plan c as others see him; and other miscellaneous bits before i leave for london

Thursday morning last week I was telling a writer friend about the End of Plan C, when suddenly I remembered something. I pointed at her and — struggling a moment for simple words — said, You met him!! You sat next to him!

My friend had been to the restaurant dinner after a presentation I gave last March in another state, when Plan C (still in the early heat of his passion for me, though, as I now understand with hindsight, nearing the end of it) drove down for the occasion.

That’s the one! I said in great excitement. That’s the one I was telling you about. You sat right next to him.

As she remembered, she began to smile, that she had actually brushed up against this quasi-fictional character.

So! I said. How would you describe him? What words would you use to characterize him?

She thought for a moment, and then said, slowly, choosing her words carefully, Well….he didn’t seem like you. He didn’t seem like the kind of person you would be with. I was surprised; I thought you must have been together for a long time.

But, I said (in great impatience), how would you describe him?

He looked as if he’d been around the block a few times, she finally said.

Does that mean ‘worldly’?

Yes.

And how else??

Not exactly ’smooth’, she continued. Not ’slick’. [long pause]. A little bit of an operator.
* * *

So there you have it.

Plan C in the words of a poet.

* * *

I’m leaving at the crack of dawn Thursday 2 October for London, a business trip with (of course) some fun mixed in. Part of the fun will be Sunday brunch and strolling with fellow-blogger Suzanne Portnoy, whom I’ve met in New York a couple of times.

My shrink RS (I now think he’s wonderful; the story of that reconciliation deserves its own post, which will come when I’m back stateside) wants me to meet someone on the plane. One of his other patients recently met a beloved on a transatlantic flight, and he wants me to, also.

Or if, as I’ve assured him, I’m seated next to a woman with body odour, or a noisy child, or a snorer of either sex, or some other person unsuitable for flirting, then he wants me to go to a particular museum cafe in London and put myself in the way of eligible men there.

Why would I want to meet someone in London? I asked him. What good would that do me? I don’t want a transatlantic commute.

We didn’t pursue that issue. He just wants me to flirt more and hang out in museums more, here in New York as well as in London, because I’ve told him that the internet dating wells are drying up, and he has assured me that museums are ‘great pick-up spots.’

* * *

Need I point out that he is not a strict Freudian?

* * *

Okay, so that means I’ll have to wear push-up bras (the one piece of advice I have accepted without argument from Rachel Greenwald) all the time, because who knows when I might meet some eligible man?

Nice hair, cleavage, make-up — god, it will take me forever to lead my life that way. Every time I go to Duane Reade for toilet paper I’ll have to look as if I’m meeting a man at the Plaza Athenee.

Well, as you must have noticed by now, I take almost all the advice people — smart people — give me, so I’ll take that advice. Not that I’ve ever, in my entire life, met a good prospect that way (on 31 December 1968 I met a man in a cheese store, but I ended that date early, before we went to his apartment; I believe I was unoriginal enough to claim I had a headache), but hey, I’m game. I’ll try.

* * *

After not having heard from Plan C by email for a week, because my responses to his messages last week always included his protestations of eternal devotion to me, uttered in February and cut-and-pasted into the email, I received a message today.

It read,

Mimi,

Have a good flight and a good trip and a good conference and a good talk and a good time in England.

Political things look promising. Hardly anything else in the news does.

I will think about you on the airplane.

Plan C

He sent it because he knows of my airplane-angst.

* * *

I didn’t answer it.

* * *

I think he slept with his new girlfriend this past weekend.

At least, that’s what my magic signals are telling me, my intuition, based on our telephone conversation last week.

I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to say in response, and I’m still angry enough to include quotations from his old romantic emails as the ’signature’ of my email, but it’s just not worth the trouble.

I would love to ruin his new romance, but I don’t know how to, so I’m just not writing.

* * *
And you know what?

I doubt if he’s suffering very much from my silence.

* * *

I’ll check in and post from internet cafes in London. I’m very sorry to be missing the high drama of the vice-presidential debate, but I’ll read about it and hear the sound-bites.

Cheerio!

UPDATE
1 October
I notice that Virgin Atlantic changed my seat.

Virgin Atlantic might be Cupid; or not.

UPDATE # 2
Push-up bras take up a lot more room in a suitcase.

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