A Little Change of Face

“Not really. They ask you out because you’re bright and you’re beautiful and you’re funny and you’re available. They may be men, but they’re not totally stupid.”

“But you think they’re all scared of me?”

“Yup.”

Nice and scary; scary and nice—what a combination.

But, I wondered now, how many men would ask me out if this face and body—this Put-Me-in-the-Zoo face and body—was always the first thing they saw upon meeting me?

Naturally, my local friends—Pam, T.B. and Delta—all of whom had been smart enough to have chicken pox when they were kids, offered to come over, to bring me things, to keep me company.

But I declined.

At first, I declined because the pain was too intense; it was all I could think about. But as the third day of confinement turned into the fourth, and the pain began to abate somewhat—and even thoughts of Sarah, as both agent of and imagined companion in my misery, had receded—I realized that I just really did not want the world to see me this way. If it meant eating packets of ramen noodles three meals a day, which was pretty much all that was left in the house, so be it. I had on my giant T-shirt from my UCONN days—big enough that it barely touched any skin when I was standing—and I had my remote control for the TV. I ask you, what else did I need?

Of course, being a librarian, having spent my entire life in books really, I wasn’t much for TV. But when you get that sick…and then you get that depressed…it’s a whole new ball game.

Pam, T.B. and Delta always spent part of the time we were all together rehashing whatever the hot programs were on TV. For three attorneys, they sure watched a lot of what I thought of as junky TV. Didn’t anyone else read anymore? And they particularly loved reality shows. They’d been following Real World ever since it was launched and were constantly mentioning shows with words like temptation and fear in the titles. Fear and desire seemed to be the great motivating factors of these programs; love and death lay behind everything.

I clicked through the channels, clicking past comedies (not funny enough), dramas (I didn’t have the concentration) and political talk shows (who cared what was going on with the world? I was sick!).

Click, click, click.

I thought about looking for a legal show. I’d always liked legal shows, especially when I was younger. It seemed like, back then, the shows were reinventing the justice system so that things were as they ought to be, rather than how they were: common sense prevailed over racism and last-minute stays of execution were granted just in time. But lately I’d noticed TV had grown more cynical, and the legal shows, rather than restoring order to the universe, portrayed a hellishly topsy-turvy world in which the guilty always walked on a technicality and the innocent fried.

Click, click, click.

Then, all of a sudden, my screen was filled with…plastic surgery?

But I was fascinated. For a whole hour I watched as three people, none of whom I thought ugly but I was sure the world had called each just that at one point or another, were nipped, tucked, reconstructed, cut and dyed—you name it—until they’d each undergone an Extreme Makeover, intended to change their lives forever.

Well, they certainly looked better.

If not exactly swans now, they no longer had the residue of facial or body features that had no doubt earned them all kinds of insults as children and probably even as adults. At the end of the show, they were all dressed in great clothes—they’d received wardrobe makeovers, too—and were now ready to embark on their new lives.

I wondered, sitting there with my spots, which had finally stopped spreading and were finally starting to ease up a bit in terms of the anger of their appearance, if their lives would really be changed. I mean, they had to change, right? But would those changes all be good changes?

Reality shows hadn’t been around for that long and I began to wonder if anyone had done any kind of follow-up studies on this sort of thing yet. Were people really happy afterward? I knew that they’d done many studies with lottery winners, all showing that, in general, becoming wealthy did not make people’s lives better; in fact, it often made their lives worse.

Well, I sighed, clicking off the TV and praying for sleep, not to mention praying that I’d wake to a face more recognizable than the one I’d wakened to that morning, being one of life’s sort-of swans had not made my life better, not if the definition of better was some kind of lasting romantic love….

7

As I said, one of the things about being home sick for an extended period of time is that it gives you the chance to ponder the little things in life, like, say, how I had come to be thirty-nine and was still seriously unattached. After all, even if I wasn’t overly concerned with getting married, it still didn’t mean I wanted to be alone forever.

Maybe, I was beginning to think, it had been my career choices?

If you want to meet good-looking men, don’t expect to do it in a library or a bookstore. Trust me on this: it only happens in movies, that two cinematically perfect human beings fall in love over the dusty stacks while doing research on the mating rites of the South African tree frog or bump lattes at the local chain. Real life in a library looks more like this:

Regard Mr. Weinerman, if you will, please (I know you might not want to, but you kind of have to, since this is my story): Mr. Weinerman is your prototypical library patron. He is here every day. He sits at the same chair at the same table every day. He sits there and he reads all day long—newspapers, magazines, books—and he only moves to either (a) go outside to smoke a cigarette; (b) go to the bathroom for twenty minutes at a clip (you can hear him eating his lunch and snacks in there, among other things you can hear that you’d rather you couldn’t [the acoustics in this building suck]); (c) read things on his favorite computer terminal (he intimidates other patrons into moving whenever he wants to sit there).

