DAY 18.

We’ve been force-fed happily ever after.

From the minute we could walk, it was instilled in us that our life goal would be to find the Prince Charming. We scrutinized our feet, hoping the glass slipper would fit. Our mothers bought us things that were pink. They hoped we’d grow up to be intensely feminine. We were to be the babies they’d pictured as they ran their fingers down the list of popular girl names for the year 1988.

We imagined the large castles, the chance meetings, the star-lit skies and a full moon, the roses. We wanted Disney. We wanted romance. We wanted it all.

We waited, when we were younger.

We’d sit on our porch steps and stare down the roads of our neighborhoods. With each passing car, we held our breaths that one would turn into a horse-drawn carriage. We imagined what he’d look like. Tall, definitely. A smile full of straight teeth. His hair would be sculpted just so. He’d save us from peril. We were old enough to believe that dragons wouldn’t be swooping down on us anytime soon. But there were other dangers. He’d save us from being the last one picked at dodge-ball. He’d share his extra pudding cup on the back of the bus.

Most of us haven’t found our Prince Charming now. Those fantastical notions have been rubbed away by reality. The dashing man in the suit and tie in our business class may not be what he seems. We don’t trust those bright smiles anymore. We won’t follow when our prince tries to drunkenly lead us up the stairs. No castle awaits us.

We’ve read all of the magazines that tell us how to reel in these imaginary men. Some of us cut out articles to keep for later. Tips for how to do our makeup. A bonus list of how to please our men in sixty-five different ways. But there are always sixty-five diferent ways to please him with every issue. We don’t know how to keep up. There is too much to remember. We’ve lost sight of Prince Charming.

We sit at home some nights, nursing our broken hearts. Our magazines lie scattered around the floor. We’ve tried to do what they’ve told us. They guarantee that happy ending. But the question is still not answered: when will our fairy-tale really begin?

DAY 06.

He has candles lit. It’s weird, but she goes with it. He’s made a fancy dinner. He says Grace before they eat, and takes her hand. She tries not to stare at him like he’s insane. She didn’t know he believed in God. She had no idea he believed in anything but sex and art and indie music. Sometimes, he’s full of surprises.

They eat in silence. The quiet is punctuated by his failed attempts at witty conversation. He asks about her day. She has no idea what to say.

He’s wearing a nice shirt. Her hands are sweating and she drops her fork. Her face burns. He pours her some more tonic water. She hates tonic water.

She begins to wonder if this is a date. There is an answer she is hoping for, but she knows that hoping with him usually gets her nowhere.

He doesn’t let her help him clean up. He plays her some guitar on his couch. He doesn’t sing so great but it doesn’t matter. He tries anyway. This is him showing off. The one way he knows how to connect is through music.

The first time she met him was all about music. They laid on her bed and listened to songs by bands she’d never heard of. He talked and talked her loneliness away. It was that easy.

They watch a movie in his room. She sits on the edge of his bed and tries to forget how many other girls have been here. His fingers stroke her hair every so often while Sleepy Hollow plays on his laptop.

She might throw up if he tries to kiss her. Not from not wanting to but from never having done so before. She’s wondered how it happens. How two people can just meet at the mouth in such an uncomplicated way. There are too many things to think about. Too many things that could go wrong.

All of this, whatever this really is, could just end in an instant. Poof, and it’s gone.

DAY 03.

We contemplated all of the wires, all of the parts. They came in a shiny plastic bag. That bag made us feel good. We could see everything inside. We knew what to expect. So unlike people, we thought. You could never see inside someone from the get go. Never knew what you were getting.

We read the instruction manual. Or maybe we skimmed it. People never came with instruction manuals. So unpredictable, human beings were.

We scoffed at the task ahead, as if we installed television sets all the time.

“This will be a piece of cake”, we thought. “We’ll finish just in time to tune in to “Hell’s Kitchen”. That Gordon Ramsay, he’s a pistol.” We scowled when we missed our eight-o-clock deadline.

“This is sure to be a snap”, we said with a positive attitude. We were obsessed with staying positive. It would be a dark day if the installation of our television sets was enough to send us into a depressive spiral. We took enough pills as it was. One for sleeping. One for weight control. One for staying focused.

We shook off those dark thoughts, put them in the backs of our minds. We were capable. We were intelligent. We were so self assured. So confident. Nothing would get us down.

We scratched our heads in thought. We kicked the television stand harder than we probably should’ve. Some of us ended up in the local physician’s office with stubbed toes. We took care not to kick the actual DVR box, because if that happened, well then we’d be really screwed.

Often, we pressed the power button on and off.

And then on again.

And then off again.

And then one more time on, because you never really know with these things.

Our technologically talented spouses swept us out of the way. They brushed us aside with a flick of their hands. They had read the instruction manual from cover to cover. They knew it inside and out.

“Leave this to the experts,” they said. Some of them got stubbed toes too.

Our smart friends who received computer science degrees came over to take a look. They’d only be a quick second. This whole problem, this headache, would be solved. With a pill. With a quick fix. With a remote control and a comfortable seating area. Except it wasn’t.

We ached from boredom. We tried reading our books. We subscribed to more magazines. We went jogging. We had sex. We went to lunch.

But what was there to talk about? How could we keep up with Brian from accounting at the water-cooler at work? His cheesy smile and gelled hair. That bastard. He could rattle off stats about “Lost” like no one’s business. He knew all the great conspiracy theories. We couldn’t add our input to the heated discussion of the final show of the series because we hadn’t seen it. Surely our jobs would suffer if we didn’t seem interested in our fellow co-workers, and the things they were invested in. We’d never beat out Brian for that promotion.

We were exhausted. Our toes were so sore. The couches weren’t nearly as comfortable as we had previously thought, so we upgraded to something leather. The kind that sank when we sat in it. The sex wasn’t that good. Our lunches became too expensive. We bought new running shoes. And then we called the cable guy.