How to Meet Cute Boys (23 page)

Filly’s
BENJAMINA FRANKLIN
channels Anthony Robbins and takes on the very scary role of self-help guru.

If men always did what we wanted, birds would sing, cherubs would serenade, and you’d never end up sitting across the dinner
table from some guy, wishing you’d worn waterproof mascara while he breaks up with you, in public, which he does so you can’t
cause a scene.

Such is life. We can’t change it. So the more important issue is: How exactly
did
you end up at that dinner table with the raccoon eyes? And who the hell
are
you anyway? What happened to the girl who was too busy to return most of her phone calls, kicking ass at work, and walking
into bars and having men fall at her feet? Where’s the J.Lo you? The Get-Your-Freak-On you?
That’s
the girl he was interested in, but she disappeared and in her place grew this monster of self-doubt and loathing.

You forgot that you have a full life
. That you have friends. Work responsibilities. Family. Pets. Hobbies. An interest in writing prose poetry and an unbridled
passion for growing avocados. Whatever. The point is, there were things that you enjoyed before you met
him
. After is a different story. You threw your life out the window and put him up on the fireplace mantel in your mind as the
most important thing in the world. And he, like the caveman that he is, lost interest.

The Full Life is a way around this phenomenon. But it’s not another cheery, bullshit mantra, nor is it the twelve steps to
relationship happiness. There’s no creepy group who can help you do it, and I promise I’m not gonna write a self-help book
about it. But the Full Life works. If you want to avoid the embarrassing trip to the public rest room, the one where you dash
from the dinner table and end up crying so hard that you distractedly plunk yourself down on a toilet without remembering
to cover it with a seat protector, you have to
full-life his ass
.

What is the Full Life? It’s the idea—no, the
complete and utter belief
—that with or without him you have everything you need. He can come to your party, sure. But the party goes on
whether he shows up or not
.

To do the Full Life, one must follow certain rules of empowerment. And no, these are not like “The Rules.” Those are all about
pleasing—and intriguing—him. No, the Full Life isn’t about him at all. It’s about you.

RULE #1: A full-lifer doesn’t leave holes in her schedule “just in case.”
So it’s Thursday, you haven’t heard from him. Do you make plans for Saturday night?
If you’re a full-lifer, you do
. And, just like when you’re training a dog, if you do this enough times, he’ll eventually learn that if he wants to see you,
he has to make an effort
in advance
.

RULE #2: A full-lifer knows how to take care of her own crises.
Sometimes when you’re getting to know a new guy, you tell him your problems. You share because you’re trying to establish
trust. But while this is the foundation of a good relationship, you might be doing it before you’re actually in one.

RULE #3: A full-lifer doesn’t commit to anyone until they’ve committed to her.
You don’t know where you stand, but you act like you do—turning down dates, avoiding eye contact.
Don’t do it!
You’ll end up with expectations that, if you’re honest with yourself, nobody told you to have in the first place.

RULE #4: A full-lifer isn’t instantly available.
Do you call everyone back the second they call you? Say you’re running out the door and the phone rings. Do you leap for
it? Stop the insanity. And finally …

RULE #5: A full-lifer is fabulous.
Whether you want to learn how to crochet a tablecloth or drive a fire truck for the local Red Cross, do it. Have the girls
over for manicures, take that physics class, flirt. Don’t change your life for him until you know he’s interested in being
a part of it.

A FULL-LIFER IS FABULOUS.

Don’t believe it? Here’s what the guys have to say:

Aaron, 28, physical therapist who was a full-lifer:
“Most of the time, I’m out with a girl and I’m saying all the nice things, but inside I’m thinking,
How long do I have to listen before I get to see her underpants?
Then I met Nina. She was interesting, and frankly, if she would ever call me back, I’d go out with her again in a second.”

Miles, 26, entertainment lawyer who talked to the hand:
“Yeah, when I met Jeanne in college I knew I was calling the shots. But then, it was weird. She moved to L.A., made new friends
… I think one time she actually told me I couldn’t take her to dinner because she had to scrub her calluses. I recently proposed.”

