I’ve been working on my smile ever since. I hope to be able to tell my reflection someday, “Your mouth doesn’t look like a rictus.”
Today, I’ve come to the conclusion that I need help with this mission I’ve apparently chosen to accept. Dr. Marsh never said that was against the rules, so I’m going to ask Lisa and Zoe. I’m nervous, but after I give them a little (emphasis on little) background information (I tell them I’m trying to get into the dating game and need some pointers), I feel less tense.
“So far, I’ve tried to smile more and not cover my boobs with my arms,” I open the forum.
Lisa says, “You do have a nice rack. Let’s go out at lunchtime and buy you some flattering shirts.”
“Not low-cut,” I stipulate.
She sighs. “Fine. But form-fitting. Accentuate your tiny waist and big tits.”
Zoe giggles into her hand then offers, “You should start trying to initiate conversations with people, instead of always waiting for them to talk to you first.”
“That’s a good one,” Lisa says. “But don’t be the annoying person who volunteers too much information. Just start with ‘Hi.’”
Suddenly, I feel like I should be taking notes.
“But she shouldn’t be too closed off, either,” Zoe qualifies.
Lisa considers that and nods.
To me, Zoe gently explains, “You know, if someone asks, ‘How are you today?’ they’re generally looking for an answer like, ‘Fine.’ Don’t go into detail about your PMS or anything. But if you’re having a conversation with someone, and they ask you something like, ‘What’d you do this weekend?’ it’s okay to give a more thorough answer. Like, ‘I went to a ballgame, and it was awesome,’ instead of, ‘Nothing.’”
“What if I really did nothing, though?” I ask, suddenly worried about the ‘boring’ part of my personality and life.
Lisa eagerly adds, “Tone of voice is important, too. There’s a difference between, ‘Nothin’ much! How ’bout you?’ and ‘Nothing. What’s it to ya?’”
“Do I sound like that?” I put my hand to my chest, then drop it again for fear that it will lead to defensive arm-crossing.
“Sometimes,” Zoe admits, wincing. “Maybe not to us, but definitely to some of the guys.”
“Boop-boop!” Lisa signals, busying herself with some papers on my desk. “Here comes Jude. Practice on him,” she prods.
“No!” I object, suddenly experiencing performance anxiety. “I’m not ready!”
“Do it!” Zoe hisses before sliding across the ‘hallway’ to her own cube.
Lisa takes the papers with her and slips into her own space, but not before whispering, “Don’t be a wuss. It’s just Jude.”
I lick my lips, cross and uncross my arms, and try to relax my face into something more inviting than a scowl. “Hey, Jude,” I say, then kick myself as soon as the words are out there.
Barely breaking stride, he rolls his eyes and responds, “Nice. That’s a new one,” before going into his office and closing the door.
I hear Lisa giggling on her side of the partition. Zoe leans back in her chair, her face sympathetic, and says, “You had the right idea…”
“Just the wrong words,” Lisa wheezes. “Nice Paul McCartney impersonation.”
I drop down into my chair and put my hot face in my hands. “He probably thinks I’m a combination of a nerd and a bitch, if that’s possible.”
“You can be a nerdy bitch,” Lisa confirms. “Or a bitchy nerd. It’s possible.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Zoe insists. “It was only Jude anyway.”
The novelty—if there ever was any—has definitely worn off with Zoe. He’s just another one of the guys. Lisa still looks wistfully at him sometimes, but most of the time she treats him like a kid. And Leslie’s convinced he’s gay, probably because he hasn’t asked her out yet. None of them knows about Fantasy Jude, and I know my behavior toward Real Jude lately doesn’t make them suspect I’m attracted to him on a level deeper than that he’s nice to look at.
Because I’m not. Of course. It’s Fantasy Jude I love, not the loner workaholic divorcé who drives my dinky car’s doppelganger and plays in the mud with guys on Thursday nights. Not the Jude who graduated from a college I’ve never heard of (probably the equivalent of a community college here) and whines about the other guys not liking him. And definitely not the Jude who probably doesn’t know a sonnet from a haiku. He didn’t even notice when I had ten inches of my hair lopped off. Walked right past my desk without a word.
I’ve taken to imagining that Fantasy Jude and Real Jude are identical twins who have polar opposite personalities. Fantasy Jude definitely has the better of the two.
Just last night, Fantasy Jude said the sweetest thing. What was it? Oh, it was so cute! What was it? Shoot! It’s going to bother me until I remember it. It’s on the tip of my brain…
“You’re my cuddly Cub.”
Yep, that was it. Get it? Because I like the Cubs. And we were cuddling on my bed, watching the game. Aw… it was adorable.
Anyway, I bet Real Jude leaves his socks and underwear on the floor. If his car’s any indication, his place is likely disgusting. And he probably doesn’t even know how to boil an egg. Fantasy Jude cooks for me all the time. And we eat by candlelight.
Screw Real Jude.
7
“Your teeth are exceptionally white today.”
“Thank you,” my reflection tells me. “I’ve been using a whitening toothpaste.”
“You’re welcome. And it’s Friday. And hotter than hell out there. How about we forego the pantyhose today? Your legs are awesome enough without them.”
“Well, that’s two compliments in one day! Make sure you write them down for Dr. Marsh.”
I don’t really know how talking to myself in the mirror is supposed to make me less crazy and less (*gulp*) lonely, but I have to admit, I feel pretty good after my morning “conversations” with me. The little pep talks are getting longer, too. I’m kind of enjoying them. Not that I’m
