Unwifeable(51)

That will never go away, I realize, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve already given up the column. I’ve broached the idea of breaking up with him several times when he expressed doubts. And now here we are in San Diego with my family, and I see that all of that is fairly worthless.



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IN ALL OF my stories for the Post, I cover dating and relationships so much that sometimes it feels impossible to not let them worm their way into my head—and stay there permanently.

That’s the case with Sherry Argov’s opus Why Men Marry Bitches. I hold on to the book, and the longer Blaine and I date, the more I find myself consulting its pages, wondering if there might be something to the advice.

One day, I find myself greedily flipping through the manual, perusing sections about the importance of interjecting the word fun into conversation as much as possible (a man’s “favorite word”!), how bitch stands for “Babe in Total Control of Herself,” when suddenly the headline of chapter 8 catches my eye: “From ‘I Might’ to ‘I Do’: How to Have the Delicate Conversations About Engagement and Marriage.”

Whoa! Holy crap. Now this is exactly what I need. I just didn’t have the right speech and talking points! That’s all it’s been this whole time. Above all else, the book advises, if engagement is your goal and it doesn’t seem to be happening, you best make yourself scarce to your significant other when you’re wanting him to pop the question.

When I finally gather the courage to try to casually drop some amalgam of all this advice on Blaine, I review my notes, and my spiel comes out like, “I’m having so much fun. You’re so much fun. I love that about you. How fun you are. I don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for, but we might want different things. I’m having a really fun time, and I mean, I’ll be fine no matter what, but I want you to be honest with yourself about where you see this going.”

I consult the book later after I’ve given my super-casual speech and see this warning: “A strong woman does not hint about marriage or ask, ‘Where is this going?’ Instead, she hints about the removal of herself from the relationship. The word marriage never even comes up.”

Oh, well, fuck it all to hell. At least I didn’t use the word marriage specifically. And quadruple points to me for using “fun” four times. Men just love fun.

Blaine’s reaction to all of this is to clear out a drawer in his giant loft where I can put three to four dresses and a few pairs of underwear. I’m elated, to the moon, until I tell my mom, who can’t stop herself from being sarcastic.

“Wow,” she says. “A whole drawer.”

Oh, right. A drawer.

On Valentine’s Day, I disregard the rules of the book entirely, and I just straight-up ask him, “Are you going to ask me to marry you?”

“Thinking about it,” Blaine says.

I hear his words, I know what he means, and I don’t like it. He’s not even doing anything wrong. I am the one at fault for staying in this fucking thing. The problem is the power dynamic I’ve set up: He’s not trying to prove himself to me. He’s deciding if I’m good enough for him. Because, let’s be honest, I don’t think I’m good enough for him. Otherwise, I would have left long ago.



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NOW, IF YOU’VE cringed at things I’ve written so far in this book, prepare to have a full-on heart attack as you read the final plea I send Blaine suggesting he both launch a lifestyle brand based on the “Super Preppy” moniker I gave him in my dating column—and propose to me.

Yes, you read that right. I hold myself in such low regard that I think that I need to show him what an amazing limited-time offer I’m selling and to prove, once and for all, why I am indeed so wifeable. Because it can’t just be that he loves me. No, I’m far too practical for that.

In fact, the two things are so completely intertwined in my mind, I can’t even distinguish between where my relationship begins and my ambitious career striverism and potential to be a marketing “value add” ends.

The subject line to my email is a forward: “Fw: Superpreppy.com—Protect your brand today.”

Because I have—wait for it—actually registered for him “superpreppy.com”—as some weird ultimatumish-y present. The idea is that since he is getting more into entrepreneurship, I suggest he can spin off a lifestyle brand based on the Post column name.

My email to him reads like the perfect sludgy storm of soul-dead, car-salesman-like career opportunism and my worst romantic hardball bottom-lining tendencies. It’s enough to make you want to stab your eyes out via pure mortification by proxy.

Hi Blaine. This is an email that you are welcome to discard—but I had a realization tonight as I was whining to a friend about, “I just feel like it’s now or never with Blaine . . .” and she was mostly quiet and said nothing, and then she said, “It’s funny—because you guys are so sophisticated, but then in this way you are so typically male and female.”

Maybe that’s when it hit me. Is that I’m 33, and you are 39, and as much as romance is fun and stewing is fun and pining is fun and the titillation of will you/won’t you is fun, I’m over it. I thrive when I have forward movement. And right now, I don’t feel any. You are adorable for cleaning out that drawer. This email is a lot more than that drawer.