Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me - Ben Karlin [25]
“Welcome to the party. I guess there’s someone in there waiting to see you,” said Helen, smiling.
I walked in.
For two weeks I imagined a lot of things, but I never imagined what I had just walked into. The youngest man there was no less than fifty-five. The oldest could easily have been eighty, maybe more. The women ranged in age from about forty-five to sixty. Each one looked like she could be my aunt. What if one actually was my aunt? That would be awkward.
In one corner a Nelson Rockefeller type slyly approached a woman who might have been Bette Midler’s sister. In another, a bald man with a fringe of dyed black hair was attempting to chat up a woman who looked exactly like my therapist. Over by the window, a lonely man in a cardigan spread cheese on a cracker. I’m fairly certain he was the father of a college friend.
And then there was me, in my windbreaker and sneakers, looking for my secret admirer.
With the exception of a few clusters of chatting women, it was a scene of perpetual lonely motion. There was very little conversation. Everyone just wandered around, eying each other. This was a meat market for the old and rich. No one said a word to me. I wondered if my youth made them uncomfortable. Maybe they thought I was there to fix the air-conditioning. I quickly walked through each room, but I knew it was pointless.
After about six minutes I went back to the front door, where Helen Goldfarb was still greeting her guests. She saw me and scrunched her face into a pained smile.
“I think there must have been some kind of mistake,” she said.
“Yeah, I think so. Why am I here?”
“I really don’t know.”
“But what about the exclusivity? What about handpicking every guest to make sure that only extraordinary, high-caliber men are invited?”
She had no response.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, the smile finally breaking.
I was sorry, too. My secret admirer was neither the princess of my fantasies nor the troll of my fears. In fact, my secret admirer wasn’t anything. She didn’t exist. There was nothing left to say. I took the elevator down.
A couple of days later, Helen Goldfarb called. She wanted to apologize. She’d gone back to her books and couldn’t figure out why I’d been invited.
“Nothing like this has ever happened before,” she insisted.
I told her not to worry about it.
“Well,” she said, “let me know if you ever want to come to one of my parties in the future.”
She had to be kidding.
“Your friends aren’t looking for a guy like me,” I said, trying to be polite.
“Who knows? Maybe some of them have a Mrs. Robinson fantasy.”
That cracked me up.
“I really don’t think your friends go to your parties with a Mrs. Robinson fantasy in mind,” I laughed.
“Don’t be so sure,” she said slyly.
“I’m pretty sure,” I insisted.
“Well don’t be!” she practically purred.
Was this possible? Was Mrs. Goldfarb trying to seduce me?
“Are, uh, you saying that you . . . have a Mrs. Robinson fantasy?” I stammered.
“Maybe I am.”
So there it was. I had no secret admirer, but I did have my very own Mrs. Robinson.
I was shocked. Like any healthy twenty-eight-year-old, I had a couple of Mrs. Robinson fantasies stored in the old fantasy Rolodex. I was very open to the idea of afternoon trysts at a discreet hotel with a grown-up woman with grown-up needs. But, again, something just wasn’t right. I mean, a Mrs. Robinson fantasy is one thing, but Mrs. Goldfarb was something else entirely. Why couldn’t my Mrs. Robinson look a little more like Anne Bancroft and a little less like Mel Brooks?
I let the silence linger for a few moments longer, and then I very politely declined the invitation.
Lesson#11
A Grudge Can Be Art
by Andy Selsberg
Our second or third time in bed together she bit her lip and said she had a confession to make. I tensed up and cupped my nuts protectively to prepare for possible bombshells: crabs, herpes, warts, a psychotic