by Lucy Baker
I’ve been dating this guy, let’s call him Edward, for a few weeks, but something’s not right. Actually, a lot of things aren’t right but they’re all so trivial. Can I really dump someone because their favorite author is Dan Brown? Because they listen to the Dave Matthews Band? Because they think Tom Cruise is misunderstood?
My gut reaction, of course, is yes. This is why my mother thinks I have commitment issues, and why I’ve never been with anyone for more than six months. My friend Lauren agrees with her assessment. “Just stick it out,” she tells me. “Try to build up some relationship antibodies. It will be good for you.”
So I do. Stick it out. I stick it out when Edward points to a painting of a happy face and declares it “moving.” I stick it out when he butters my bread for me in a restaurant. I stick it out when he sends me a "Have a Nice Day!" e-card first thing in the morning. But for some reason I keep thinking about these toy magnets I had as a child. When I played with them, my favorite thing to do was to try and push their backs together. I liked to see how close I could get them—almost touching—before they sprung apart, one magnet shooting off to the side, like it was jumping ship.
Finally, after a nice dinner and some wine, I agree to accompany Edward back to his apartment. We start kissing, and pretty soon I’m getting into it, and it isn’t so hard to ignore the fact that his black leather couch has foot rests (You know: pull the handle and a footrest pops out of the bottom!) or that his bedroom doesn’t have any windows.
And then, right before we’re about to have sex, he pulls back and whispers, “You don’t have any Secret Santas, do you?”
It takes me a full five seconds of staring up at him before I realize that “Secret Santas” is his own personal euphemism for STDs.
And that’s it. I just can’t do it.
Magnet overboard.