Gabriel, 30, actor:
“Are you still in touch with your friend Jen? Could you ask her to please, please,
please
give me a call sometime?”

Surely you get the point.

Your money-back guarantee:

Okay, there isn’t one. Life—especially when love is involved—doesn’t give guarantees. But the one thing the Full Life
can
promise is that if he ever takes you out to that terrible I’m-breaking-up-with-you dinner, at least you’ll already have something
to do the following Saturday night.

I was determined to get a full life if it killed me.

With Kiki’s help, I devised a kind of mental checklist—all the things I had to do before I ended up relationship roadkill.

First, I planned to make plans with all my friends in order to fill my schedule.

Second, I would line up a safety boy for an ego-boosting flirtation and—depending on how desperate my situation became—possible
physical contact.

Third, I had to repeat the following mantra to myself over and over: “I am not the hunter, I am the hunted.”

And fourth, I would project an image of careless self-sufficiency and a complete lack of neediness.

The first, second, and third seemed pretty easy.

The last was going to be a little harder.

I dialed the number. He said hello.

I said, “Well, hello there, you,” trying to sound as self-sufficient and un-needy as I probably did pre-Max.

“Who is this?”

“Duh. Ashton, it’s Ben.”

“Ben? Oh wow. Where you at?”

I explained that I was pulling into the parking lot at Fred Segal. I figured ringing my ex up after two months of no communication
could look desperate, so I called from my cell while in the midst of a motive-camouflaging activity.

“So Ash,” I said, “I only have a sec, but I’ve got this
stack
of Christmas party invitations and I wanted to know if you wanted to accompany me to—oh, hold on—”

Here I interrupted myself (always a good tactic) so I could exchange bastardized sign language with the parking attendant,
who was waving me toward a row filled with SUVs. I couldn’t see an open spot. Oh, there. I squeezed my car between a Ford
Explorer and a Lincoln Navigator.

“I’m back,” I said, turning down the radio.

Ashton said, “Which party?”

“Like it matters.” I laughed. “Hey, what about the New Line thing at White Lotus this Saturday?”

“This Saturday?”

“Yeah,
this
Saturday.”

“Uh … okay.”

“Don’t sound so excited. Hold on—”

Where the hell was my wallet? Oh, there.

“I’m back.”

“No, I’m excited,” Ashton said. “We just haven’t caught up in a while. I have a lot to tell you actually—”

“Right, but listen, I’m in a rush so just pick me up at nine. We can get some food first so we won’t get there too early.”

Ashton said something about how that should be fine.

“Great. I gotta split.”

Excellent,
I thought as I snapped my cell phone closed. I was now officially busy Friday night, when I had plans with Chandra, and Saturday
night, which I would spend flirting with Ashton. This would make it impossible for Max and me to do our weekend thing. That
evening I planned to casually mention my hectic schedule to Max while we were watching our movie like it was no big deal.
Take that!

Feeling fairly fabulous, I crossed the parking lot and paused briefly at the front-window display—a dummy in a white Chloe
suit with a mirrored ball where the head should have been. It was fitting. Ron Herman is more like a disco than a boutique.
A place where it’s as much about image and networking as fashion. I wasn’t surprised when I opened the door and got hit full
in the face with funk music blaring from hidden speakers. (Jamiroquai, naturally.)

I squinted my eyes against the track lighting and made my way inside, past a stylist balancing an armful of Katayone Adeli
cocktail dresses and her cell phone.

“Girl, where have you been?” Allegra said from her place of honor, just left of the cash register.

“In hell.” I slapped my credit card down on the counter. “But I’m back. I must find fabulous outfits immediately.”

“Seriously, you have to because we have the cutest stuff right now.” Allegra pocketed the card and took my elbow so she could
guide me through the store. A stylist in her spare time, Allegra had impeccable taste. I trusted her to pull things off the
racks while I tagged behind, every now and then adding one of my own choices to the growing pile. “So how’s the boy?” she
asked.