Hearth & Home

I like to think my problem is a common one. I see TV shows and read magazine articles about it all the time. The "thirty-something" single woman – reasonably attractive, career-oriented, financially stable, active social life...she has it all... Or does she? How many of us are desperately aware that we don't have it all? How many of us long for the one thing that's eluded us all our lives?

Sometimes I wonder how it happens. How the girls who were fairly smart, fairly pretty, fairly popular in their youth end up with no soul mate, no children, no hearth and home. Is it because there are "no good men left"? Is it because "we've set our standards too high"? Is it because we're just not "hanging out in the right places"?

I know it's true that some women don't care for the idea of married life. They don't have a longing to bear children, drive them to piano practice and basketball camp, coach Little League and be the president of the PTA. The thought of sitting up all night with a sick child, or helping someone finish their homework holds no appeal.

But I'm different. I want that. And unlike many career-minded women, who've put their personal lives on hold in order to get established in their careers, I've always wanted that. And I never thought I'd hit the ripe old age of thirty-three and be unmarried and childless. How did this happen?

Let's be clear about one thing, though. Much as I love and want children, I've no desire to be a single mother. You won't find me standing in line for a sperm donor, so that I can bear children regardless of the lack of man in my life. No, the soul mate fits very much into the picture. And even there, I've relaxed my ideals a little. I don't exactly believe there's such a thing as a soul mate. I think what I've really been looking for is just someone I can love who can love me back... Is that too much to ask?

*****

I have some good friends in my life – almost all of them single and in their thirties. We have a good time together. We support each other. For example, when my friend John needed a hot girlfriend for his 20th high school reunion, Jodie (a former lingerie model, and recent addition to our crew) willingly stepped in. When Sophia moved, she had eight strong backs there to help her out. And when Nick found out his fiancée was sleeping around, we were there for him. In fact, the closest I ever came to having a fistfight was with that woman – flaunting her new boyfriend in front of Nick at the MAXI awards. Instead of clocking her though, I just told her exactly what I thought of her, and then tried to catch up with him as he waved down a cab. Later, I took him home, got him drunk, and let him cry in my arms.

What else could I do?

I think we all want love. Deep down, we all want to feel as though we're something special to at least one other person in the world. We all want to be needed, respected, adored. At least I want that. So shoot me - I'm a hopeless romantic!

Of course I don't think about this all the time. I do have a job – Marketing Director for Rawlings Group – a rather small (in the grand scheme of things) shopping center developer. Our company buys, sells and manages retail centers in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area – from strip malls to lifestyle centers. My job is to promote our company – to brand our name, the theory being that if the major players in the shopping center industry know who Rawlings Group is, the chances of us making the big deals improve greatly. Dallas is a big market – competition is fierce – and corporate buyouts are as common as ants at a picnic. And Rawlings...well, it is small enough to get swallowed up by one of the big developers in a heartbeat. It's my job to make sure that we're seen as a strong company – not one that would be easy to take over.

I started working at Rawlings as a marketing assistant when I was twenty-four – my second job out of college. I worked hard and showed an aptitude. Nine years later, here I am. I like my job and the people I work with. I like writing press releases and directing ad design. I like meeting people and schmoozing over a cocktail or two. I like going to tradeshows and getting the company name out there. I'm good at my job and it shows.

I met John my first day at Rawlings. He thought he'd hit on the new girl, and I think I surprised him by actually agreeing to have a drink with him. I wasn't thinking "Hubba, hubba," I was thinking "Free drink." Surprisingly, we hit it off. Not romantically, of course – he was far too old for me (30) – but ultimately in a much more satisfying way. John's a flirt, occasionally a bit promiscuous, but a lot of fun to be around. He's one of my oldest and dearest friends.

With the exception of my sister Valerie, my best girlfriend would have to be Sophia. I met her two years ago at one of Nick's parties, and it was like we'd known each other forever. She's Creative Director for an advertising agency, but – like me – is a small town girl in a big city. The sophisticated exterior is nothing but a carefully crafted façade, and underneath it all, we're nothing more than a couple of hayseeds, wondering what the hell happened to the lives we were "supposed" to have.

