’m not at all sure how they’re pulling this off.

Because I no longer own a scale, my clothes are generally the way I determine whether I’ve been eating/working out in an appropriate ratio.  And the gnomes?  Have clearly been messing with them.

My work pants all either fit perfectly well, or are slightly loose.  Except for one pair that, when I bought it last year, was loose.  Now?  They are snug.  

But they are the only pair.  Every other pair, even those that were tight-ish last year?  Loose or just right.  And unless I have more concrete evidence, I’m not giving up nutella for a pair of pants that’s trying to defy the laws of physics.

Either my closet, or my drycleaner, has an infestation. I’d buy a wretched scale, but:

(1)  What woman in her right mind sets herself up for her first weigh-in in 3 years, at Thanksgiving?

(2) Wouldn’t the gnomes just mess with that, too?

I think I might need to conduct an experiment, which of course would involve the purchase of new pants.   In the name of science, and all…

But thankfully, that’s just me.  

Alternate Title:   How NOT to Get Engaged.

Don’t do it six weeks after you met the person, for starters.  Definitely don’t do it less than three months into your freshman year of college.  Really don’t do it when you’ve lived most of your life controlled and sheltered by well-meaning, but overprotective parents, so you have no idea of how to be independent before latching onto another human being.

Don’t do it because he’s the first guy who’s interested in all of you - not just your 18-year-old physical self, but your brain and your heart.  Don’t do it just because he’s the first male non-relative with whom you’ve had all-night conversations every night for the first week since you met. 

Don’t do it when he tries to humiliate you in front of your mutual friends, to make himself seem like an alpha male who’s in control.  Don’t do it when he maybe gets a little pushy in arguments, and don’t do it just because he never actually closed his fist.

Don’t do it because he’s obviously beside himself to get to show you off.  Don’t do it when you realize that you come from completely different backgrounds/upbringings, because you think it would be boring to have developed the same goals and values.  Don’t do it because you’re both so terrified of being alone that you feel safer being miserable, together.

And really, REALLY.  Don’t ever, ever do it in a bowling alley.  Just take my word for that, please.

*******************************

I know a fair amount about how not to do it. 

The great thing is that lately, I’ve been getting to see some wonderful examples of how it should be done, ways that are unquestionably the right way.  People who have figured out who they are, and then found each other, and developed an understanding of how they’ll work as a team.

Miss Andrist, best wishes for your upcoming nuptuals. And thank you, and your intended, for providing such an excellent example of how to do it the right way.  I’m so happy for you I could plotz!

It’s a misnomer, but I think it’s a funny one.  This guy obviously had things he cared about in his life, things that were really important to him.  What was almost too amusing to be insulting, was his complete and utter lack of motivation to actually go on a date with (just) me.

So I met him through friends, during a celebration.  It was a great night, and I certainly thought there was some chemistry - at least, more so than with other people I had met recently.  After the main event, we had a great conversation at a bar, and went our respective ways at the end of the night.  He got my number, and a light peck.

About five or six days later, there was a message in my voicemail.  We traded correspondence, and we made plans to meet up for an event he had already planned to attend with his roommate.   I was fine with this - having other people around gives you a chance to get to know the person’s friends, and takes some of the pressure off.

The next date was also tandem, largely due to preplanned activities and scheduling conflicts elsewhere.  When the third outing proposed was also a group event, I had to back away slowly.  It was becoming readily apparent that this was never going to be a one-on-one activity.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that - it’s just not my cup of daquiri tea.

Anyway, I’ll see you all tonight, hopefully!

…is the scariest place I’ve ever been.  And I grew up in Jersey, yo.  I’ve been to Camden, and walked half a mile from a bar there in the wee hours.  I’ve been in the dressing room at Loehmann’s annual sale, and to the Fast Eddie’s in Jacksonville, NC.  I do not scare easily.

Granted, my arrival at said Travel Plaza (July, 2002) was preceded by the failure of my vehicle’s master cylinder on I-95 (northbound), while in the Fort McHenry tunnel.  For those of you unfamiliar, the master cylinder is essential to brake operation.  So I had to keep my car under 10 mph through the tunnel, through the toll both, to the exit, shift into neutral, and emergency brake my way into a parking spot, where I called AAA*.  I was, perhaps, not in the most calm or collected frame of mind.  Overwrought, even.

I called my sister, who volunteered to drive down and pick me up.  Returning to DC wasn’t an option, as I had a basketful of bridal shower paraphenalia (you know that stupid poem with the cereal and the Joy dish detergent?  that stuff) and was hosting said shower the next day, so I had to get to my parents’ house.

While I waited, with my suitcase and wicker basket o’ girliness and LSAT teacher’s manual encumbering me to the point where I couldn’t really move… anywhere, lest something get stolen, I was greeted by a man. 

He was thin, and though probably in his late twenties or early thirties, had turned fifty as a result of hard living in that way some people do.  He asked to sit across from me while he waited for his ex-wife to bring him his stuff.  He sat before I could think of what to say, and tried to make small talk.

Except, he kept falling asleep.  And then waking up, and excusing himself, only to return five or ten minutes later.  And falling asleep/passing out again.  At first, my naive self was too concerned for his well being to worry much about my own.   Was he ill?  Did he need food?  Water?

And then, it dawned on me.  Maybe he wasn’t… himself.  Maybe he had ingested something that might make him not only a danger to himself, but also to others.  Maybe he’d want more of that in the near future.  And maybe I looked like someone who might have the means to help him get it, if his ex didn’t show up with his “stuff”.

When one grows up in a relatively affluent neighborhood, recreational drugs are there.  Expensive ones.  But I didn’t go to those parties, and didn’t know what I was looking at, not for sure.  I made eye contact with every state trooper and local officer who stopped in the place - with startling regularity, about 6-8 in the three and a half hours I waited. 

My sister arrived in the middle of a torrential downpour, and took one look at me - still seated across from a semi-articulate, semi-conscious semi-ghost whose barely audible mumbling dwindled to nothing from time to time.  She grabbed my things, including the bag still strapped across my shoulder, and hauled me into the storm.  I can only guess she thought I’d be safer there.

Looking back, I wonder if I was ever in any real danger.  I kind of like to think that I wasn’t.  But I probably wouldn’t go back there unless another vehicular mishap steers me that way.  Frankly, if I need to sit across from a semi-comatose man for several hours, I’ll just have someone set me up with a guy studying for a bar exam.

*Yeah, I’m still proud of that.  IN the parking space, well within the lines.  Also, I’m proud of the fact that my cell (trusty StarTac, I miss thee) was charged AND the AAA membership was paid up.  AND of the fact that when the tow guy got there, and didn’t believe that there was anything wrong with the car, I made him stay there until the cylinder lost pressure again.  I know from broken cars, okay?