Page 4 of Delayed Intention

Sunday Night Is Date Night

Richard, my date, isn’t looking at me as he reads over the menu. He hasn’t so much as glanced my way since we met at the front of the restaurant. In fairness, there isn’t much to see.

Clearing his throat, he closes his menu, setting it down in front of him. “So, the thing is, Lily, I don’t think this is going to work out.”

This may be a new record for me. I’ve only had two sips of the water on the table. We haven’t even ordered drinks yet.

He folds his hands in front of him. “I just don’t see the point.”

Me neither.

He glances at the time on his phone, which is a bit rude, but the fact that he’s in a hurry to get this over with suits me just fine—there’s no reason to pretend to be offended.

When we make brief eye contact, he looks sheepish as if it had occurred to him to be embarrassed about his obvious desire to wrap this up.

But he shouldn’t feel bad. He’s just correctly reading my I-hate-everything-about-this vibe.

As far as I’m concerned, I can let him off the hook.

I mean, I showed up with a messy bun, a sweatshirt, and the longest jean skirt in my closet. I was not dressing to impress.

“Hey,” I offer a smile. “Don’t worry about it—I understand.”

I really do, and I’m willing to go the extra mile to demonstrate there are no hard feelings.

“Richard, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go ahead and go. Is that okay?”

At first, he looks as if he’s going to ask me if this is a trick question. Then, my smile seems to win him over. He looks like he sees me for the first time tonight.

“Sure, Lily. That’d be just fine.”

We say our goodbyes, and I walk over from the dining room to the bar, feeling my shoulders relax down from my ears with each step. As I ease onto a stool and order a glass of white wine, the bartender nods at me in recognition since I’m here every week.

Years ago, when my mother decided I’d go on these weekly dates, I would make an effort.

I would get dressed up and try to hide my anxiety, but my heart was never in it.

I was awkward and fearful, and it showed.

I could tell there was always something about me that put men off.

They weren’t interested in making a life with me.

It was unbearable because no matter what I tried, I seemed to say the wrong thing, and I just couldn’t connect with anyone.

The few times I had any physical contact with a date, I realized no matter how attractive they were, I froze due to my stupid aversion to being touched.

That put an end to it for me. I stopped trying because what’s the point?

I’d never be a good wife or partner. I’m damaged beyond use.

These days, I know better and keep my expectations tempered.

I arrive on these dates without putting much effort into my appearance, dressing more for my comfort.

At one point, I was coming right out and explaining that I was there for my mother’s sake and that I don’t like physical contact with the opposite sex.

But this got back to my mom, and the guilt she threw my way wasn’t worth it.

That put an end to being upfront. So now I just deal in innuendo, and if I get the sense that they don’t want to be there either, we can part on mutually good terms without wasting our time.

At this point, I understand this truth about myself—I don’t want to be with anyone.

More than anything, I wish I didn’t have these weekly reminders that I’m not cut out for a happily ever after.

Unfortunately, my mother’s fixation with finding me a husband seems to be well-matched by a bottomless supply of single Jewish men, so this is my life, every Sunday night.

An arranged date with the ‘ perfect boy for you .’ At thirty-four years old, they are hardly boys anymore. But still, Mother insists.

I sigh, preparing myself for how badly my mom will react to this latest date failure.

There’s so much she doesn’t understand about me.

Primarily, she’s convinced that what will make me an improved version of myself is getting me married to a nice Jewish man.

I think about how many times I’ve tried to tell her that I’m not interested.

She simply cannot believe that I don’t want to date or, God forbid, get married.

I like being on my own, but my mother will not hear my side of things.

Of course, this is just one of many things she can’t accept about me.

Leaving the restaurant to avoid any further awkwardness with Richard, I decided to stop in a corner bar to order another drink before I headed home.

The place is dark, nearly deserted since it’s Sunday.

The bartender takes my order, and as I wait for my cocktail, I set up a ride share to pick me up in twenty minutes and take me back home.

When he returns with my drink, I start to think about my mother and our rather toxic relationship.

My fears irritate her, and I didn’t grow out of them the way she expected.

She hates that I became a physician assistant instead of a physician.

I count that as a huge victory for Team Lily.

My discomfort with physical contact continues to anger her.

Of course, she doesn’t even know everything I do that would piss her off.

I see a psychiatrist and a therapist, which she does not know about.

At first, when I was diagnosed with anxiety and panic disorder, I was so relieved because it explained so much to me.

I tried to tell her about it, and that did not go well.

She considers psychiatrists the quacks of Western medicine.

She doesn’t even know my biggest betrayal.

For years now, I’ve been in contact with her mother, Nona Rose.

After the last time we went to Nebraska, almost nineteen years ago, Mom had a big fight with her family and hasn’t spoken to any of them since.

I miss going out there so much. But I have written to and spoken with Nona so many times since then.

Having a relationship with her, along with my work, are the things that help me feel like I’m living a worthwhile life.

To be honest, I don't completely enjoy my job. The work is excessively stressful, and we are consistently understaffed. The hospital and unit I work in can be a frustrating place to try to accomplish anything. On the plus side, I do love the actual practice of medicine. I know I’m a total nerd, but I still believe the ability I have to help people is a privilege.

Also, I have some friends there—people I look forward to working with and seeing, especially Abbie—my best friend.

On the other hand, my entire family is on the medical staff, except for my retired parents.

Overall, my life isn’t completely terrible.

It’s admittedly pathetic, but it has its good bits.

One thing I’ve been trying out lately, for myself, is going to a synagogue on the weekends when I’m not working.

My mother thinks religion is for the weak-minded, but I’ve found the prayers help me with my anxiety.

My immediate family members, for the most part, while culturally Jewish, are not observant or traditional.

My grandmother and her other daughters are Conservative and observe all the holidays.

One of my sisters is very observant and became Orthodox.

For some reason, my mother is fine with it when it’s Roselyn, but with me, it’s a ‘ waste of time.’ I’ve had to be careful not to cross my mother, as it can unleash a terrifying level of rage that leaves me feeling shaken for days afterward.

The easiest path I can take is to avoid triggering her.

I can’t make her happy, but I can try not to get in her crosshairs.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I remember where I am, alone, nursing a drink at the corner bar.

Reluctantly, I pull it out and see a ton of new notifications—among other things, my rideshare is not only out front but has started rage-texting me.

As I pay my tab, I can hear from the bar that the driver is honking loudly, trying to get my attention.

After jumping in the backseat, I try for honesty as an apology.

“I’m sorry, I’m Lily—I was just lost in my head, you know, how that can happen?” The driver says nothing, but in the review mirror, she gives me the glare of someone who is going to give me the worst rider review ever. “I guess not,” I mutter to myself.

My mother has chosen this moment to start blowing up my phone, no doubt having heard about Richard and the very short date we had.

The Jewish mother’s network in suburban Washington, D.C.

, spreads information faster than syrup disseminates through pancakes.

I decline the call, knowing I need more time to prepare.

Then a rebellious thought occurs to me… Maybe I don’t need to do this anymore, this fake dating thing.

Do I have the strength to change the trajectory of my life?

Maybe, with Monica, the world’s most fantastic therapist, in my corner…

I started seeing her some time ago but only began to spill my guts to her over the summer.

I had fallen apart after services to a Rabbi who kindly indicated I might need help from a mental health professional to navigate the dynamics between my mother and me.

I remember laughing through tears because I already had a therapist whom I wasn’t being honest with.

And now, little by little, we have discussed things aloud that I never thought I would admit to anyone.