Men suck. You should get one.

“Isn’t it nice when you don’t have to worry about men,” my mother said, head thrown back, lounging in my sister’s hot tub, bubbles catching on her gold hoop earrings.

By men, she means my father. He’s been sick for 30 years, since his first heart attack at 41. Five years after that, he had a stroke. He was diagnosed with diabetes when I was six, and now is missing three toes. (“Look at all I’ve been through,” my father likes to say. “And I’ve only lost three toes.”)

Mom spends most of her time taking care of him. She, on the other hand, is a hearty 72 who dyes her hair bright red. She recently added blond streaks. Last year, she had an eye job. She looks good.

Suddenly, she lifts her head and looks at me.

“Have you met anyone in D.C.?”

I ignore the question. She's asked it a bazillion times before, and she's never happy with the answer.

We’ve gathered for a girls’ weekend at my sister’s house.  Four sisters, two nieces, three family friends, and my mom are here. No one is allowed to bring a man.

We are all hanging out in bathing suits around my sister’s pool. Everyone has a cocktail, a pointed party hat, and a lot on her mind.

“It is so nice to be away,” said my sister Tammie.

I ask her about her husband and she rolls her eyes.

Tammie’s husband is 49. He’s had two hips replaced. They’ve been struggling financially after an injury in May kept him off the job. He complains of random dizzy spells. He’s refusing to cut his hair and has started wearing it in a limp, greasy, grey ponytail.  Sometimes he uses a walker with tennis balls on the feet. He has sleep apnea and has to wear a breathing machine to bed. And he’s not nearly as sexy as the previous sentences would lead you to believe.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.”

“How are you?” she asks.

I tell her.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re getting your teaching degree and stuff.”

I do not correct her. There are eight children in my family – which is blessing and a curse. On one hand, no one ever pays attention to what you are doing with your life. But on the other hand, no one ever pays attention to what you are doing with your life.

And then, there it is.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

I let the question hang in the air.

I can’t decide if my family is so concerned about my love life because they are tired of watching me loll about in selfish splendor while they remain chained to husbands who break down like so many 1972 Pintos. Or if they think of my singlehood as a wretched deformity -- as if I’m some patchy-haired product of inbreeding who lives in a dark attic and talks to myself in a secret language.

But I do know one thing -- I've never had to enact a no man rule. Men are always welcome on my side of the hot tub.   

My BFF (Best Former Fiance) and advice from other old beaus

"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them."
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

“You know what this is like,” said my friend Brandon. “This is like at the end of the Big Lebowski when...”

I cut him off.

“Are you about to compare me to The Dude?”

“Yeah, I’m going to compare you to The Dude.”

I recommend seeing yourself through the eyes of an ex-boyfriend at least once. It’s one of those fascinating, hideous things – like slowing down at the scene of a crash or smelling a gallon of milk that went bad last week.

For example, the bloated, stoned Jeff Bridges is not exactly what I imagined when I fantasized about my former loves fantasizing about me. I pictured them thinking of me 20 pounds lighter, my boobs two sizes larger, experiencing a great hair day, tendrils of curls blowing about my face as I slowly drift out of site – wearing something so fabulous I could never afford it.

For reasons that indicate the universe is indeed a mysterious place – I find myself these days having regular conversations with three former beaus – Sam, my very first serious boyfriend, Jack, a man who could never commit until I was gone, and Brandon, a former fiancé that, despite some irreconcilable differences that made our break up a very wise decision, remains the gold standard in humanity.

It’s with my best former fiancé (my BFF!) that I am sitting in a Ruby Tuesday having lunch. Brandon likes the all you can eat fries. Between bites he rattles off the different online dating sites he wants me to be on – he’s increasingly interested in me dating, ever since his recent engagement to a woman who seems, frankly, perfect for him.

“You got to get out there Kells.”

Yes, I know. And I would be. Except out there is so much like being in the middle of the sea, casting about in the waves, clinging to one of those doughnut-shaped life preservers. If you’re a stickler for detail – you can imagine the word Titanic printed across it. I do.

“But you have to remember, men are very superficial. You have to clean yourself up a bit.”

WHAT THE GODDAMN WHAT?

It’s not that Brandon didn’t have a point. I woke up late for lunch and hey, because it’s just Brandon, my hair was still wet from my shower, I didn’t bother with make-up, and I decided to wear the same tank top I’d slept in because, hey, how dirty could it be? It was not my finest hour, I know. But still. Ow, motherfucker.

Later, I relayed the above conversation to my friend Jack.  Jack could never decide if he loved me until I had enough and jammed. Since then, he’s loved me desperately.  He seemed to be listening patiently, and I waited for him to tell me that Brandon is crazy – that men actually prefer a scruffy-looking woman. I mean – think of the self-confidence I’m rocking.

“You’re the kind of woman who would shorten a man’s life,” Jack said.

“WHAT!” I shouted.

