There's a song from Gentleman Prefer Blondes that's called 'When Love Goes Wrong.' The first line of the song is: 'When love goes wrong, nothing goes right, this one thing I know.'
For years, I believed those lyrics to be true. But recently I discovered that even when love goes wrong, some things can go very right, indeed. You just have to bide your time.
Let's travel back 10 years to the summer of 1997. I was infatuated with an impossible woman who was jerking me around like you wouldn't believe. She would molest me in public places one day and then casually mention that she was in love with another woman the next.
I was besotted and was a slave to her every whim. When she called, I dropped everything and ran to her. When she didn't call, I stared at the silent phone for hours, trying not to hyperventilate. I even started playing golf because that's how she liked to spend her free time ( when she wasn't whiling away the hours taking a sledgehammer to my self-esteem. )
What I didn't realize was that the only reason she played golf was because the other woman—the one she was in love with—loved golf. So, I was playing because I was in love with her, and she was playing because she was in love with someone else. If you've ever wondered why anyone ever takes up the ridiculous sport, this is why.
Naturally, I was curious to catch a glimpse of the other woman, which wasn't hard to do since we were lesbians and by definition incestuous. We all played in the same golf league, which guaranteed that the three of us would share the same acreage—and countless awkward moments—every Saturday morning.
The other woman was tall, stocky and had a head of badly permed hair. She looked like a stalk of broccoli. Her clothes were always perfectly pressed. ( Side note: people who do not allow themselves to get rumpled are usually hopeless in bed. ) She had no sense of humor and possessed none of my raw, animal charm.
And yet—and yet!—my love interest chose her over me.
As you might imagine, this put me in a sulk for several years. I was tormented about how could she have picked the other woman over me. What did she have that I didn't?
Let's flash forward to this year. I'm on a golf course waiting to tee off with two friends. ( Yes, I continued to play the stupid game even after the relationship ended. ) Just as I'm about to hit the ball, a woman joins our group. It's the other woman. She of the vegetable-shaped body and no humor. Her relationship with my former love interest ended on a disastrous note only a few weeks after it began ( Woo Hoo! ) , but I'm still curious to discover what the attraction was, so I study her as we make our way around the course.
Talk turns to the British Open, which begins that day. I would rather gouge out my own eyes than watch professional golf, but just to make conversation, I ask whether the British Open is being played on a course in Scotland.
The other woman glares at me and says, 'Why would it be in Scotland? It's the British Open.'
I stare at her in silence before responding. I want to relish the moment. I finally have discovered what she has that I don't, or, rather, what she doesn't have that I do. Namely, a brain.
'Because,' I say, gracefully pulling into my backswing, 'Scotland is part of Britain.'
Hey! I wrote a novel! It's called Dateland. You can buy it at Unabridged Books and on Amazon.
