Flash Friday #1: Ted

1

Ted is not attracted to women like me.

Ted says he knows he should be. Because beauty standards are changing, the roles of women are evolving and, after all, he did enjoy the trial period, the weeks of testing out a theory.

But in the end, he was just disgusted. So said Ted himself at about eight thirty on a Saturday night, his hand in his hair, standing next to his motorcycle in front of my apartment. 

I myself had become an unwitting participant in Ted’s (blind) experiment seven Saturdays prior, so the admission struck me. The fact that I was more upset to no longer be dating Ted than I was over the fact that I had dated a person like Ted in the first place said something about me that I recognized, but had no appetite to work through.

Ted was from Chicago. Great teeth. Patrick Dempsey hair. Big fan of sushi. Always wore the same (nondescript, minimalist, probably expensive) outfit. Ted routinely turned the water off mid-shower, not to save water, but to ensure an extra good lather. His shower curtain was translucent. Ted believed that big toothpaste was out to get us. His toothpaste was organic, clay-like and frankly looked a bit like shit in his teeth. Ted took pride in his work and seemed pleased when he surmised, out loud, that he made more money than I did. Ted was incorrect. Ted often talked of stoicism and refused to have more than one orgasm per week (two would be indulgent) though I am not sure if the former informed the latter. 

When he did engage, he often said “that’s it.” That’s it is a ubiquitous phrase, and occasionally I chuckle at the idea of Ted, years later, when browsing snack food aisles or taking a swig of Spindrift (“yup, that’s it.” emboldened on each can). 

Ted looks through a beam of streetlight and lands the grounded plane: “you’re just too fat for me.”

I walk inside, dodge my least favorite roommate in search of one better. I laugh at the audacity, let her speak freely, bargain with myself. 

I walk back outside. I go for a run. 

2

Trusting the universe (or perhaps following your gut) is a circular problem. You need evidence to believe in it, but belief is a necessary precursor for evidence to appear. 

First, you listen curiously to the trendy hairdresser who tells a story of how she called off her engagement. You don’t roll your eyes at the fifty-something year old woman who repeatedly mentions that she is the wife of a CEO; you shared an employer once and so you write down her favorite brand of powdered greens, the name of a local masseuse that makes house calls, and (the big one) the story of her (near platonic) first marriage. You search for something kismet in eyes across conference tables.

Then, you write through it all surreptitiously; you leave your journal on the counter in the kitchen in the apartment you share with your fiancé.  

Much later, you think, “eh, so there are red flags” and call Ted again. 

In either case, you are without the evidence that you are going in the right direction. 

And yet, you believe that the universe has something for you. You share your journal with your fiancé and text that co-worker. A few years later, that once fiancé is in Steamboat or Barbados or Buffalo with the woman who will become his wife (and is already the mother of your dog) and you are tolerating guys like Ted. 

Hello! I’m kicking off “Flash (memoir) Fridays.” I have a lot of fun with this and I hope there’s a little joy for you here, too. xoxo.