You Name Him You Claim Him: Any Man Can Be Yours!
Honestly, I had no plan to take a stab at short form humor—this one just wrote itself overnight! Please note: hyperbole (EXAGGERATION) is a defining feature of satire, and so the character below bears only small resemblance to the author:)
Hey there long-suffering single sister, this tip is for you! And you can thank me with a picture from your scaled-down second wedding on a public beach.
If you’re like me, you’ve been dating waaay too long post-divorce.
It’s a BIG problem. We’ve no time to lose! I am so much less cute and so much more crazy than I was even a year ago! I don’t look anything like my sun-kissed snapshots from last summer. And men complain about that. Right? They say that I should update my pictures. Are they insane??
Over the years I’ve had several shots at bagging big game—doctors, lawyers, union plumbers—but I’ve missed my Mark every time. That capital M is intentional. You’ll see why. Hang on.
I’ve finally figured out why I’m still spending Saturday night in bed with Chunky Monkey instead of on a second date with Mr. Hunky! I’m a serial first-dater, but it’s not my fault! And it’s not yours either. And I’ve got our solution. But before you go there, it’s not that I’m batshit crazy and that I show up for date #1 late and covered in cat hair. It’s not that the letter from the IRS spills out of my purse, or that my breath smells like a Brooklyn dumpster in August. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I do all the talking, order three appetizers, entree and dessert (plus a slice of blackout cake to go) then text the poor rube three times before he gets home.
No it’s not about me. Or you! The problem is him. Or rather his name. What’s in a name you say? EVERYTHING. You see, in these two decades of liberation, since I cut my wedding dress into rags to clean toilets, the eligible bachelors I’ve met have had the inconsiderate habit of stealing the names of the most significant men in my life, namely, my father, my son and my ex-husband. (Also the pet monikers of my first puppy love, plus the-one-that-got-away.)
I thought I could overlook this, all the Jims and Johns, Bills and Bobs who've populated my storied past, and persist into the present—but I was wrong. Harriet will always and only be Harriet Tubman, Ruth always and only Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Edward—ahh Edward—he can only ever be Ready Teddy. Yes, all those common names generally assigned to biological males, have been retired to a hall of fame housed somewhere between head, heart and honey pot. It’s just ICKY to think about all these same-name men bubbling together in one fucked-up Freudian soup inside me.
So the problem was ME, not them. I finally understood: somewhere in the first ten minutes of those 666 first meetups, my unconscious mind cried: “Gross!” There can’t possibly be any other explanation for why I never got second dates. C’mon, they all salivate at the sight of me! And I really wanted to want them back! I just couldn’t see beyond their birth certificates to their six figure incomes. Of course I sure saw the midnight blue Maserati of Agamemnon, and I did let Heathcliff drag me across the moors of Ft. Tryon Park. I did swoon over those too. But now I realize that’s just because my clan has zero imagination in naming babies— no Greek kings or romantic antiheroes dangle from our family tree. No psychological associations with past or present men there. Those two men were clean, and I was ready to get dirty with them. Why did they both block me instead?
Anyway, I don’t strain my subconscious with the prospect of entertaining any more Bills and Bobs in my boudoir. No longer does the vision of pillow talk with a prospective Pete compete with the image of my freckle-faced kid spilling a glass of milk on the linoleum. When I fantasize necking with some new John now, it’s not crowded out by my first awkward kiss on an ugly plaid sofa. And finally, I don’t have to moan “Bob” between satin sheets and see dear old Dad’s beaming face in the rear-view mirror as I pass my road test on the fifteenth try. Freedom!
I don’t know why it took me so long to get myself, but no judgement—I’m all about self-acceptance and self-awareness today. I’m hopeful. Last week yet another Jim messaged me and I cut him off at the pass. He was so hot for me that he didn’t seem to mind giving up James, the only male name in his family going back six generations. Date two tonight. So far so good, I’m still into him. But I can’t lose my resolve and let him slip back into Jimbo! There’s no time to waste, the Botox wears off in a month and I absolutely must throw the IRS a few thousand dollars towards back taxes, before I can freeze the fuck out of my forehead.
Because I’m finally on the verge of a second date here, and therefore almost at the altar, I feel confident when I urge you to be proactive too—rename the next one before that first coffee date in a well-lit public place. In fact, just take care of it when he first messages you with “Hello beautiful. 🌹”. Tell that Michael on Match that while you dig his name that means “Who is like God?, you unfortunately have an uncle, a nephew and a third cousin who also ask the same question in Hebrew. Tell him it’s Micah from now on if he ever wants to zoom past ZOOM with you.
If, for some crazy reason, he still balks at Micah, give him three alternatives you can imagine yourself saying upside-down and all out of breath. Here are my top picks, categorized for your convenience. They bear absolutely no resemblance to any male I’ve ever boffed or birthed. (I did have to axe Fabio last minute, when I found out it meant ‘bean farmer.’ Rats.)
Hunky names: Harley, Hank, Ivor, Sven, Travis, Tor or Willulf (wolf).
Names for cinema studies types who take you to see The Tin Drum on a second date: Alaric, Dimitri, Grayson, Griffin or Rémy
Or just go for broke: make him a Greek god (He wants that anyway.): Adonis, Ajax, Apollo, Hercules, or Zeus.
So go ahead, start playing the rename game. And let me know how that fourth date with Conan goes. No wait—scratch Conan. I threw up on Conan O’Brien at a keg party freshman year.
Okay, bye girlfriend. Sigmund’s waiting. Oh hell, let him wait. I’m having fun. Besides, men think that’s cute, when we make them stand on street corners. What do you think of Huxley or Inigo?