Oh, George

Tootsie Woo and her dad are watching Seinfeld together. Dad points at the screen.

Dad: He’s married to Britney Spears now!

Tootsie: Who? Jason Alexander?

Dad: Yeah! I read it in People Magazine.

Tootsie: No, dad.

Wrong Jason Alexander.

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About Bank: “Hace frio afuera pero adentro…”

Translation: It’s cold outside but in here…

This is the story of the only proposal I have received thus far and, yes, I do mean “marriage proposal.

His name is Carlos Soledad** and he is Puerto Rican, doesn’t speak any English, is a little on the short side, and…what else? What else could I possibly say about him…? Hmmm… Oh. Right. He’s 70 years old. Maybe 75. Ok, he is  at least 75 and maybe older. In other words the only way I could possibly see his proposal as being a genuine one is if I saw his bank account and, oh wait, I have…I’ll stick to maidenhood for now. Though maybe I’ll also stick to not using the word maidenhood regularly as I’m fairly certain I’m misusing it.

A few weeks ago “my” Carlos came into the bank. I think he might be experiencing the early stages of dementia as he always seems to be a little foggy. As one of the few people who spent their youth, we’re talking ages 12-15, working in a nursing home and serving meals to dementia patients I feel comfortable with that diagnosis. It also always takes him a little while to get talking so there is an adjustment period of an eternity 3-5 minutes where he stands out my counter in silence looking at me blankly which I deal with the only way I know how, in uncomfortable silence (stay tuned for my self-help book, How to Make the Most Joyous of Occasions Awkward with a Lack of Tact and an Abundance of Saturday Night Live References, or the abreviated HMMJOALTASNLR if that’s easier).

After he was up to speed on the whole being in a bank thing I asked him how he was…here is a translation…and keep in mind that I really am speaking the Spanish of a 5-year-old, not because I am treating Carlos like a child but because that is actually how un-fluent I am…

Tootsie: Hi!

Carlos: Hello…how are you?

Tootsie: I’m good, how are you?

Carlos: Bad.

Tootsie: Bad? Why?

Carlos: Because I don’t have a woman.

Tootsie: Oh…I’m sorry…?

Carlos: Are you married?

Tootsie: …Um…no…

Carlos: Will you marry me?

Tootsie: Sorry, I don’t think I can…

Carlos: Why not?

Thus began a sad little game of “Why can’t you marry me?” And “I just can’t,” of course ignoring the fact that this was a poor little old man who had either watched way too many Hugh Hefner documentaries or was totally unaware of the fact that he wasn’t an eligible 20-year-old anymore. I eventually had to send him on his way, unsatisfied, and bride-less.

Today Carlos returned. He approached my window slowly, finally arriving and taking the customary 3-5 minutes to realize that he was, once again, in a bank. I had more trouble than usual understanding him today because he was not so much chewing a piece of gum as he was letting it hang limply out of his mouth.

Tootsie: Hello, how are you doing today?

Carlos: It is cold outside but in here it’s hot.

Now, this is a moment where a better understanding of Spanish would have been helpful. Was he genuinely referring to the nice heating that the bank offered or was he a cute little old man who was trying to flirt?

I asked him to repeat what he said because I thought I might have not heard him properaly and he said it again, but this time let me say it in Spanish (I wish I knew how to do accents on this!)…

Carlos: Hace frio afuera pero adentro esta calientita.

The word for hot is caliente, as most know, but he was doing the cutesy “calientita.” Oh Carlos. Cutesy has an age-requirement. The cut-off is a little fuzzy and varies greatly from person to person, though it usually falls somewhere between the first time you find yourself covered in your own child’s poop and the first time the concept of adult diapers sounds like maybe, a tiny bit, sorta, kinda like a good idea…maybe…Carlos was way beyond either option.

He than asked how much was in his account.

Tootsie: Ten.

Carlos: What?

Tootsie: Ten.

Carlos: How’s that?

Tootsie: Ten.

Carlos: Huh?

Tootsie: Ten! You have ten dollars! There is ten and some change in your acount!

Carlos: Ten.

Tootsie: Right.

