I know some of you stay up nights wondering, “Why didn’t Marla ever get married? She managed to become a mother, even if her kids came premanufactured. But she never became a married woman. What’s wrong with her?”
Well, trust me. My posse of therapists and I have discussed this thousands of times, without ever reaching a definitive conclusion.
The closest we’ve come is deciding that I’ve always been irresistibly attracted to guys who can’t make a commitment, guys who are really little boys inside, guys who bat for the other team and guys who live in Papua New Guinea. A guy who’s available and nice and actually likes me — even though I’m mean and bossy and chubby — is automatically undesirable. It’s like Groucho Marx once said: I wouldn’t want to belong to a club that would have me as a member.
I’ve changed these days, but it’s too late. I’m ancient and I have cancer and my unclad figure looks like a surgeon carved tic-tac-toe into it. Luckily, I have a lot of friends. And a dog. (Forget the cat. He’s a misogynist.)
Confused? Let me give you a example of my love life.
Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I ran a small theater company that had no money and no fame and leased a theater on the scariest part of Santa Monica Boulevard, in what writer Joan Didion would have called a “senseless killing neighborhood.”
Actors still wanted to perform there because they were, well, actors. Most actors would perform in a bus station toilet if they thought a studio head would see them.
One night, the show’s star was unavailable, so another actor came in and subbed for him. I’d always had a huge crush on the latter, who was tall and just handsome enough without being terrifying. He’d performed with us before, and he and I ended up having long talks alone in the theater after the shows that were surprisingly interesting, considering he was an actor.
I hadn’t seen him in years, but my heart still fluttered when he walked through the door. After the show, we started talking, and he asked me if I wanted to get a drink at a nearby bar. Um, yes. Yes I did.
He opened the door of his car for me, like a gentleman, and I got in, and we drove to the nearby bar. It wasn’t far away, but we didn’t want to risk being shot by walking there.
I thought to myself, “I can’t believe I’m finally on a date with him, after all these years. This has good omens.”
In the bar, we talked and talked. It was the kind of date where you forget to breathe because you’re so engaged in each other. I was practically swooning.
Then, he went to the phone and came back. “I have to leave for a few minutes, but I’ll be right back,” he promised me. “Don’t go anywhere.”
So I sat and waited. And waited. My drink was empty. I got another and drank that one. I started thinking I’d been ditched. And, then, finally, I was relieved to see him walk in. With a gorgeous blond woman by his side.
“Marla, I’d like you to meet my fiancée,” he said. She shook my hand and they sat down at the table.
My heart thudded to the floor. All I could think was how stupid I was, to think he actually was attracted to me and we were on a date, while all along he had a fiancée. I knew I had to get out of there immediately.
I jumped up, pretending to be cheery. “Oh, gee, you know what?” I told them. “I have to go! Y’all have a good night!!!” And I ran out of the bar, walking alone shivering through the creepiest, darkest part of Hollywood to get back to my car. I kept cursing myself for days for my naivete.
I didn’t see this guy for years, but I was permanently scarred by the humiliation. Then, one night, I walked into a party in Pasadena and there he was. I started backing away from him, but then he came up and asked if he could talk to me. Um, OK. We went out on the back deck of the house and found a quiet corner.
“I have to apologize for that night in Hollywood,” he said. “When we were sitting in that bar together, I realized that I was falling in love with you. I was so frightened of this, that I ran out and brought my fiancée back. I’m so sorry.”
In a nutshell — nut being the operative word — this sums up my romantic relationships. Remind me to tell you later about the guy who slept in my bathtub. The one who drank a bottle of Scotch a day. And the one who moved in before I realized he was a sociopath.
Later, when I was 46 years old and chasing around two little kids I’d adopted, I was so exhausted that if you gave me a choice between Cary Grant and a nap, I would have taken the nap.
My late mother was married four times — twice each to two men. And my brother’s been married four times. So, as I used to tell my family, I couldn’t get married because they’d used up all the nuptuals legally allotted to our family.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
