(DEDICATED TO WOMEN WHO LOVE TOO MUCH)
TODAY, instead of going through the usual routine, which, frankly, none of you seem to be getting that well, I thought I’d focus on these failed candidates, point out why they flunked, have a good time with their flaws. Let’s look at what they did wrong.
Claire is an attractive film reviewer in her early thirties. A stunning brunette, she’s been in and out of a dozen “relationships” but is now “available” again. When I met her, she had just been through a painful and extremely self-destructive relationship with “Fred.” “Fred,” a ravishing film editor in his late thirties, was married and insisted on meeting her in obscure resorts on holidays only. (His wife belonged to a violent religious group, quite beyond animal sacrifice, self-flagellation, etc., which did not permit outsiders to participate in their festive seasons.) Claire, who was, as I say, a wildly attractive film reviewer, the graduate of a topnotch Eastern school, the daughter of attractive, highly educated people (her father was provost of a major interdenominational religious restaurant; her mother, an attractive, well-educated woman in her mid-fifties, doled out anabolic steroids and had corrupted many of the nation’s finest athletes—in Canada, too), was beginning to wonder if she would ever have a happy, sustained relationship.
The answer is: Not with me she can’t. Claire is making one simple, basic error, like many other attractive film reviewers; however often she changes the externals of her situation, basically the underlying problem remains untouched. The fact is, I don’t date film reviewers. I date film critics. Claire came on with a clumsy “thumbs up, thumbs down” routine, which was, frankly, an embarrassment. One and a half stars for that one, Claire. I thought the plot was kind of contrived, and we’ve seen these characters before.
Mary is one of those women who can’t seem to get a handle on life. She just drifts from day to day, unable to concentrate on her real ambition, which is to torment her daughter. We’ll be hearing more about Mary later.
Susan cannot learn to classify men. In fact, she can’t tell one from another. The subway, where there are hundreds of men, is a particular problem for her. So let’s give it one more try for Susan. Sit down and listen. There are three kinds of men:
At first he’s all attention. She can’t get enough of him, he can’t get enough of her (so she thinks), but all the time she’s putting garnishes on the dish of love, he’s getting ready to move out.
She’s in heaven: she’s finally met “The One.” The trouble is just that—trouble. The reason he’s so crazy about her is that he’s crazy about every girl. He can’t get enough! He’s an absolute raving maniac! He’s ready to go again! He’s out the door! He’s back!
Mary, above, was an amazing example of putting up with this. Mary’s case was extreme. Frankly, I’d never heard of anything quite like it. This is what she told me:
My husband admitted to me on our wedding night that he had “a secret ambition” and it was to populate an entire state. He said that he would be a “good husband” to me as long as I would “turn a blind eye” to the fact that he would be having thousands of children by other women. The code word for our deal was “Nebraska.” It got so I couldn’t bear to hear the name of any Midwestern state. Breakfast, lunchtime, dinner, it was always time to “go to Nebraska,” or “see the Cornhuskers,” or some similar term. Conventions and business trips were a strain for me—and apparently for him. And I’d be expected to nurse him back to health! But then he’d turn “sweet” and tell me I was the “only one,” and I’d believe him! I can’t believe what a fool I was! As soon as he had his strength again, he’d be back “in Omaha,” or “going to Grand Island.” It was a nightmare! It went on for over thirty years, and I believe that a high percentage of that state are his children. I have met some of his “other women”—how could I not meet them? There were hundreds, thousands of them—and they all swear by my husband, but to me it was a living daydream or unreality, and it’s still going on! I’m out of my mind to put up with it!
Frankly, this guy’s just a heel. Don’t expect him to change—you change. You take the crucial creative steps toward self-involvement with yourself and other women like yourself who have come to terms with coming to understand that he’s not going to change, and realize that, unlike you, he’s condemned to the nightmare of constantly looking at and desiring women. You have to face the fact that he’s just no good. The fact is that if you deny it you just stay in the same patterns, which seem to change but don’t. If you catch yourself talking to one of these men—at a bar or cocktail lounge is where they are—tell him, I’m going to change, and have the satisfaction of watching him walk right into that same old pattern of watching and desiring women who are unable or unwilling to see that he won’t change. See that guy over there? Watch him. Think he’s going to change? Uh-uh. I’m glad I’m with a person who is able to watch that striking upscale brunette begin to go through the same patterns, participating in the delusion that he’s going to change. Can I buy you a drink while we wait?
1989