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I met him after a movie. It seems fitting now--a romantic comedy in which a man appears nice in one medium (e-mail) but is a jerk in the another (real life). In this case, said man is putting his love interest out of business, killing her little independent children's bookstore with discounts, better selection, and a bevy of stockholders. Go public, madam, and you might save yourself--and your store. (Advice I have never followed either--until now.)
In the end, of course, the two of them fall in love.
I was a sucker for it--the ending, the plot, the movie in general--as I usually am. I watched Meg Ryan in one of the last roles in which she counted for something, and I was jealous of that short boy-cut blonde hair. Precious? Cute? All these things could be me, I thought, I think, if only my name were Meg instead of Barbara. Instead, I rank somewhere past cute or somewhere below, depending on what standards you seek. Sexy. That's me. Sexy Barbara.
Now, of course, there are plenty of Barbaras out in the world, Barbaras who have much more to their name than sex. There's Barbara Bush (daughter and mother of one president, wife of another). Barbara Boxer, the California state senator. Barbara Tuchman, the historian. Barbara Michaels, the romance writer. Hanna Barbera, the cartoon company. Famous educated Barbaras abound, and none of them are Barbie. None of them are thought to be porcelain or plastic. They are real people, just--I insist--like me. But I am a Barbie. I am a Barbie because people make me into a Barbie, call me that against my will.
It started with my parents. It continued with those of you out there who are my friends. Try as I might to recast myself as Barbara--the name on my resume at each new job--I end up Barb, Babbs, Barbie. Is it my stunning personality or my glamour-girl good looks? I've never figured it out. I dye my hair brown and hope that people don't see a resemblance with my counterpart. It does no good.
That night, after You've Got Mail came to its pleasing but predictable conclusion, my thoughts, as I headed to my car, on Meg's hair, on life with an alternative name, on the New Year that was dropping down on Earth in eighty-three minutes and on how I was not party to that party, watching a movie sans boy, sans girlfriends, all by myself (yes, I know I'm being redundant), I was met with a depleted tire--an old balloon gone out and everyone else's merriment about to begin.
I won't pretend that as I dialed Triple A I didn't think about love awaiting me in the form of a beefy tow truck driver. In those days before Mr. Magnificent Disappointment walked into the story, I dreamed of such things all the time, around my life's every bend. I couldn't buy an egg without thinking that perhaps that man was awaiting me in the dairy aisle or the checkout lane. I couldn't buy gas without thinking that the next car pulling up to the pump could include that man in the driver's seat. I couldn't call in an order for pizza without thinking that perhaps the delivery guy would turn out to be an engineer moonlighting to pay for that trip to the ruins of Macchu Pichu that he'd invite me on in two months. That these things always surrounded money wasn't by accident, I suppose. Mr. Magnificent was a commodity like any other--only he wasn't on sale at the local Toys R Us. He was pay-on-delivery only, and when exactly that shipment would arrive was anybody's call.
My shipment, I thought, arrived that night.
It arrived in the form, not of a tow-truck driver, but of another lone soul in the parking lot on a holiday eve.
"Got problems?" he asked.
Problems? Boy, did I have problems. I wouldn't have known where to begin.
I need to describe him for you, I suppose, those of you who don't know me. Those of you who do know me--who have known me for any time over the last eight years--of course already know him. We were inseparable. The others of you, the ones who don't know me, won't believe it. He was blue eyed, tan, and loaded with muscles. His hair was wavy and blond. And he wore--that's right--a Polo shirt, pink. He was the kind of man who could wear pink. And his teeth were so white--that smile plastered on at every occasion. It seemed unnatural and right at the same time.
I looked at my tire. He looked at it, too, and then I opened up the trunk for him, and he took what he needed to fix me up. Afterward, he asked me for my name, and I asked for his, and then he asked me on a date. I said yes. I couldn't not say yes.
His name, by the way--this is the part you won't believe, those of you who don't know me--was Ken.
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