Unwifeable(80)

“The first bite happened before he even arrived at my home,” I say. “Don’t you think with training he’ll get better?”

“He might,” she says. “But you’re putting your life and others at risk.”

But these two dogs are the only loving constants I have.

Everything reaches a boiling point when Sam bites a neighbor one day. I call multiple animal sanctuaries, and every person I talk to tells me the same thing.

“No one will be able to accept him,” they tell me. “I know it’s painful, but putting him down is the right thing to do.”

I still can’t hear the message, though. When I call my parents crying, it is my father who finally gets through to me.

“Sam wouldn’t want to be responsible for hurting someone,” he says. “You are protecting him, too.”

I call the vet and am told euthanasia costs $431. Crying and numb, I don’t think I can even afford doing what everyone is telling me to do. I go through my wallet and then my change drawer. I have $431 exactly. I call my dad one more time. I feel like I cannot keep putting off what so many people have told me is inevitable, even though it is the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. As I hold Sam close as the euthanasia is administered, he lets out one final breath, and I am devastated—unable to stop weeping.

“Think of the good times,” the vet tells me as I sit, inconsolable, paralyzed with sobs. “Think of the good times.”

I did not expect this level of obliteration.

When I return home, I feel out of my mind with grief. My other dog, Trip, senses my despair, and he regresses to the old behavior he exhibited before he was trained. He, too, seems miserable and alone, pining for his best friend. I cannot bear to see him so unhappy every day. After speaking to several friends who work with animals for a living, they suggest that rehoming Trip might be the best option. I speak to several potential families, and I find a beautiful one, with a little boy who has always dreamed of a spaniel. When I bring Trip over to see how he likes it, the difference is striking. Trip has a bigger space to run around in, a cat to play with, and a little boy who is his new best friend.

After I transfer Trip’s papers to the family, I am left sobbing once again.

This may be the responsible thing to do, but I’ve never felt so alone. Now I have nothing—except a job where I feel increasingly alone, too. I’ve come a long way, but something clearly needs to change.





chapter nine




* * *





The Guy


2015

After several years of xoJane, I am more burned out than I’ve ever been.

Yes, I’m very proud of a lot of what I do. But the workload of the website is 24/7, and when I write about my own life, everything feels phony and constructed now.

I try a few relationships on for size. I even go back to my old starfuckery ways with Donal Logue. Donal and I talk for hours while he drives cross-country on his trucking routes; he sends me videos of his remote cabin away from Hollywood; and when he’s in New York for TV, I help him run lines for his recurring role on Law & Order: SVU before he’s cast as a lead on Gotham. But he’s not relationship potential. Obviously. There’s a reason why they call it starfucking. No matter how much of a gentleman the person is, you are inherently making yourself small in the process.

Eventually, I just give up on dating.

I don’t want to be hurt, disillusioned, or alienated anymore. I spend most of my date nights counting down until I can come up with a fake reason to leave. One guy spends the whole evening complaining about how difficult it is dealing with these desperate New York women who are so eager to “trap” eligible guys like him.

“Especially the ones on OKC,” he confides to me over drinks. OKC? Wow. He must save so much time not having to say “upid.”

“Yeah,” I say, trying to get in the commiserating spirit. “Totally.”

I’ve long given up on the idea of getting married. I’m too old—I’ll turn forty near the end of the year—and the prospects out there are too vanilla to even see possibility.

I’m sick of crushed expectations, and I just can’t with the boring guys. I’d rather be one of those cool spinster New York ladies than feel like I am forced to spend night after night with someone who lacks a sense of humor or, even worse, thinks he has one—and doesn’t.

I realize that in order to have the one thing that makes me happy—authenticity and connection—that means I can no longer hide parts of myself from anyone.

I have a realization during this time that changes my outlook on love entirely.

I almost write it all up as an xoJane piece, but it feels too precious somehow. I want to nurture it just as I might that little person inside of me.

One day when I am walking to an AA meeting after a long day at xoJane, as I cross the street, I begin absentmindedly praying to one of the saints I’ve always felt most connected to in life: St. Anthony, who is known as the patron saint of lost things. As I pray, I ask the question silently to myself, again and again: Will I ever find my soul mate?

Because maybe, I think, my soul mate is just lost. Maybe that’s all it is. Maybe he just got bad directions.

By the time I reach Forty-Second Street and walk up the stairs to a run-down theater building in Midtown to make the 8 p.m. meeting, the answer to my question comes to me in a flash. I actually stop walking and laugh out loud.