Valerie had that life. She lives just outside Davenport, Iowa, not too far from where we grew up, is married to a man she adores, and is pregnant with her second child. I envy her. Not that I want her life exactly – I mean Jeff's nice, and I guess he's good-looking if you like blondes, but honestly, he completely ruins the whole fantasy of having Valerie's life. I know she loves him, but...I...yeesh! I could not imagine being married to him. (And that, my friends, is how I get around my jealousy of other women's lives. I try to imagine being married to their spouses – and it never fails to turn me off.)

I'm not a man-hater or anything. I go on the occasional date, sometimes more than one with the same guy, but the men I most frequently see are my friends. I don't call those dates, because there's no sexual pressure. We can laugh, have fun, drink, and I don't have to worry about whether someone's going to want me to put out. Not that I have a problem with sex. I just have a problem having sex with someone I barely know or have no feelings for. Somewhere around age 30, I decided that it was okay for me to feel this way – that it didn't make me frigid, or rigid, or un-dateable. The only downside to this empowering attitude is that it has led to a rather long stretch of celibacy.

Which is okay. Really. Because who needs sex, right? And when you get right down to it, who needs a man? It's entirely possible to lead a happy life without the suffocating confines of a marriage, right?

Ugh!! What is wrong with me???

*****

These moods would hit me occasionally. The "My ovaries are shriveling up and I'm going to die old and alone!" moods that make me want to eat ice cream by the gallon. One of them hit me when I was in Vegas at a trade show. I ran into a former co-worker who was sporting an enormous diamond – and an even more enormous belly. "Twins!" she'd exclaimed excitedly.

God, I was jealous! Not in a bad way, don't get me wrong! I was very happy for her. Five hours later, however, I was sitting in the hotel bar, half-drunk, complaining to John and Nick that I needed to have a baby. When John jokingly volunteered to help me out with that, Nick clipped him across the back of the head and said, "Martie doesn't need to hear crap like that from you."

John immediately looked contrite and held his arms open to me, "I'm so sorry Martie." His voice oozed fake sincerity, causing me to smile, "How insensitive of me."

I slid off my bar stool and allowed John to hug me close, and then make a few lewd noises as though it turned him on to have my breasts pressed against him like that. I heard Nick's snort of disgust and felt John jerk as he was smacked once again.

"Ow! Jeez Nick! Just for that, you can pay my tab." John rubbed his head as he turned to me, "Hang in there kid – make Nick buy you another drink." He patted my cheek and then walked towards the door.

I raised an eyebrow at Nick, and tried not to laugh. "I think you hurt him."

Nick shook his head, "Are you kidding? His skull's about as sensitive as concrete!" He pulled out his wallet and threw a bunch of bills on the bar – enough to cover all their drinks, and then some, and slung an arm about my shoulder. "Come on then. Let's hit the casino – there's nothing like losing some money to cheer a person up."

I had to laugh, and let him lead me from the bar out into the casino. We found a couple of seats at a blackjack table and Nick passed the dealer a few hundreds to start, splitting his chips with me. Oh – did I mention Nick's a dealmaker at Rawlings – and that he makes a lot of money? I mean a LOT? That's why I didn't feel too guilty gambling on his dime.

It was fun. I'd never really gambled much, so he kept giving me advice – reminding me of the "rules", and ordering me drinks. I'm not sure how that last part helped, but at the end of the night, I was up $200. It was 1:30am before I'd decided I'd had enough, and gathered my chips to leave. When I stood, I wobbled a bit and Nick, being the gentleman he is, steadied me with his hand on my elbow. I felt his touch down to my toes, and in every other inadvisable nerve ending I possessed. Did I mention that I was drunk? Did I mention that I liked Nick? Had always liked Nick? Wanted to make babies with Nick? Uh...yeah...

We cashed our chips in and headed for the lobby and the elevators. Is it possible to float and lean at the same time? Because I was definitely leaning on Nick all the way there – but also definitely floating. On the way up to my room on the fifth floor, I closed my eyes and rested my head against his shoulder. He didn't seem to mind. He didn't seem to mind anything until, at the door to my room, I tried to slip the $100 he'd spotted me at the beginning of our gambling junket back into his pocket. "Thanks for letting me play with your money," I said.

