apartments and the family avocado ranch in California. (
Avocado ranch! With an ocean view!
) He could weave stories about the quirky characters in his family like a great novelist. Our e-mail repartee was like fireworks. He was a great kisser, and guitar player. And so, I thought, maybe a year of being single was enough. I thought this for a few months.
And then it started …
Why does he annoy me sometimes? Do I love him? Am I really ready for him to be The One? Shouldn’t I feel more sure? I was sure with Vito. I wasn’t sure with Trevor and I broke his heart. I don’t want to break someone else’s heart. He really likes me. Do I like him? Is it that I’m not ready yet? Why does he drive so slowly? Making a left turn should not make him this nervous.
One day, a few months into our relationship, I decided I wasn’t happy enough, and I broke up with Ben. We gotback together a week later, because Ben’s most special talent was an uncanny ability to see deep into my neurotic soul and talk me right off a cliff. During that get-back-together conversation, he also let me have it for being crazy, which I, upsettingly, discovered I found attractive. But during that week in between breaking up and getting back together, I went on a ski trip with two couples, and that’s when I first heard about the man who led to this chapter’s foreign adventure in Paris and London. A man I will call “Ferris Bueller.”
I t started with a simple postbreakup après-ski conversation in Mammoth over nachos and hot chocolates with one of my friends, a fellow TV writer:
“You know who you should meet, Kristin? This guy I work with—Ferris Bueller.”
Immediately my friends’ wives got big eyes and nodded resolutely
—yeah, do that.
They said the guy was a real-life Ferris Bueller, twenty years later. This was exciting because Ferris Bueller had been my Perfect Man since junior high—charismatic and fun, the guy who lit up the room, was loved by fancy bankers and school secretaries alike, and led great adventures with unfailing enthusiasm. I had crushed on another real-life Ferris throughout high school and college, but he had eventually become a professional lifeguard, which wasn’t as appealing over thirty. So when I heard tell of a fully grown Ferris, with a successful career that didn’t require a swimsuit at the office, I was excited.
My friends all said this Ferris was
just like me
—acomedy writer with a big, enthusiastic personality who was always traveling, throwing great parties, and connecting people. He specialized in organizing trips to far-flung places and voraciously hunting movie-like life moments, just like I did. He even lived right around the block from me (which made the subsequent stalking much easier). But unlike me, he also came with mythical stories of the Ferris variety, often involving hundreds of people traveling around the world in costumes he dreamed up, skinny-dipping celebrities, and (his own) Andy Kaufman–esque public ass-shavings during fake wars with angry college lesbians. Oh, and one more thing:
He loved to do the thing you’re supposed to do in the place you’re supposed to do it.
Everyone was really sure Ferris and I would be the best setup anyone had ever seen. But, as almost everything does with a roomful of comedy writers, it soon turned into a bit. So as I struggled to carry my snowboard, one friend would pipe up, “Oh, Kristin, if Ferris were here he would
definitely
carry that for you.” Then I would coo, “I know, he’s so considerate.”
In line for lunch: “Ferris is the best orderer. He’d definitely get you lunch if he were here.” And I’d respond, “I know, his taste and manners are impeccable. I love him so much.”
It soon progressed into an imaginary relationship: “You guys, do you think Ferris
loves me
loves me, or just
kinda
loves me?” “Oh, are you kidding?! He doesn’t stop talking about you!”
By day two, the relationship started going through a
Avocado ranch! With an ocean view!
) He could weave stories about the quirky characters in his family like a great novelist. Our e-mail repartee was like fireworks. He was a great kisser, and guitar player. And so, I thought, maybe a year of being single was enough. I thought this for a few months.
And then it started …
Why does he annoy me sometimes? Do I love him? Am I really ready for him to be The One? Shouldn’t I feel more sure? I was sure with Vito. I wasn’t sure with Trevor and I broke his heart. I don’t want to break someone else’s heart. He really likes me. Do I like him? Is it that I’m not ready yet? Why does he drive so slowly? Making a left turn should not make him this nervous.
One day, a few months into our relationship, I decided I wasn’t happy enough, and I broke up with Ben. We gotback together a week later, because Ben’s most special talent was an uncanny ability to see deep into my neurotic soul and talk me right off a cliff. During that get-back-together conversation, he also let me have it for being crazy, which I, upsettingly, discovered I found attractive. But during that week in between breaking up and getting back together, I went on a ski trip with two couples, and that’s when I first heard about the man who led to this chapter’s foreign adventure in Paris and London. A man I will call “Ferris Bueller.”
I t started with a simple postbreakup après-ski conversation in Mammoth over nachos and hot chocolates with one of my friends, a fellow TV writer:
“You know who you should meet, Kristin? This guy I work with—Ferris Bueller.”
Immediately my friends’ wives got big eyes and nodded resolutely
—yeah, do that.
They said the guy was a real-life Ferris Bueller, twenty years later. This was exciting because Ferris Bueller had been my Perfect Man since junior high—charismatic and fun, the guy who lit up the room, was loved by fancy bankers and school secretaries alike, and led great adventures with unfailing enthusiasm. I had crushed on another real-life Ferris throughout high school and college, but he had eventually become a professional lifeguard, which wasn’t as appealing over thirty. So when I heard tell of a fully grown Ferris, with a successful career that didn’t require a swimsuit at the office, I was excited.
My friends all said this Ferris was
just like me
—acomedy writer with a big, enthusiastic personality who was always traveling, throwing great parties, and connecting people. He specialized in organizing trips to far-flung places and voraciously hunting movie-like life moments, just like I did. He even lived right around the block from me (which made the subsequent stalking much easier). But unlike me, he also came with mythical stories of the Ferris variety, often involving hundreds of people traveling around the world in costumes he dreamed up, skinny-dipping celebrities, and (his own) Andy Kaufman–esque public ass-shavings during fake wars with angry college lesbians. Oh, and one more thing:
He loved to do the thing you’re supposed to do in the place you’re supposed to do it.
Everyone was really sure Ferris and I would be the best setup anyone had ever seen. But, as almost everything does with a roomful of comedy writers, it soon turned into a bit. So as I struggled to carry my snowboard, one friend would pipe up, “Oh, Kristin, if Ferris were here he would
definitely
carry that for you.” Then I would coo, “I know, he’s so considerate.”
In line for lunch: “Ferris is the best orderer. He’d definitely get you lunch if he were here.” And I’d respond, “I know, his taste and manners are impeccable. I love him so much.”
It soon progressed into an imaginary relationship: “You guys, do you think Ferris
loves me
loves me, or just
kinda
loves me?” “Oh, are you kidding?! He doesn’t stop talking about you!”
By day two, the relationship started going through a
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