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"I have news for you," Sheila said sadly, perched neatly on a backless red bar stool in her kitchen, "You're not the one." Her tiny face had been pinched with displeasure over having to reveal this to me after two months and three weeks of dating, but her eyes remained cool and steady. Her eyes were very blue, and as dark as a blueberry. Her hair was light brown, tinged with blond highlights. She was a runner, a medical student, an artist, a pianist ... There was nothing she couldn't do. When had everything changed? I had said, "Sheila, let's talk about this. What's wrong?" "Nothing's wrong," she shrugged, tucking her hair neatly back in a ponytail. She explained, with an air of impatience, that since she knew I wasn't The One, there was no point in having a relationship. That's it. Dismissed. All those times she stayed at my place and organized my cabinets and slept in my bed, didn't they mean anything to her? The presents I gave her - a peridot ring, dozens of books, my Kent sweatshirt ... wasted? She was the one for me, though, and I didn't intend to go gently into the night. I could never find another woman like Sheila, and it wasn't over until it was over. I pleaded, I cajoled, I begged, and I even borrowed new clothes from my friend Steve, catalog model. I sent letters, left messages, delivered food and flowers, and finally, she warned me that she would call the police. The police? I needed to get a grip on myself. I felt as though I had been pulled, like soft taffy, into the shape of someone unrecognizable and mushy. What was it about Sheila? Days and weeks passed and I pondered that question endlessly, but did not contact her. She was perfect, and that was the problem. There's just no place to go after perfect. So, the problem was me. But what was the problem with me? I adored her, spent hours learning about her childhood, her years at Yale, all of her ex-boyfriends. My books had sold well, I was working on another (until she put me through the wringer), and my place was pretty impressive by Manhattan standards. At 6'1, 197 lbs. I'm pretty easy on the eyes. I have all of my hair, good teeth. Bloody hell on earth, what more did she need? One day, while sitting in the downtown Demarchelier bistro, I realized what the real problem was with Sheila, why I couldn't let it go. And there's always a "real problem," isn't there? While telling me about her ex-boyfriends, as impressive as they all were, each had a fatal flaw, something that really spoiled the stew. Her first, a wealthy, globe-trotting son of a yogurt magnate, had been so self-absorbed that he viewed Sheila as an accessory. They were high school sweethearts. She had laughingly told me that he would talk, and she would read, and he wouldn't even notice she wasn't paying attention. I had agreed he was hideous. Her second, a politically active law student at Yale, was so devoid of humor that he would actually argue the finer points of her jokes. "Loser!" I proclaimed. Her third was an economics professor, a wonderful man but, alas, too old for her at forty-six. I agreed, forty-six was too old for twenty-four. Her fourth, the owner of five Manhattan restaurants, was handsome and something of a minor celebrity, but he had an alcohol and drug problem. The relationship lasted for five months (longer than ours), and I agreed, you can't live with an alcoholic. Her fifth, a magazine editor, was too immature. He played "paint ball" war games on weekends, collected baseball cards, and couldn't spend a weekend away from his college friends.