In the ten years since our relationship ended, Jack has tried to convince me I broke his heart. But he is the one who broke up with me. He is the one who said, “I want time to meet more women on the Internet.”  He added that part, “on the Internet.” We remain friends because, despite everything, we can still tell each other everything. He tells me about the (often married) women he’s dating and I tell him to knock that shit off.  

“I’m really glad we’re friends again,” wrote my friend Sam, just today.

He re-emerged this summer after a 20-year absence. He was my first, real, high school boyfriend and he broke up with me for a 23-year-old woman who he later married. So, yeah, that smarted. But now that I’ve seen how things played out – and I see the kind of life he wanted, the kind of life he chose, I know we were never meant to be. That’s the beauty of time.

But what I most like about Sam – that I don’t remember from way back when – is his candor. When I was on an emotional roller coaster ride with a thrice-divorced narcissist my girlfriends told me to “give it time” or “just wait, he’ll come around.” Not Sam. When I sent him an 11-page dissertation detailing my ups and downs with the guy -- everything from first hello to last text message Sam said, “Guy sounds crazy. Don’t date the insane.”

You have to admire advice so captivatingly simple.  

When I was young I thought the heart was like a bunker without windows, with only room for one, plus me. I thought it was a secluded place – and maybe because, back then, it was.

Now I think of my heart more like a dinner table – a big, rustic butcher block with wildflowers in the middle. There is room for everyone – but still space left for the one special person at my elbow.

For better or for worse; and in support of same sex marriage

I am seduced by the gamble of free parking. I could buy a parking permit. But this way, each day, I have the opportunity for victory.   

My favorite free parking spot is alongside a nursing home, not too far from campus. On the days when I leave before dark, I see a man standing beside a woman who is seated in a wheelchair. She is cocooned in stark-white blankets and bandages – so just the grey of her face shows. They both look off into the horizon – her blue eyes empty vessels, his weighty with sadness. Her hands are buried beneath her blanket; his are fists inside his pockets. They do not look at each other, they do not speak.

I believe they are married.

I often wonder when people say those words, “for better or for worse,” if they think about the worse – if they realize the worse will breeze in one day – like the wealthy Shylock coming for his pound of flesh.   

The woman wears the same expression my grandmother wore in those last years. My grandmother’s eyes were vacant pools – seated at the bedside of a dying husband she no longer knew. I remember my grandparents seeming all at once alone and united – she is her world, he, clinging to the edge of ours. Sixty years before they had made a promise to each other, and against all odds, against all oddities – they remained together. Family chosen. Wed.

It’s this bond that is inspiring, breathtaking and horrifying -- to no longer know the face of the father of your children – and yet to feel the gravitational pull to his bedside – and to refuse to go anywhere else.

The desire to pick our mate – to choose a tribe, burns deep at the center of us, somewhere between belly-button and spine. It’s more than desire, though, isn’t it? It’s instinct. It’s the compass that tells us to find a partner, build a home, raise a family and stand as one with the people we love – caring for them when they are ill, standing watch when they lie down to die.

This is why I believe same sex marriage should be legal.

To deny someone something so basic, to me, seems far more against nature than having sex with someone of the same gender. To not legalize such a partnership is not only unjust, but inhumane.

I have yet to hear an argument against same sex marriage that makes sense to me.

The Family Research Council reports that gay couples, especially men, could not be faithful to one another – and that the raging gay libido would “undercut the norm of sexual fidelity within marriage.” Meanwhile, there are statistics floating around out there that say 50 percent of heterosexual women and 60 percent of heterosexual men will have extramarital affairs.

The Council also says that same sex marriages “isolate marriage from its procreative purpose.” But aren’t we living in an age where people procreate outside of marriage? In fact, don’t people sometimes procreate outside of relationships? And if this is the case, wouldn’t some of these children need homes? And aren’t there same sex couples who would love to raise these children? Doesn’t that kind of look like an everybody wins situation?

In addition, the Council said that marriages “thrive when spouses specialize in gender-typical roles.” Which makes me wonder – what’s gender typical anymore? My parents have been married 40 years and my dad was a stay at home dad. I know another guy, married 20 years, who does all the cooking.  I have a woman friend, married 25 years, who prefers mowing the lawn to cooking. And look at Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, prettiest little girl in the world – can’t get her out of a three-piece suit.

Meanwhile, heterosexual couples do not seem to be doing as well as the Family Research Council would like to believe. The latest statistics show 53 percent of marriages end in divorce – and 41 percent of those end because of infidelity.

Frankly, these figures do not surprise me.

It’s not easy to love someone. It requires time you do not have. It requires patience you do not have. It requires a commitment that will have to last long after you’ve forgotten why you made it.

Gay or straight, isn’t marriage a daily gamble – sort of like my parking game? Every day is an opportunity for victory.

I think of that woman in the wheelchair, and I wonder what would happen to her if she had been denied her partner. I wonder who would take her out, in her bandages and blankets, to gaze at the sky.