Steamed

your dates know what you mean by that.” Elise and Teddy laughed their way back to her place and spent the night giggling about Miss Editor and how lucky they were to have found each other.
    Teddy and Elise are now married and domestically settled in a suburb of Chicago. I hate Elise.
    But it still seemed so unromantic to me, the notion of people speeding to present themselves to one another and then racing to evaluate amorous possibilities on the basis of minimal profile information—not at all the way I pictured meeting my future spouse. I was sure that if I tried this increasingly popular method, either I’d end up talking to a bunch of dopes who were dying for my number, or I’d spend the evening swooning over men so far out of my league that I’d leave feeling inadequate and depressed. Just because Elise and Heather had found great matches through contemporary means didn’t mean I was cut out for it.
    I stood peering into the fridge in the hope of finding comfort food. Perhaps there was something to be said for taking control of one’s love life, I thought. I mean, meeting a man in some random place like the supermarket or a bar didn’t necessarily mean that fate had somehow planned the encounter and didn’t guarantee that you and the guy would be even vaguely compatible. Television and movies had tainted my perspective on how couples can actually meet; my fairy-tale idea of romance was the result of too many hours of seeing actors, beautified by makeup artists, stylists, and personal trainers, collide with destiny, which had been equally beautified by set designers, lighting experts, and production crews. Lies, lies, lies! Besides, hadn’t I just dated the ultimate caricature of big-screen sex appeal and charisma, Noah? And look where that had gotten me. Well, speed dating was out. But I did contemplate Heather’s Back Bay Dates. A rational, logical approach was what I needed.
     

THREE
     
    BY six o’clock that evening I had finished the first coat of Oops paint in the living room. Each wall was a different neutral, earthy tone. I’d cleaned up some of the clutter but had left the furniture in the middle of the floor. Although peace and calm had yet to fill the space, I’d done enough for one day. I’d been listening for signs of Noah downstairs. Except for some blasting of Jimmy Buffet, I hadn’t heard anything. It was a miserable feeling, both yearning for and hating him.
    I warmed up my favorite junk food for dinner, a frozen puff-pastry pie filled with spinach and feta, and took a huge slice to my bedroom. I positioned myself cozily in bed and ate my million-calorie dinner while I watched a rerun marathon of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Except for the homosexual thing, that Kyan would make a wonderful boyfriend. I almost cried as he gently and sensitively convinced a straight man to remove his horrendous toupee and reveal his bald head to his family. Even when the cast returned for their second season with terrible new hairdos, I forgave them because they had accomplished their mission of correcting the wrongs, fashion and otherwise, of straight men everywhere.
    I’d have given my entire supply of beautifying lotions and potions to have had the forethought to stock my fridge with pastries from the North End. The only other cheer-up food : I had were some chocolate-covered Oreos, which, although not Italian delicacies, did momentarily take the edge off my heartache. By ten o’clock, when another newly made-over straight guy had shared his new look with family and friends, I was exhausted. I shut the television off, lay down to go to sleep, and promptly developed a horrible case of insomnia.
    I’d gone through bouts of it before. It used to afflict me almost every Sunday before school or work. I’d be awake until four or five in the morning, tossing with nerves and anxiety, sweating, and crying from exhaustion. I’d count the few hours I had left to sleep and worry about how I’d function the next day. Tonight, my mind raced with the fear that I’d live the rest of my life in my zany-colored condo above Noah, alone with my socially challenged cat and an unreliable coffeemaker.
    My heart started pounding, and I grew more and more frustrated with myself. Why couldn’t I sleep? Anxiety flooded my brain, memories of mistakes I’d made and fears of mistakes I would undoubtedly make. I remembered the embarrassment I’d felt at the age of seven when my mother had caught me stealing a