Fixer-Upper

There's an episode of Sex And The City where Samantha tries to avoid a man that is well-known in the socialite circles of Manhattan as having the worst breath on the island. When this offender won't leave Samantha alone, she blurts it out to him that he has breath that would straighten a horse-shoe, and he accepts the advice to spend time with her, she sees him as and describes him to the other girls as a "fixer-upper," like a loft in the Tribeca. Eventually the relationship ends when she realizes that no matter how much she fixes up the outside, the guy on the inside is always going to drive her crazy.

I was reminded of this episode when I was relishing this past week's issue of The New Yorker and found a cartoon nested in the pages where two women are having lunch, and one of them is saying to the other, "There's no point in our being friends if you won't let me fix you."

The circle came around from a straight line today when the therapist told me to throw away the funky clothes and find new clothes, and when my former boss told me yesterday not to get my hopes up about the guy who wanted my number because he is a customer, and when someone tugs me in a way that isn't natural. It's a rare friend indeed who doesn't consider me to be a "fixer-upper," someone whom they feel they can easily "solve." If she just dressed better. If she didn't read so much. If she would get out to singles' clubs. If...she...just...listened...to...ME, SHE WOULDN'T BE IN THIS MESS.

Support would be nice. Some people provide it. God bless those people. The others I have to explain myself to, and lose a bit more time of my life explaining or debating.

Sleep well, dear reader. Go easy on yourself and easy on your friends, and I'll try to too.