Mr. Weinerman is omnipresent in my library life. He is here waiting when we open in the morning, he is the last to leave before the staff at night, he has a complete nervous breakdown if we have to close because of a severe snowstorm or power outage. He is omnipresent and he is perhaps the single most physically hideous human being that I have ever set eyes on in my life.

Not that looks matter, mind you, but does he have to take every poor building block that he started out with in life and then make what looks like a conscious effort to exaggerate every hideous feature to its worst extreme?

He is just so…rubbery is really the only word for it. He is the kind of person that when asked a question that necessitates your taking a library material and passing it on to him, you dread that his hand might glance against yours and that you would actually be forced into social contact with that very antisocial-looking hand, that hand that looks like it only ever gets social with its owner, and in places I didn’t like to think about.

Granted, every library patron didn’t look like Mr. Weinerman, but the whole lot were a far cry from anything half-way good, and believe me: every library does have its Mr. Weinerman.

And bookstores are the same. I know that for a fact, because I worked in one before I got my MLS. The sighting of a decent-looking man in a bookstore is so rare that the few times one passed through, I was dumbstruck. Oh, sure, I saw plenty of great-looking men whenever I went to the bar or the beach or even Super Stop & Shop, but almost never in the bookstore. When it did happen, it made me feel like I was the lone gas station attendant at the only stop within a hundred-mile radius in Nebraska on a hot July day when there comes Brendan Fraser pulling up in a Jag, looking for a full tank of octane, a Vanilla Coke and a tube of Rolos. Really, it felt exactly like that.

Now, then: If you ask me why you never see good-looking guys in these places, what do you think I’ll say—that hunks don’t read? That they’re too stupid? That they’d rather watch it on the video? That they’re too busy getting fucked?

Nah.

I think the real reason is that they all have good-looking girlfriends, that they have these good-looking girlfriends fully trained in what their own tastes in reading material are (as well as exactly how they like their blow jobs, standing or sitting or on the hood of a Jag in the middle of the Nebraska desert while drinking a Vanilla Coke), and they send their girlfriend minions out to do their book-shopping for them, so that they don’t have to undergo the bug-under-the-microscope discomfort of having the desperate women working in the libraries/bookstores across the land ogle them.

Just so you know: You do see an awful lot of good-looking women in libraries/bookstores.

Too bad I’d never been interested in women in that way.

Over the years, when people asked me why I was a librarian, they always said I should be a writer instead—not because I had any talent that anyone knew of, but because I loved books so much. And I’d tried. In secret. Oh, how I’d tried. But I was just no good at it. Like a music lover with no ear, I was doomed to listen and never play.

8

Now for the eternal question, the one that has been tormenting humans down through the ages:

How is a woman like a green M&M?

(I’ll bet you can tell I was starting to feel better.)

I’d always claimed that the green M&M’s were the best in the bag—the precise order, before they started adding new colors, going green, yellow, orange, brown, blue, red—a claim for which I’d encountered many detractors.

My mother: “It’s just different-colored dye, you can’t taste dye.”

Best Girlfriend: “Okay, I can see where there might be a discernible difference between green and red, since they really are so far apart. But green, yellow and orange? Uh-uh. Too close to call. In a blind taste test you’d never do more than equal the statistical probability of naming them by chance.” (She was right, but it was fun, since we were very drunk.)

Pam: “They all taste exactly alike, for chrissakes—just eat the damn things!”

Despite the reluctance on the part of the world to adopt my candy-theorizing, I’d felt heartened when, in a getting-to-know-you campaign by Mars, Inc., little pieces of informative cardboard began accompanying officially licensed products, in this case a giant plush toy (don’t ask). My favorite, of course, was the one that read, “Read About Green: Green is quick-witted and intelligent; she says it like it is. She knows she’s attractive, so she’s flirty, but not in a tacky way. While feminine, she keeps up with the boys; finds the rest of the gang a bit childish. She knows how to handle trouble. She will get what she wants.”

That, in a candy-coated shell, was me.

I was all of those things and—except on days when I was PMS-ing and was therefore less—more. Okay, except for maybe the very last sentence, but I was hoping that, in the fullness of time, that might prove true, too.

Just like Cathy once proclaimed, “I am Heathcliff, and he is me,” I am a green M&M. Further, as far as I’m concerned, the fact that I’m a green M&M has pretty much well explained for me the reason why getting dates has never been a problem.

Pam, on the other hand, has always viewed the matter quite differently.