Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me - Ben Karlin [61]
Darrel’s luck was better than mine, however. His second shrink suggested he try to get in touch with his long-lost nurse. He tracked down her address from a friend. She didn’t answer him right away. Months later she told him her story. She had gone to college and had become president of a nursing college. She had been married but her husband had recently died. Their correspondence led to a meeting. Their meeting led to a decision to marry. (Have I mentioned Darrel was luckier than me?)
He was calling to tell me the good news. When I told him I had gone online to purchase a document certifying that I was a reverend so I could officiate the wedding of another friend, he asked if I would officiate his. So, this fall I will preside over the vows of the man who has, in turn, married me twice and baptized all three of my children. Technically, I still owe him a few.
Darrel and I became friends in 1973. The year we met was the year I started in business. It was the year I got engaged. It was the year a peace agreement was reached in Paris that allowed our prisoners of war to return home from Vietnam. We had a lot to talk about. We talked about the war and the poets who knew it best. I remember sharing Cummings’ poem about “Olaf,” a conscientious objector who while being destroyed kept repeating this perfection: “There is some shit I will not eat.” It is a declaratory phrase I regret I learned too late.
We talked about love but did not trust ourselves to talk about our losses. These were too entwined with the dark and lonely places we shared with no one. Even the girl whose picture I removed from the newspaper remained a secret. My lost love and I never corresponded. We never met. The plane that took off from New York never landed in Brussels. It crashed killing all on board including my love, Laurence Owen, and the entire U.S. female skating team. I can still see her smiling face, sharp eyes, arched back, and confident spirit moving across the ice.
Lesson#43
Don’t Enter a Karaoke Contest Near Smith College; You Will Lose to Lesbians
by Jason Nash
When a man starts getting fine pussy, there’s a boost to his ego unrivaled by anything else in life. Unlike getting a good job—which, when all is said and done, is still work—dating someone hot makes you feel intoxicated. Blessed. Like winning the lottery or even better, finding a massive discrepancy in your checking account. You don’t know why you’re getting all that money, but you keep your mouth shut and hope no one notices.
Karyn was the kind of beautiful I wasn’t used to. Sort of alien looking, like a girl you’d see in a Prada ad, affecting a vacant stare while standing between two Wiemaraners. I always dreamed of dating a hot girl, but when I did, she didn’t look anything like Karyn. Thanks to my mom’s work in the cosmetics industry in the 1980s, my ideal woman has always been Samantha Fox, circa “Naughty Girls (Need Love Too).”
And Karyn was more than just unique looking. She was smart and said so very little, that when she did speak you would hang on her every word. She was impenetrable to trends, put absolutely no thought into her wardrobe, and was the first person I knew who admitted having horrible taste in music.
I saw her at the student union and I remember thinking, could I get this girl? Me? The guy who was a fat fuck in high school? The guy who was tormented for being the only Jewish kid and had the nickname “Wej”? (That’s “Jew” spelled backwards.) The guy who ruined Thanksgiving dinner once when he put too much toilet paper in the bowl, leaving his aunt and uncle’s shoes surfacing in an inch of shit water while they ate? That guy?
But things were going well for me in college. I had lost weight, had great friends, and scored an internship at Saturday Night Live. Most of all, I finally found