SO YOU THINK YOU HAD A BAD NIGHT?

by Amy Lynn Zidell

I return ground down from the daily grind of a job, past the yellow "warning hazard" tape to my disheveled apartment, and began working my way through the first of seven gallons of a concoction equal parts Sprite, grenadine, and Crown Royal blended Scotch whiskey -- for the numbing effect. I figure numb is better than the bursting- into- tears- at- any- moment, I- wish- I- could- crawl- under- a- rock, Oh- why- can't- there- be- some- awful- talk- show- on- so- I- can- see- people- more- pathetic- than- myself phase I apparently am passing through. The grenadine is just for taste. I love grenadine. The Sprite -- bubbles.

Though I exercise more neuron's making instant oatmeal than I do at work, it's reasonably stable, in a nice tall building, provides me daily covered parking, bone chilling pneumonia inducting air-condition, and something that modestly, very modestly poses for a paycheck. On top of that I like my boss when I get half the sandwich they can't eat.

Though the job situation might be annoying as I ignore my greater life-long dreams, goals and aspirations, what is really troubling, what I estimate must be bothering me deeply, is a little thing really. It's the fact the man I've been involved and deeply in love with, for more time than most convicted repeat felons actually serve, still does not want to marry me. I only recently announced to him this concept was no longer one I wholeheartedly endorse. I told Him I didn't like being a non-girlfriend anymore and that changes needed to happen. Big changes. New area code size changes.

Well surprise, he didn't change -- people are so funny that way. I finally open my eyes and smell the coffee and I don't even drink coffee. After the trillion and fifth time he told me we weren't getting married I started to believe he might be trying to tell me something. So first I get the slapping realization this guy is not going to make a commitment to me. He tried to commit me, but that's another story entirely. I then ask him to commit and he still doesn't. What gall! Now for some strange reason, the slap seems to hurt more. It could be PMS or the realization he really means it. Boy that hurts. Especially after all that time and those borrowed T-shirts.

So slightly anesthetized I plop on my couch and seriously consider watching Beverly Hills 90210. I flip and land on Ellen. The show revolves all around her friend Paige being proposed to. The groom to be, goes shopping for engagement rings with Ellen. At the jewelry store they run into Paige's male co-worker shopping for a ring for his male companion.

Then I see those silhouette commercials about happy couples and diamonds. Sure I have diamonds; they're antique family heirlooms. Hand-me-downs really. And no dashing fellow, or even a slouchy one, ever twirled me around gaily, my flawless shadow perfectly gracing the side of a smooth wall, while I admired any gem. Weird twist of fate or a master plot to drive me insane? Hard to tell, but I am Crown Royaled enough the elephant herd living above me doing aerobics doesn't seem to bother me much, content on my striped couch, wrapped in my Aunt Sally's hand knitted wool afghan, watching a show about engagement rings. Why didn't I have an engagement ring? And why couldn't TV that provides so many hours of mindless, numbing programming be about wonder mops, shoes with air soles, or some disease.

I seemingly, inevitably, chose the one program that night at that particular time focusing on someone getting engaged. Someone other than me. It's just not fair. Guess I'm just going to have to break open another case of grenadine. Could change the channel I suppose. Maybe I'll watch the Discovery channel's documentary on the Tasmanian fruit fly or read that book on black and white photography. I figure the chances of running into happy couples I'm jealous of is reduced a lot in either of those places. Because, as I'm sure you well know, there's about nothing more depressing when you're depressed about your relationship, or non-relationship, than seeing happy couples. They just make me sick.

So, how was your night?


Amy Lynn Zidell is a freelance writer.