"...What?" he asked, grabbing my hand before I released the bills, "No...you do not have to do that..."

"But it's your money..." I protested.

"Sooo... go to the spa or something... on me..." he closed his fingers around mine, crumpling the bills in my palm.

...more nerve endings...

He leaned forward to give me a hug and the obligatory kiss on the cheek that I'd come to expect from him. But the hug was a little longer than necessary, and the kiss – well, it definitely lingered... As he moved back from me, I trailed one of my hands down his cheek.

Apparently, that touch ignited a little something in him because he swore under his breath right before his mouth descended on mine.

I do not remember the last time I'd been kissed like that. Had I ever been kissed like that? With such reckless abandon? With lips, and tongue, and teeth that left me weak-kneed and begging for more?

I'm not sure how we made it into my room...or how we ended up on the couch, our lips still fused, our hands clutching at each other's clothes. The necessity for air finally broke us apart for a moment, and I gasped, "Oh God..."

"You are so beautiful..." Nick's hands were on my face again and I forced myself to meet his gaze. Spoken like a man with one thing on his mind... Of course that demon liquor didn't have me thinking of much else either. And when he kissed me again – Man, was he a good kisser! – I just melted into him.

I've kissed plenty of guys in my time. Slept with some of them. Thought myself in love with a few of the ones who'd graced my bed. And drunk or not, it was abundantly clear to me that I'd never wanted to be with anyone as much as I wanted to be with Nick. Maybe it was the biological clock. Maybe it was his gorgeous dark hair and eyes. Maybe it was his broad shoulders. Maybe it was the fact that he'd always been nice to me – ALWAYS. Maybe it was the fact that his mouth was hot and hard against mine and it had been a LONG time since I'd been driven to distraction by a man's kiss.

Oh God – it was Nick!

"Martie!" he broke away suddenly, practically jumping off the couch. "Oh, shit! This is not a good idea honey."

He was...walking away? I just stared at him.

"I mean..." he ran his fingers roughly through his hair, "Jesus, it's almost two, and we're both a bit drunk..." his voice trailed off.

In my befuddled mind, I didn't know whether to be happy that he was able to think beyond his hormones, or be offended that he was turning me down. Not that I'd exactly offered anything, but it was implied, right?

I must have looked desperate or something...something... because he looked really apologetic. "Ahh, honey, don't look at me that way – I'm trying to do the right thing here..."

I wanted to tell him, "Screw the right thing! Get back over here!" but I'd somehow lost the ability to speak. He was so beautiful, and sexy standing there, all rumpled, his lovely brown eyes heavy-lidded, his cheeks stained with color. Finally I managed an argument, "But we were just kissing..." Okay, weak ...

He raised an eyebrow skeptically, stopping me in mid-sentence. Yes, well, maybe we were technically just kissing, but we were on the verge of doing a hell of a lot more, I had to admit. We were both silent a moment, just looking at each other, trying to decide whether or not to throw caution to the wind. He exhaled loudly, and rubbed his hand across his eyes, "I'm going to go now Martie..." Cutting off my protest, he continued, "You will thank me in the morning, believe me..."

Like it was going to be any easier to see him, knowing that he'd kissed me senseless and woken up all these long-dormant feelings inside of me? "...Nick..." I murmured, closing my eyes and letting my head fall back against the couch in defeat. I heard the click of the door and bit my lip to keep from crying in frustration.

I knew I was tired. I knew I was drunk. That's why I allowed myself a few tears before I drifted off to sleep, right there on the couch.

I didn't thank Nick in the morning. I didn't even see him. The gods smiled upon me and had Nick headed to New York, while I flew back to Dallas. But his absence did not make me think about the previous night any less. Oh God, what had I done? I mean, I'd been all over him, practically begging him to take me right there on the couch. Oh! My! God! How was I ever going to face him again?

How could I not face him? I saw him almost every day at work. He was part of my circle of friends – one of my best friends, in fact. I saw him ALL THE TIME!

Before the panic could overtake me, I took a couple of deep breaths and then a sip of the drink the flight attendant had given me.

"You okay Martie?" John asked, from his seat beside me. He'd been typing away on his laptop while I'd been berating myself.