And that is the man I almost married. Whether I like it or not, my first proposal will always be with Carlito in an inner-city bank, with a man who probably forgets me every time he leaves the door to purchase more gum he is not going to chew fully. He certainly set the bar high. In all honesty it was pretty adorable…maybe I should’ve said yes…after-all, this–

used to be this–

I Don’t

I have always considered myself a stereotypical gal when it came to marriage. I have dreamed of “the big day” ever since I was in the womb, have paraded around in bride costumes months away from October 31, and have been part of many make-believe marriage ceremonies with cousins and childhood friends where I have played husband, wife, and both. And now, with 22 years of living under my belt I still go weak when I imagine my life-changing runway-walk down the aisle towards some mystery man who will undoubtedly make my life complete, be the cherry on my sundae, give my life new meaning, be the apple of my eye, the Sonny to my Cher–ENOUGH.

But while, conceptually, I know that this is what I want out of life, to find some sort of un-business-related happily ever after, I do anything and everything in my power to avoid it. What makes my typical walking-down-the-aisle fantasy so great is that I am indeed walking towards a “mystery man,” not forcing myself to commit to one imaginary groom. I’m young, I get it, and I don’t need to be so concerned with tying the not…However, I still can’t help but think I react a little differently to the big “I do” than most of  my friends. Is something wrong with me?

My first real boyfriend, Denver Steel**, was a big relationships guy. He was also the only real relationship I’ve had thus far, but that’s besides the point…or maybe it is the point, I DON’T KNOW. Of course he didn’t mind flings and could have meaningless sex with random penis receptacles named Bambi and Cinnamon as much as the next Joe, but he was still a relationships guy. Being committed to someone gave him a profound purpose in life and gave him a reason to wake up every morning.

After we had been together for a few months we had shared “I love yous”  and were so attached that we decided to continue dating even though I was going back to college, making the space between us thousands of miles.

We also were dealing with an age difference of about 4 years. I don’t think that that is an extreme age gap by any means but it did matter when I was 19 and he was 23, with a serious, post-high school relationship already under his belt. After we had been together for about 6 months he started coyly mentioning marriage, saying how he could see himself marrying me, that I was different from any girl he had ever met before…

I suppose that is what most girls like to hear. This is not true about everyone (and it certainly isn’t true for my most cynical gal pals) but if someone’s first love, who they were quite devoted to, mentioned marriage even just randomly in passing they would cling onto it like a Twilight fan would cling onto Robert Pattinson’s stolen boxers.

It is a good thing Denver wasn’t facing me during that first marriage talk because instead of loving smile he would have seen sheer terror on my face and possibly a little drooling as a voice in my head kept shouting, “I’m 19, I can’t get married! This is insanity!”

When we had first broken up (oops, spoiler alert) I doubted if I had ever loved him, being so war-torn from the battles that had preceded and succeeded our actual separation from each other. That would have made the fear I felt when we discussed getting married a little more understandable. But now I know, two years after the actual break-up, and a year after subsequent make-up attempts (…), that I did love him. Truly and fully. He was in fact my first love, and I am so thankful to have had him fill that slot in my life.

So why didn’t I want to marry him? Even the day we broke up, I’ll never forget it, he turned to me as he was walking to the door of my apartment and said, “I could’ve married you.” Why did that never strike me as a good idea? Was there something about him that I knew just couldn’t work forever? “Til death?” Did I get too full of myself and think I deserved better even though I thought I was so incredibly lucky to have him in my life? Or is the idea of settling, of saying “you are it, no one will ever equal you” something that I generally don’t buy into? Was it him or was it me?

Well of course I can’t answer that! So I can merely present that story and reflect on it as I continue my man-eating habits, never truly opening up to someone and walking away before I can actually care about them, and hope that something will click someday and someday soon. I know it will, even though it pains me to say it (or write it), I just need to be patient. Patient with myself more than anything as I get over Denver, someone who I realize now I never should have let walk out of my life, and patient as I learn to be open and available for the next guy and to not let my fear of “forever” get in the way of appreciating now.

I will one day share this song with my mystery man

**Obvious phoney name