Page 16 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

I sigh as I sit down on the edge of my king-sized bed. Though these units come furnished, I wanted to bring some of my own furniture. I see myself working at this job for a few years at least, which means I want to be comfortable. So the movers had a double job from me today: once the truck was empty of my stuff, they reloaded the van with the apartment’s original furniture and took it to a storage unit downtown. It cost me quite a bit extra to have them do that, but I don’t regret it. Because now everything is exactly the way I want.

I glance around the room for a second, looking for my book of crossword puzzles—something to take my mind off this long day. My eye falls first on the little table in the corner, though, and I stand up, heading that direction instead. My current jigsaw puzzle was one of the few things I brought to this apartment in my car instead of the moving van, so I didn’t lose my progress. I pull up my wingback chair—an ugly, secondhand thing I got for the sole purpose of having a place to sit while doing my puzzles—and eye the emerging image before me. It’s an illustration of black and white animals, nothing but tons of Dalmatians, pandas, zebras, snow leopards, skunks, and killer whales. The puzzle is about half done, but it’s taking forever—something I’m actually grateful for. I like puzzles that I have to work at.

I snort at that thought, shaking my head as I realize that all my hobbies make me sound like I’m eighty rather than twenty-six. Maybe I should take up bird-watching or water aerobics too.

I guess water aerobics might actually be a good low-impact activity to balance out the plyometrics I do—

No! No. I am not an old man. Although I can admit that sometimes I feel like it, and not just because of my hobbies. I’m probably not what anyone would call youthful. And sure, maybe I’ve been accused of being too uptight in the past, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it? It makes me a good worker. Efficient and to the point. Just because I’m a little more buttoned up than someone who greets the neighbor pantsless, for example, doesn’t mean I’m too uptight.

Right?

When my phone rings, I answer it immediately, grateful for a distraction. That gratefulness lasts exactly as long as it takes for my mother’s voice to register, and she says,

“Dexter, I need the name of your plus one for Corbin’s wedding.”

My mother—the only person other than my grandmother who calls me by my full name—is not a woman easily deterred. I know this because I have spent the majority of my adult life trying to stave off her incessant requests for me to find a girl, settle down, and give her grandchildren—becauseyou’re not getting any younger, Dexter, and goodness knows your brother isn’t going to find a woman any time soon, so hurry up.

My cousin Corbin’s wedding has, to her delight and my frustration, provided her with yet another opportunity to remind me that I’m still single.

“Are you bugging Jude about his date?” I say with a sigh, leaning back in my chair.

“He’s coming with…Mindy? Mandy? Something like that,” she says dismissively, and I picture her waving away my question with one perfectly manicured hand. Nancy Anthony’s nails are always immaculate.

“Never heard of her,” I say, but that’s not really a surprise. My brother goes through women faster than I go through crossword puzzles—he was engaged once years ago, they broke things off, and he hasn’t been the same since.

My mother makes a sound of resigned bemusement before changing the subject. “Yes, well,” she says. “Back to the topic at hand, please. Your plus one?”

I sigh. “I hadn’t planned to bring anyone,” I say, even as my mind conjures up the image of some woman who looks vaguely like my new neighbor.

I banish the image immediately, frowning even as I begin plotting ways to ensure she wears pants in my presence from now on.

“No, I’m sorry, Dexter, but that won’t do. You need to bring a date. Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

“Takingwhatseriously?” I ask, exasperated. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the brewing headache I feel.

“Your future!” my mother says. “At this rate, Dexter, I’m going to be ninety before you settle down. If that’s the case, I won’t get any grandchildren to spoil, no chubby cheeks to pinch. Besides, you’re lonely. Don’t deny it—I know it’s true.”

I don’t deny it, because it might be slightly true.

“And I know perfectly well you would love to find a nice woman.”

Again, I don’t deny it, because again, it’s possible she’s right.

“But I don’t think you’re looking, Dexter. You’re not going to stumble across her in the supermarket,” she says. “Ask someone out, for goodness’ sake. Join a dating website or something.”

“Oh, no,” I say, shaking my head. “No. I’m not doing that.” Nothing against dating sites, but I need to meet someone face to face from day one. I need to feel that spark if I’m going to connect with them. I need someone that I’m physically at ease with. That’s not as important as mutual interests and the ability to connect on an emotional or spiritual level, but it still matters to me.

“Well, are you meeting any women at all on your own?”

“Yeah, of course,” I say tiredly. “I meet people. Doesn’t mean I want to date any of them.”

“Are you being a snob to all these women you could be procreating with?”

I snort. This woman named her sonDexter Kingston Anthony—I hardly think she has room to talk about snobbery.

“No. I promise I’m not snobbing any women, Mother. I’m just not interested.”

“I—oh,” she says, and there’s an uncharacteristic silence. “Am I asking the wrong question? Dexter, are you gay?”

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