My smile was quick and insincere, "Fine. I'm just breathing over here."

"Forgive me for saying this," he prefaced his next comment, "but you look like shit. Maybe you should take a nap or something."

"Thanks a lot!" I was slightly affronted. Regardless of whether or not it's true, no woman likes to hear that she looks bad.

"No offense cupcake. I'm guessing you're a trifle hung over. How much did you drink last night anyway?"

"Not that much," I lied. "I'm not hung over, just tired. So maybe I will take a nap."

As I reclined my seat and situated myself against the airplane window, I wondered if maybe the situation would seem a little brighter when I awoke. It certainly couldn't seem any worse.

When we landed in Dallas, there was no time to be thinking about my personal problems. After retrieving my bags and my car, I was expected to go into the office. I was trying to figure out whose brilliant idea it was to schedule me in a meeting the afternoon I was flying back from Vegas. Then I remembered it was me. Yeah, I'm brilliant. So efficient with my time that I couldn't see fit to "waste" half a day by recovering.

The first test of my maturity came at 4:30, when my assistant rang to say that Nick was on the phone for me. I froze for a moment, then said, "Can you put him through to voicemail, please?"

What a chicken I was! No, I reasoned, I just needed a little more time to gather my thoughts before we talked...

Just before I left the office that night, I listened to his voicemail. "Hey, it's Nick. Call me, okay?"

It was a typical Nick message. Short but sweet, with no indication of what he wanted to talk about (although I had my suspicions this time). I'd call him later, I told myself. And then, when later came, it was conveniently too late to call, since New York was an hour ahead of Dallas.

It wasn't until the next morning in the shower, that I came to grips with what had happened: Vegas had been an aberration, brought on by loneliness and too much alcohol. Nick was an attractive guy. A good friend. After all these years, it wasn't too surprising that we'd slipped up where so many others had before. And I should thank – I did thank my lucky stars that Nick had stopped us from going too far. Because I would have had to move to a different city if we'd slept together. A bout of drunken necking was much easier to justify...

It was great to finally have my story straight. I even summoned the courage to return Nick's call, although I just got his voicemail. The message I left him was equally vague. "Hey Nick, it's Martie. Got your message – I guess you're on a plane or something. Call me back – or we'll probably see each other tonight at Lydia's thing."

Could I avoid him until that evening, when we were surrounded by other people and unable to have a private conversation? Not that I was afraid to speak privately with him, but it would be a whole lot easier to sweep the whole thing under the rug if we didn't actually talk about it.

Which was a very mature attitude...

As luck would have it, I was in a meeting when Nick called back.

*****

Lydia Cooper was an artist friend of John's. He'd met her at the North Texas Irish Festival, where she'd been displaying some of her work. An attractive woman, John immediately felt the need to ask her out. And after some dogged pursuit, she finally agreed. John could be quite charming when he chose to be.

Two months later, we'd been invited to her very first showing, at a gallery in Deep Ellum. As a show of support for John, several of his friends were planning to attend. I took a cab, anticipating that there would be large quantities of wine flowing, and that parking on a Friday night in that part of town would be a pain in the ass.

With a nod to the semi-formality of the evening, I wore a black dress. In consideration of the May temperatures, it was sleeveless and linen. Lydia looked very...happy when I greeted her. When I raised a questioning brow to John, he said, "Some top notch champagne here tonight Martie. You should have some."

Somehow it was nice to know that I wasn't the only person who coped with stressful situations with a little vino. Of course, if I thought about that too hard, I'd realize that the rehab clinics were full of people like that. Hmmm... I opted for a glass of the bubbly anyway.

I was studying a sculpture that was not necessarily recognizable as anything real, but made me think of bodies sexually entwined, when someone touched my elbow. I suddenly felt embarrassed that I had been so engrossed in that particular piece of art.

"Nick, you're back." As if it wasn't obvious.

He leaned forward and kissed my cheek. "Yes." He glanced at the champagne flute in my hand, "Where can I get one of those?"

"There are some waiters walking around with trays..." I gestured behind me, and Nick left my side for a moment, returning with two glasses.

He relieved me of my empty and handed me a full glass, raising his in a toast, "Here's to getting hammered, Martie, and abdicating all personal responsibility."