Lynnette and I followed the tall, handsome bellboy through the retro modern hotel lobby and into the tiny elevator that barely held the three of us and our luggage. It was the early nineties, and I was a spec writer in the Design Center for a french-owned company called Thomson. My boss had sent me to the Big Apple to attend a meeting in his place. It was my first visit to New York City, and I was intimidated by its girth, height, energy, diversity, fast-paced inhabitants, and reputation. When I offered my sister an all-expenses-paid vacation to Manhattan to accompany me on my trip, she didn't hesitate to say yes.
The bellboy opened the door to our room, then stepped back to allow us to enter first. For the price we paid--I mean Thomson paid--for our accommodations, I was expecting a suite with two large king-size beds, a kitchenette, a bathroom with a bidet, whirlpool tub, and a separate room just for lounging. Instead, our room was the size of my sister's walk-in closet. There was one full-size bed, a small chest of drawers from the 1940's (retro), and a brand new faucet in the 4' x 6' bathroom (modern). But the window was huge, it gave us a spectacular view of Manhattan, and we were happy. But what about Owen?
With the business meeting behind me, Lynnette and I had two full days to cram in as much of NYC as possible: museums, Central Park, Twin Towers, China Town, Grand Central Station, Broadway, Times Square, subway excursions. We left nothing unexplored. We were having the time of our lives, but what about Owen?
Everywhere we went the men took notice of my little sister. I wasn't surprised; it happens wherever she goes. She pretends she doesn't see it, but on one particular occasion, while we were walking through the garment district, she had no choice but to acknowledge the scene she had caused. We were walking together on the sidewalk when Lynnette decided to cross over to the other side to check out a sale. As Lynnette was walking down the middle of the narrow street, a man pushing a large metal cart full of clothes became fixated on the beauty in the street and ran into another man who was also fixated on Lynnette. I was thrilled with the attention New York City was giving my sister, but what about Owen?
SO WHO THE HECK IS OWEN?
Owen is the reason why everything I did at home and away always ended with the question, "But what about Owen?" Owen was my boyfriend, my fifth chance at love. When we met, the logical part of my brain warned, "Run away as fast as you can! Please Carol Louise. Not him!" but the other part--the spontaneous, irrational part--said, "He's cute, a really good kisser, and mysterious. Why not him?"
So, here I was in New York City, having a great time with my best friend, but I couldn't stop thinking about Love Number Five back home in Indiana. How would he feel about that picture with the handsome bellboy's hand on my shoulder? Were there any single men at the business meeting? Did I prefer traveling with Lynnette over him? Was she more fun? Why didn't I ask him to go instead of her? How many men stumbled after looking at me? (None!) I knew I would have a lot of explaining to do when I returned home.
After two years of dating, I knew if there was going to be a Mrs. Owen, it wouldn't be me. (I had reoccurring nightmares where a minister was saying, "I now pronounce you man and wife," and I ran out of the church screaming.) But still there was something about Owen that kept me from leaving. It was the Saccharine. He placed me on a pedestal, smothered me with attention, and spoon fed me artificial sweetener. As long as my behavior warranted the special treatment, he continued the sweet addiction. But--you knew there would be a but, didn't you?--what goes up must come down. On too many occasions I failed to live up to his unreasonable, unattainable expectations, and over and over again I found myself back down on the ground, a witness to my own verbal and emotional abuse. I knew I needed to leave, but I was addicted.
ENTER LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
One day, shortly after I returned from my business trip to New York, Owen and I stopped at a retro modern art gallery on East Michigan Street. While Love Number Five was admiring a 1940's chair that had been painted in 1990's paint, the very beautiful gallery owner walked out of her office and strolled right into the heart of, well, you know. It was love at first sight. I knew immediately, and if there was any doubt, Owen confirmed it later that night in a breakup phone call.
A few months after Owen left me sobbing at the altar of saccharine, I received a call from a retro modern art gallery owner. Yep! You guessed it! Seems that love at first sight can be dangerous on occasion. Was I ever hit? she wanted to know. Did I ever have my tires slashed? she asked. Was he emotionally unstable? Nope! Nope! and what is the definition of emotionally unstable?
Over the next few months, I continued to take her calls about Number Five's bad behavior. She wanted to leave, she said, but she was addicted. Then the calls stopped, but by then I was no longer interested. I was dating my sixth chance at love and little did I know what Perfect Number Six had in store for me.
Welcome to Western North Carolina...Trout Central!
14 years ago
No comments:
Post a Comment
Due to some not very nice comments from people named Anonymous, I now have to monitor comments before they are published.