Not You It's Me

CHAPTER TWO

GEMMA-LOGIC

Ralph is happy.

It's almost weird to witness. I'm so used to seeing him look at me with that expression of half-indifference, half-frustration on his face, I'm having trouble processing the fact that he's actually smiling at me. With teeth. For the first time in...

Weeks?

Or, is it months?

Needless to say, he was thrilled about the tickets when I told him. Hell, he picked me up off the floor and spun me around in a circle, which is the most action I've had in...

Weeks?

Or, is it months?

Jeeze, my life is pathetic.

I wasn't always this girl — you know, the one who settled for consistent sex at the sake of both that elusive spark and her self-respect. I guess I just got tired of waiting. When I moved to the city eight years ago, I was an idealistic eighteen-year-old full of energy and hope and passion. Being single was exciting, rather than exhausting. I spent years going to bar after bar, club after club, dancing the night away with anonymous strangers. Doing what my generation does best — total physical intimacy with none of the emotional baggage.

Then I hit twenty-four, and slowly began to watch my friends, who'd once matched my every tequila-shooter and shimmied until the wee hours by my side, pair off into couples.

And then married pairs.

And then parents.

I can barely keep my plants alive, let alone a tiny human.

By the time I hit twenty-six and realized what was happening, it was too late. I'd already become Single Gemma — the one who throws off the even-numbered dinner party, the one my friends look at as a pet-project rather than a person. They're well meaning, of course, but I can't say it's always appreciated.

First there's Shelby: "My dentist is single, Gemma! Recently divorced, full head of hair... I really think you two might hit it off! I'll set something up when I go in for my cleaning tomorrow. He's stable — you would do so well with a guy like him! And he almost never makes my gums bleed."

Breathe, Gem. She's not trying to be patronizing, she's just trying to help.

Then there's Chrissy: "Oh, my Cross-Fit trainer is mega-hot — seriously, you should see his abs. I wish Mark still had abs like that, but he keeps talking about gaining 'daddy-weight' — like he's the one who carried the goddamn baby around in his goddamn womb for nine goddamn months. Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, right, Steve. I'll slip him your number after my next class."

See, marriage isn't the Crock-Pot 'o gold everyone makes it out to be, Gemma. If you were married, you'd probably know what the hell daddy-weight is and be required to accept the fact that your husband let himself go less than a year after the wedding. The world of Budweiser-tumors and marital resentment is not for you.

But, no matter what I tell myself, I can't shake the feeling that something is simply wrong with me. I'm a twenty-six year old woman living in a modern metropolis and I've never been in a serious relationship in my life. There are literally thousands of men at my fingertips with the help of Tinder and OkCupid and CoffeeMeetsBagel and Hinge and a million other online-matching services whose mission statements guarantee they'll help me find my perfect match.

So... where the hell is he?

And, if date after date after date after date leads to absolutely nothing more than coffee or a one-night stand... if none of the hundreds of men I've met since I moved to Boston are right...