THE CRACKUP

By the tenth day of the heat wave, Carrie was too attached to Mr. Big. Way too attached. That was the night that she had her breakdown. It started fine: Mr. Big went out alone to a business dinner. No problem at first. She went to her girlfriend Miranda's. They were going to sit in the air conditioning and watch taped segments of Ab Fab. But then they started drinking. Then Miranda called her drug delivery guy. It continued from there. Carrie hadn't seen Miranda for a while because she'd been busy with Mr. Big, so Miranda started in on her.

"I'd like to meet him, you know. Why haven't I met him? Why haven't I seen you?" Then she dropped the bomb. Miranda said she knows some girl who was dating Mr. Big during the first month he was dating Carrie.

"I thought he only saw her once," Carrie said.

"Oh, no. They saw each other several times. Se-ver-al. That's why I didn't call you for a whole month. I didn't know whether to tell you or not."

"I think this is bad stuff," Carrie said.

The next morning, after the freakout, when Carrie was lying in Mr. Big's bed, she tried to think about what she really wanted. Life felt hke it had changed, but had it really? She thinks: I'm still not married. I still don't have kids. Will it ever happen?

When?

It's the zone or Mr. Big, she thinks. The zone or Mr. Big. That afternoon, Mr. Big sends her flowers. The card reads: "Everything will be okay. Love, Mr. Big."

"Why did you send me flowers?" Carrie asks him later. "That was so sweet."

"I wanted you to know that somebody loved you," Mr. Big says. A couple of days later, on the weekend, Carrie and Mr. Big go to his house in Westchester, so Mr. Big can play

golf. He leaves in the morning, early. Carrie gets up late, makes coffee. She goes outside and walks around the yard. She walks to the end of the street. Walks back. Goes back inside the house and sits down.

"Now what am I going to do?" she thinks, and tries to imagine Mr. Big on the golf course, swatting golf balls impossible distances.

18. How to Marry a Man in Manhattan — My Way

A couple of months ago, an announcement appeared in the New York Times that "Cindy Ryan" (not her real name) had gotten married. There was nothing particularly interesting or unusual about it, except to people who had known Cindy and lost contact with her, like me, to whom the news was astounding. Cindy had gotten married! At forty! It was nothing short of inspirational.

You see, Cindy was one of those New York women who had been trying to get married for years. We all know them. They're the women we've been reading about for the past ten years, who are attractive (not necessarily beautiful) and seem to be able to get everything—except married. Cindy sold advertising for a car magazine. She knew stereo equipment. She was as big as a man. She shot guns and traveled (once, on her way to the airport, she had to punch out a drunk cab driver, throw him in the back seat, and drive herself to the airport). She wasn't exactly the most feminine woman, but she always had men.

But every year, she got older, and when I would run into her at an old friend's cocktail party, she'd regale me and

everyone else with stories of the big one who got away. The guy with the yacht. The famous artist who couldn't get a hard-on without having a paintbrush pushed up his bum. The CEO who came to bed in mouse slippers.

And, you couldn't help it. You'd look at her and feel a mixture of admiration and revulsion. You'd walk away thinking, She'll never get married. If she does marry, it's going to have to be some boring bank manager who lives in New Jersey. And besides, she's too old.

Then you'd go home and lie in bed, and the whole thing would come back to haunt you, until you had to call up your friends and be a nasty little cat and say, "Sweetie, if I ever end up like her, be sure to shoot me, huh?"

Well, guess what. You were wrong. Cindy got married. He's not the kind of guy she ever thought she'd end up with, but she's happier than she's ever been in her life.

It is time. Time to stop complaining about no good men. Time to stop calling your machine every half hour to see if a man has called. Time to stop identifying with Martha Stewart's lousy love life even if she is on the cover of People magazine.

Yes, it is finally time to marry a man in Manhattan, and best of all, it can be done. So relax. You have plenty of time. Martha, pay attention.

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 989