WHAT IS MY FATAL CHARACTER FLAW? This question was the crux of the whole problem, and I couldn't rest until I knew the truth. Sheila had The Truth, and I knew I had to get it out of her in order to be fully formed and ideal for someone. I called her, hoping for the best, after two months had passed. "Hi, Darren," she said curtly. "Just calling to say hello," I started, "and ... hoping you'll answer a question for me." "What is it," she said wearily, as though speaking to a child who simply wouldn't go to bed. "When you tell people years from now why we didn't work out, what will you say? What was my fatal flaw?" I held my breath. Without pausing, without pausing to measure her words, she said, "Too insecure." That was it, my big answer: two words. "And what does that mean?" I asked warily. "This is a good example, right here," she instructed, "You call me to ask about your flaws. Just go on with your life, you'll be fine. Don't worry. Don't obsess. You just weren't The One." "Thank you for reminding me," I said flatly, and hung up. That threw me for a loop. How do you become secure? I watched other people, people I deemed "secure" on subways, and on street corners hailing cabs. They had fixed, occupied expressions. Laptops or reams of paper in tow. The Wall Street Journal. Perhaps I could learn from these people. Men who wore tasseled loafers with khakis and brown, braided belts always seemed secure - it takes a certain amount of moxie to pull the look off, considering that it's not a desirable look. Middle management. Internet start-ups. Marketing strategy. Venture capital. Entrepreneurs. Day traders! Day traders had to be secure. What was the elusive secret, the magic bullet? I started by purchasing an expensive pair of shoes, $245 to be precise, which immediately fostered a keen sense of security. Shoes have always been important to me. A good haircut, I did that too. I bought a fine, tailored suit, although I had nowhere to wear it. It didn't matter. It worked. Women smiled openly at me on the street, turning coyly to watch me as I passed, and I landed a job as a freelance travel writer for a major periodical. My first assignment was the Cliveden estate in Taplow, England, a gorgeous place to restore my sense of "security." Which, it should be noted, had been fully intact before I began dating Sheila. Cliveden was followed by Bali, Bali by Paris, Paris by Brazil. Soon I had forgotten about Sheila, and was dating Rachel, a painter by night, a graphic designer by day. Rachel was messy and wild, and sensitive in ways that seemed crucial. We lived in my place, but spent a lot of evenings in her painting loft, sitting on old, comfortable chairs, drinking wine, eating, reading, having unbelievable sex, and thinking up skits that would never be shown on "Saturday Night Live." It was a good life, surprising and fulfilling. But, why Rachel? She had an array of physical imperfections that would preclude a modeling career, but I didn't find them unappealing at all: a long nose, full lips, and a zaftig figure that I found far more feminine than imperfect. One night Rachel was sprawled out on the bed after a party, laughing over something that had happened earlier, and a flower of wisdom blossomed the moment I looked at her fleshy thighs and smudged mascara: she was beautiful to me. This is the nature of love, I thought. It's the warm feeling of security you had as a child when you saw your mother's sagging breasts, or when your father played basketball poorly in an effort to bond with you. When your dog jumps all over you with muddy paws, ruining your white pants, you don't care. You don't care, because that's the price you pay for loyalty, for feeling protected and loved, for being greeting with unabashed enthusiasm. This is how you know you've found The One, fatal flaws and all. They can put their messy paws all over you and you just roll your eyes. Then I thought about Sheila. Perhaps she had been incapable of love, a tragic twist. What had happened to her in the last two years? To sate my curiosity, I called a mutual friend the next day under the guise of needing advice for an article. Fifteen minutes into the conversation I said, "What ever happened to Sheila?" as though I could barely remember her, and was told that she had married and moved to Bucks County. Married. My heart still fluttered a little bit. That's pretty final. "How was the wedding?" I asked, striking the mother lode of information. The wedding had been as offbeat as possible because Sheila's new husband plays the accordion in wedding bands and was sick of traditional weddings. "That's interesting," I observed cautiously, "And what else does he do?" That's it. That's what he does. He plays the accordion, and Sheila fell in love with him the minute she met him in the gardening section of a book store. They dated for a year and a half. "He must be one good looking accordion player," I joked, fishing lamely for something that would fit my logic. Not really, I had been told, he was a little overweight, sort of losing his hair on top. A tall man, and really nice, really very nice. "Pretty normal" was the final summation. Pretty normal. Nothing special. Not perfect and ideal and mesmerizingly secure. That bitch. But then it hit
me: I wasn't The One because I simply wasn't The One. Sheila had been
right. The One can be an accordion player. And if you don't wait it
out until you just Know, no amount of money or prestige or hair can
change a restless or insecure heart. --B. Kim Taylor
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I
was her sixth. I wondered that day in the bistro with great alarm:
What will she say about me? 