False Fairytales

Friday night: I sit on my couch, cat in lap, dog at feet, and spider nestled in my hair, munching on popcorn. An entire bag, to be exact. Okay, two. Don't judge me!

The room is silent; more importantly, so is the telephone. But then again, he doesn't like phones, so I leave my AIM instant messenger window open. Not even a telemarketer has called, not even a relative has IM'd me. Neither is the man I am infatuated with - on both counts. He made plans to come here, to live with me. Obviously, they fell through. For the third time. My heart sinks at the realization that he may not call. EVER. Depression sets in.

To sufficiently wallow in my agony without leaving the couch, I put in a sappy chick flick and cuddle up to my only stuffed animal. The movie I choose follows the story of a woman who is wounded by love. She throws caution aside and adventures to a foreign country where she finds love and regeneration through renovating a villa in Tuscany.

No matter that I spend the entire movie wondering how the heroine could afford such a fabulous place on a writer’s salary; the point the movie made was simple.
A: Everyone loses in love occasionally.
B: Your friends will patiently listen for about a day, then pack your ass off to another country.
C: It is affordable and magical to move to a foreign country.
D: If you do, you will buy a villa and, after a few sit-com antidotal situations, you will prosper and find love.

Conclusion: In life, there will be a few tears followed up by happy endings, fabulous scenery and gorgeous men for all! Ain't life grand?

There is just one, tiny problem with this theory. It’s total bullshit. I can think of nine hundred and sixty-four times that I have sat on my couch waiting for “that man” to call, come over, put out more effort, not cheat on me with the Hooters girl, etc. Moreover, the nine hundred and sixty-four times he has disappointed me, nothing fabulous has happened as a result of my suffering. Sure, I’ve moved on, met other men (or women), had a few dates and my phone rings now and then. But where is my final and absolute happy ending that is seemingly guaranteed, at least by a middling Director on location with Hollywood A-listers?

In all the times my heart has been emotionally compromised, I have looked for “The Promise.” The promise is what little girls are told throughout childhood, via many misguided avenues, each time we put on dress-up clothes and dance gleefully with imaginary suitors. Namely, that Prince Charming will arrive, wisk you into his porsche, and spirit you away to a fantastic dwelling where you will reside together in great joy and mirth forever and always. Oh, and you will also have a maid and take over the world. Hopefully this will happen before you rack up enormous credit card debt on first-date outfits, dutch-outings, and phone calls to Miss Cleo and/or Dr. Phil. Nevertheless, it will happen. Right?

Maybe not. The fairy tale would have us believe so, but statistically women are staying single longer and marrying later in life, and divorce rate is rising faster than my last over-eager date. I personally believe that this is a result of choice -- lack of choice to be specific. If more fabulous men were knocking down our doors with promises of adoration, stability and coffee, the majority of us single ladies would not be staying single. But since we live in a world where men can’t even muster the strength to pick up a telephone, is it any wonder that us girls find ourselves alone year-after-year as birthdays fly by in a haze of alcohol and ice cream?

I used to attempt to assign blame, most often foisting it on the parents. That theory doesn’t always hold up, however, as I have met my share of lovely parents. This leaves me to ponder whose fault the utter lack of respect, commitment, stability, intelligence and most of all... MATURITY on the part of men is. After much tragic dating experience and zen-like contemplation, I've settled on pointing the finger towards several mediums. They include: the television and its interpretation of male-female relationships, permissive high-school girlfriends, over-attentive mothers, the unmotivated beer-bong college years, men’s magazines that tout good articles while printing photos of airbrushed bimbos, and Hugh Hefner for telling men it’s okay to stay in pajamas all day while smoking cigars and copulating with multiple women.

I can’t vouch for all my girls out there, but I simply cannot stand another minute of male inconsistency, let alone live my life 10 feet from the telephone. There is no rule that states we ladies must sit by the phone, willing it to ring, (or that AIM alert sounding off!) and there is no clause in our womanly contract that requires us to date losers, date men, or date at all!

It is now Saturday. The man I am infatuated with still has not attempted to reach me, at least not about The Meeting. Neither have I seen the news show his car dangling precariously from a cliff; the only acceptable excuse for his non-dialing. I am in dating limbo and it is probably much akin to what a brazillian bikini wax is like. However, this time I think I will leave the phone (and internet messengers) alone. If he calls, I will turn up the volume on my busy life and ignore the ringing (and moo-ing). You see, I choose to shape my own destiny and that means extricating myself from a situation where I am not happy, satisfied, or contacted regularly.