“For the most part,” I reply. It’s technically true. If one were to add up all the time available for us to interact with each other and divide into it the time we actually spend interacting, it would be a very low percentage. Much less than 50%, for sure.
He closes one eye and gives me a skeptical look, but he doesn’t challenge me. Instead, he posits, “Why do you think it is that you’ve never had a boyfriend?”
“I’m boring,” I immediately supply. Then after I think about it for a minute, I add, “And average-looking. And I have issues.”
Steepling his fingers under his chin, he says, “‘Boring’ and ‘have issues.’ Those are things you don’t find out about someone until after you date them. You can’t see ‘boring’ and ‘has issues.’”
“Well, that’s where the average-looking part comes in,” I explain. “The cover of the book doesn’t lend itself to curiosity for curiosity’s sake.”
He writes something down. “Mm-hm. And what features of yours make you ‘average-looking’?” When I don’t answer right away, he rips a piece of paper off his legal pad and hands it to me. He digs in his desk drawer for a pen and tosses it to me. “Let’s do something. I’m going to start listing your physical features, and you’re going to write down a word you’d use to describe yourself. Ready?”
I nod.
“Eyes.”
I scrawl down, green.
“Nose.”
I jot, pug.
“Ears.”
I don’t think about my ears very much, so it takes me a second to come up with something. I settle on little, for lack of anything else.
“Teeth.”
They’re straight.
“Lips.”
I bite them, trying to feel them with my teeth. Smooth.
“Breasts.”
That one’s easy. Big.
“Weight.”
I tap the pen against my thigh. Average.
“Hair.”
I know it’s my best feature, since everyone’s always complimenting me on it, so I feel confident calling it nice.
“Okay, now make another list right next to the first. Those will be the words you think your fantasy guy would use to describe those same features.”
I quickly write down the eight words, hardly having to think about it. I mean, Fantasy Jude has complimented me a million times.
“Now, read me your answers,” he demands when I set the pen aside.
At the end of my list, he smiles but merely says, “Okay, now what did you think fantasy guy would say?”
Trying not to blush, I read them quickly. “Captivating, adorable, delicate, dazzling, luscious, fabulous, fit, and gorgeous.”
“Which list do you think is more accurate?” he asks.
“Mine, obviously,” I immediately answer. “I mean, the other list is based on what a person in a fantasy would say. If it was based on fact, it wouldn’t be much of a fantasy.”
“You’re selling yourself short,” he claims. “The truth definitely lies somewhere in the middle, I’ll grant you that. But it’s a lot nearer to his list than yours, I guarantee it. If I polled a hundred guys and asked them which list more accurately described you, I’d say the majority of them would pick the fantasy list.”
“Okay, so for the sake of argument,” I say, crossing my arms over my ‘fabulous’ breasts, “let’s say I’m a little above average. What good does that do me? Guys still don’t ask me out. So maybe you can see ‘has issues.’” My glare dares him to explain to me why I’ve never had a boyfriend.
He glances at the clock on his desk and verifies the time on his watch. “I’m giving you an assignment between now and our next session. Two assignments.”
I groan like a high school student.
He grins. “Every single day, I want you to spend five minutes in front of the mirror and pretend you’re not looking at yourself, but at a friend, and I want you to compliment the woman in the mirror on one aspect of her appearance. You have to say it out loud. With feeling. Now, to keep you honest, I want you to write down the date and the compliment and bring them to me next time.”
I roll my eyes but agree.
“Be creative,” he urges me.
“Fine, fine! What’s the other assignment?”
“I want you to be more aware of the signals you send to men, especially men that you find attractive. And I want you to consciously try to be more approachable. Smile. Keep your arms away from your chest.”
I drop my arms, stick out my boobs, and give him a toothy grin. “Like thish?”
He laughs. “Maybe a little more subtle than that. And…”
“Wait! That’s already two assignments!” I object.
Holding up a hand, he says, “This is extra credit. If a man asks you on anything remotely resembling a date, you should consider accepting it.”
“Even if he’s a leering pervert serial killer-in-the-making on the El?”
“You know what I mean. Use your own discretion, of course. Maybe stick to guys you kind of already know; ones you’ve seen often at the store or… at work.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, standing up. “You’re really demanding today.”
“Just giving you your money’s worth,” he says. “I expect your compliments and a full report on the other assignment—and extra credit, if applicable—at your next session.”
6
It’s Day 6 of the Dr. Marsh experiment. This morning, I got up, got ready, and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door. I’ve already told myself over the past few days:
“You have shiny hair.”
“That shirt makes your eyes sparkle.”
“My, what clear skin you have!”
“What a stunning shade of lip gloss!”
“Hey, Legs! Have you been working out?”
Today, I turned this way and that before settling on “Nice knockers!” Take that, Dr. Marsh, I thought as I wrote the statement underneath today’s date.
The other part of the assignment isn’t going as well. I’ve noticed that I tense up every time I’m in the presence of a man. And that’s a lot, considering I work in an office full of them. I’ve tried to make myself relax and smile, but that’s attracted more questions than offers.
Jude asked me as I smiled at him while we were walking out
