Like No Other

Before he left town yesterday, my son gave me a stack of books he thought I might enjoy.  One caught my attention more than the others -- possibly because he removed it from the top of the stack and handed it to me, telling me the author was one of the best he's read. He gets his subtlety from me.

It was a book of short stories called Self-Help by a woman named Lorrie Moore. I flipped to the table of contents. It looked to be, at least in part, a collection of ironic instruction manuals for folks who find themselves in unfortunate situations.  The Kids' Guide to Divorce was the first title that jumped out at me. Uplifting. How to Talk to Your Mother. Can't I just stick with email? Lord this woman had better be as talented as my son thinks she is, or this was going to be an awfully depressing read.

"If you read anything, read the first story," my son told me, knowing I have the attention span of a flea when it comes to reading these days. That sounded manageable. I looked to see what the first story was called. How to Be an Other Woman. He must have seen my face twist up. "Really," he insisted. "You'll appreciate the writing." I gave him a look, but he was already in the other room. WTF?

During last night's bout with insomnia, I picked up the flimsy little paperback and began to read. My son doesn't lie. At least not anymore. Well not about important things. Anyway, the writing didn't disappoint; the descriptions were brief and vivid, focusing in on scenes so seemingly genuine I could feel the satiny sheets, sense the silent alarm going off in the lover's head as he tiptoed out of bed, hear the click of the lock on the door as the narrator found herself, once again, alone. How to Come in Second could have been the title; better still, How to Not Place at All. Not exactly the kinds of things that would fly off the shelves in the Self Help section of the bookstore. Unless you really believe in aiming low so you don't get disappointed.

I had dinner with an acquaintance the other night, a woman who, tragically, became a widow last year at the age of forty-nine. Friends and family are encouraging her to date. She thinks they must be right, even though the idea terrifies her. I encouraged her to do what she wants to do when she's ready, knowing full well that she won't really know when she's ready until she dips her toe in the water, or, better still, dives right in. She listened as I babbled about the pros and cons of testing the cyber dating waters. Finding yourself alone after the death of a loving spouse is certainly different from finding yourself alone after deciding to divorce. But loneliness (not to be confused with "aloneness," which isn't always such a bad thing), no matter how you get there, sucks. Saturday nights, whether you spend them in a zombie like state with your dog on the couch or out on the town with all your intact couples friends -- before you watch them all go home, in pairs -- leaves you feeling like you have a hangover well before Sunday morning  arrives.

Looking back on my first forays into the whacky world of on line dating, I launched into my own little How To speech. I encouraged her to look upon dating, at least initially, not as a search for a life long soul mate but as temporary therapy. What she needed was to take baby steps. I suggested to this woman who seems convinced she has nothing to offer, that nobody will cater to her imperfectness as her husband did, that she give it a shot, if only to enjoy the momentary exhilaration of being told she is attractive (which she is). Even if much of the gushing is total bullshit, it beats being put down (especially if the one putting you down is, well, you). She might even want to have coffee or a drink with one or two of them, the nicer ones, men who, like her, might just benefit from spending time with someone who makes them feel attractive, valued, special. Even if it's just fleeting. Aiming low when you enter into the world of on line dating is actually a sensible thing.

Granted, I've been at the dating game (and the loneliness, and the "aloneness") for long enough now that I can set my sights a little higher than a temporary feel good. Compliments, even the sincere ones, are nothing more than band aids. Not bad, mind you; just not enough.You start to want to be number one, for there not to be an "other," whether it's other women or "guy pals" or something really hard to compete with, like golf. Pedestals are precarious, and nobody can expect to last on one permanently, but a day here and there would be nice. Someone to like, who will like you a lot back, warts and all, would be nice. To feel essential and not merely like an "other" would be heavenly.

There's a learning curve to all of this, and for some of us it's steeper than others. I hope my dinner companion figures out sooner than later that she deserves to be treated well. And if she has to tolerate some excessive flattery along the way, there are far worse things. How to Accept Compliments would be a most valuable read.