The Knocked Up Plan(5)

“It does seem like your sense of always might be a tad off, considering this is the first we’re hearing about it,” Delaney says, her brown eyes trying to drill a laser hole in me. It’s a tough feat while running, so she’s unsuccessful.

“Always as in always. But lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about my long-term portfolio approach, and it seems like the time is now.” My heart speeds in my chest. I wonder if its pace is from the run or from the admission. But I pride myself on keeping cool and collected in matters of the heart.

“Portfolio?” Delaney scoffs at my word choice.

I smirk since I chose that word for effect. “I have a vision for how I want my future to unfold, and I want to take the necessary steps and make the best investments to ensure it happens.”

Penny snorts. “I cannot believe you’re using asset allocation strategies.”

“Would you say you’ve been considering this massive, life-changing plan for longer than a week, longer than a year, or so long we need to tackle you for never breathing a word to us before?” Delaney tosses out, as her arms swing neatly by her sides. She’s the only dog-free member of our pack. I’ve always hoped she’d adopt a small little mutt from Penny’s Little Friends Animal Rescue, because I think a dog is pretty much as close to a soul mate as one can ever get. Plus, we’d all be perfectly paired then, girl and mutt. No such luck. But Delaney finally opened her home to a four-legged creature a few months ago when she adopted an orange, six-toed cat named Crazypants.

“To answer the have I always question,” I begin, turning to Penny as Ruby and I maintain our pace along the leaf-strewn path, “it’s sort of like—how did you know you wanted dogs? You just knew, right?”

Penny nods as she brushes off a strand of brown hair from her cheek. “I’ve always loved dogs. I can’t remember not wanting one.”

I shrug as if my situation is as easy to understand. “It’s the same for me.”

“And you don’t want to wait any longer to meet the right guy? To make sure you don’t want to do this with a partner?”

I slow as we weave around the tip of the water. “Ladies, I’m thirty. I’m not getting any younger, and the pickings aren’t getting any better. I’ve been on the dating merry-go-round for far too long, and it just keeps spinning. It’s making me dizzy. Plus, let’s not forget I’m immune to love. May I present evidence in the form of Greg?”

Delaney sighs sympathetically. “He was such a nice guy.”

“He was extraordinarily sweet and quite good to me, too,” I say, recalling my ex from a few years ago. “And I didn’t feel it. I’m like a defective part. I’m the balloon in the bag that doesn’t blow up.”

Penny furrows her brow. “I’ve never come across a balloon that doesn’t blow up. Is that a thing?”

“Fine. I’m the bad starter on a car, or whatever the hell goes bad on cars that have to be recalled. You know what I mean. Clearly, there’s something wrong with me if I couldn’t even settle down with a nice guy like Greg.”

“Your ex was pretty much the textbook nice guy,” Delaney says about my former fiancé, a sweet-as-pie coffee shop owner who I brazenly asked out the day I met him after he whipped up a mocha latte for me with a heart drawn in the foam. We dated for seven months and were engaged for two. He was everything I thought I wanted: handsome, kind, sweet, attentive, and always ready with a caffeinated beverage with art on top.

But we were spark-free. He didn’t make me weak in the knees, and I’m pretty sure there was no growl in his throat when he saw me naked. Not that I don’t look good in my bare skin. I rock the nude look, thank you very much. And it’s not because I’m a perfect ten. It’s because I like to accessorize every outfit, including nudity, with chin-up confidence. That’s my best asset, and it’ll last longer than perky boobs.

The thing is, Greg and I were good separately, but together we were toothpaste and orange juice.

Several weeks into our engagement, the lovely little diamond slipped off my finger in the shower, courtesy of my Vanilla Spice body wash. The ring slipped into the drain and hasn’t been seen since. For all I know, it’s been swept into the great sewers of Manhattan, and a rat is wearing it as a tiara. I was devastated at first, but then decided fate was giving me a sign. I didn’t want to marry a man who didn’t make me swoon, and so I called it off. Greg married someone else a year later and invited me to the wedding. He and his wife appear outrageously happy, so it worked out for all of us, not just the rat.

Since then, I’ve had some memorable dates and some not-so-memorable ones. I even went out with a guy from the local dog park who owned a Papillion and a Great Dane, a combination I found utterly delightful, so I stayed with him for four months. The problem is the dogs were so damn cute together that it took me three months and three weeks longer than it should have to realize the guy didn’t give me butterfly flutters—it was the pups causing the swoops and dives.

Like I said, the love portion of me is defective. I just don’t feel it. I do, however, feel gobs for my friends, my Ruby, my amazing mom, my pain-in-the-butt brother, and every single one of my callers and readers. That’s why I can do my show from a place of conviction.

As we round a bend, I say, “I’m just one of those girls who is better off going it alone. Maybe I’m too picky. Maybe I’m a hard-ass. Maybe I’m simply too cynical about love.”