great.”
Don’t get me wrong, I would ordinarily welcome a back rub after a tough week at work. And having skipped lunch today, I do find my mouth watering at the mere thought of that Chicken Thing. He makes it with tomatoes and peppers and olives and serves it over diet-friendly whole-grain pasta.
But when I weigh the options—engagement ring versus Willie Wonka/back rub/Chicken Thing—guess which one might as well be full of helium?
“Let’s get strudel for dessert, too,” he suggests.
“Now you’re talking,” I say, amazed at how the mere mention of strudel can make things brighter.
You’ve got to stop obsessing over this ring thing, I tell myself as the long-lost number-six train appears in the distance at last. It’s not healthy.
But I can’t seem to help it.
Especially when, in the sudden shuffle of the crowd to get into position precisely where the train’s doors will ostensibly open, I spot a huge billboard of a smiling bride and groom beside the tag line Married People Live Longer.
Is this a sign, or what?
Okay, intellectually I know it’s just part of that high-profile advertising campaign by some abstinence-advocacy group.
But emotionally, I choose to believe it’s a sign that I’ll be getting an engagement ring in the near future.
But…how near?
And why did his mother have to go and tell me it was coming?
How am I supposed to focus on anything else when every random morning I wake up wondering if today’s the day?
I’m starting to think it would be better if I didn’t secretly know he has a diamond. That it would be better if I were back where I was the night Mike and Dianne got married, when I thought Jack thought marriage was only for Assholes. At least then, I had no expectations.
Then again…maybe he still thinks that. Maybe he just accepted the diamond to humor his mother. Maybe he has no intention of giving it to me in this millennium. Who knows? Maybe he’s already traded it for an ounce of saffron and a six-pack.
The uptown local is packed, of course.
The reverse tug-of-war begins. A mass of people shove to get off; a mass of people shove to get on.
Yes, we are among the shovers.
Because in New York, you do things on a daily basis you wouldn’t dream of doing anywhere else. At least, I wouldn’t.
Back in Brookside, I wouldn’t dream of shouldering my way through the crowded vestibule of Most Precious Mother to snag a primo pew, scattering little old church ladies with limbs akimbo.
But when in Rome—or the subway…
Well, you get the idea. I’m a seasoned Manhattanite after three years here, and I can shove and curse and even flip people off like a native, although only when absolutely necessary.
And only strangers.
When it comes to people I know, I can be oddly complacent in that regard. If only I’d had the nerve to shove, curse and flip off my ex-boyfriend, Will McCraw, before he had a chance to break my heart.
But I was still the old Tracey-sans- cojones back then.
As we shoehorn ourselves into the car, I am careful to align the front of my body with the side of Jack’s to avoid accidental intercourse with the total stranger crammed in beside me.
“You okay?” Jack asks.
“Fine,” I tell him, taking shallow breaths so as not to inhale fresh B.O. from a neighboring straphanger.
“We’ll stop at the store on the way home to get the stuff for my chicken thing.”
“All right.” I feel like I’m going to gag. Does this person not know he’s stinking up the whole car? Or does he not care?
“You don’t seem very into it.”
“I am!” I snap—then repeat sweetly and guiltily at his hurt look.
The train lurches, stalls.
Lurches, stalls.
Then it lurches again, just enough to pull beyond the platform and into the dark tunnel before there’s a hiss as the engine dies and a flicker before the lights go with it.
A cry of protest goes up in the car as people curse in every known language.
“Still okay?” Jack asks in the dark, his
Don’t get me wrong, I would ordinarily welcome a back rub after a tough week at work. And having skipped lunch today, I do find my mouth watering at the mere thought of that Chicken Thing. He makes it with tomatoes and peppers and olives and serves it over diet-friendly whole-grain pasta.
But when I weigh the options—engagement ring versus Willie Wonka/back rub/Chicken Thing—guess which one might as well be full of helium?
“Let’s get strudel for dessert, too,” he suggests.
“Now you’re talking,” I say, amazed at how the mere mention of strudel can make things brighter.
You’ve got to stop obsessing over this ring thing, I tell myself as the long-lost number-six train appears in the distance at last. It’s not healthy.
But I can’t seem to help it.
Especially when, in the sudden shuffle of the crowd to get into position precisely where the train’s doors will ostensibly open, I spot a huge billboard of a smiling bride and groom beside the tag line Married People Live Longer.
Is this a sign, or what?
Okay, intellectually I know it’s just part of that high-profile advertising campaign by some abstinence-advocacy group.
But emotionally, I choose to believe it’s a sign that I’ll be getting an engagement ring in the near future.
But…how near?
And why did his mother have to go and tell me it was coming?
How am I supposed to focus on anything else when every random morning I wake up wondering if today’s the day?
I’m starting to think it would be better if I didn’t secretly know he has a diamond. That it would be better if I were back where I was the night Mike and Dianne got married, when I thought Jack thought marriage was only for Assholes. At least then, I had no expectations.
Then again…maybe he still thinks that. Maybe he just accepted the diamond to humor his mother. Maybe he has no intention of giving it to me in this millennium. Who knows? Maybe he’s already traded it for an ounce of saffron and a six-pack.
The uptown local is packed, of course.
The reverse tug-of-war begins. A mass of people shove to get off; a mass of people shove to get on.
Yes, we are among the shovers.
Because in New York, you do things on a daily basis you wouldn’t dream of doing anywhere else. At least, I wouldn’t.
Back in Brookside, I wouldn’t dream of shouldering my way through the crowded vestibule of Most Precious Mother to snag a primo pew, scattering little old church ladies with limbs akimbo.
But when in Rome—or the subway…
Well, you get the idea. I’m a seasoned Manhattanite after three years here, and I can shove and curse and even flip people off like a native, although only when absolutely necessary.
And only strangers.
When it comes to people I know, I can be oddly complacent in that regard. If only I’d had the nerve to shove, curse and flip off my ex-boyfriend, Will McCraw, before he had a chance to break my heart.
But I was still the old Tracey-sans- cojones back then.
As we shoehorn ourselves into the car, I am careful to align the front of my body with the side of Jack’s to avoid accidental intercourse with the total stranger crammed in beside me.
“You okay?” Jack asks.
“Fine,” I tell him, taking shallow breaths so as not to inhale fresh B.O. from a neighboring straphanger.
“We’ll stop at the store on the way home to get the stuff for my chicken thing.”
“All right.” I feel like I’m going to gag. Does this person not know he’s stinking up the whole car? Or does he not care?
“You don’t seem very into it.”
“I am!” I snap—then repeat sweetly and guiltily at his hurt look.
The train lurches, stalls.
Lurches, stalls.
Then it lurches again, just enough to pull beyond the platform and into the dark tunnel before there’s a hiss as the engine dies and a flicker before the lights go with it.
A cry of protest goes up in the car as people curse in every known language.
“Still okay?” Jack asks in the dark, his
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