When my husband Jeremy says he’s impressed with a woman, it usually means he wants to sleep with her.  The more he repeats it, the more ardent his desire.  He doesn’t know I know this, but these are the things you learn after five years of marriage.  You begin to understand the kind of woman your husband finds attractive, what turns him on, etc.  People often wonder if this bothers me, this ability to gauge my husband’s sexual attraction to a woman.  Not really.  We all maintain an inner life.  I guard mine jealously, not him.   

Not that this was always the case. 

On our fourth date Jeremy took me to a party.  I was twenty-five years old.  I didn’t know anything beforehand about the gathering, only that it was held at his friend Meredith’s house, a girl he knew from the gym.  As we drove over I asked questions to poke air holes in an obvious tension, one so palpable we could have choked on it.  At the time, I was chubby and addicted to the solitary arts: reading, writing, eating, sleeping, and smoking cigarettes.  I had yet to discover “people I know from the gym” and the entire subculture that existed there given the fact I had never frequented one.

Jeremy, my then boyfriend, was a gym rat.  He drank protein shakes and ordered salad dressing on the side.  His furniture matched and he smelled, vaguely, of soap not purchased in bundles at a 7-11.  I was still on my “does dipping pizza in ranch dressing count as a salad” diet. My food groups consisted of bread carbohydrates and pasta carbohydrates stuffed unconsciously into my mouth between frenetic bouts of either a. writing or b. teaching.  Carbs were fuel, in my view, for changing the world—as necessary as poetry, idealism, and (sigh) love.

Jeremy.We had only been on a handful of dates and I considered our seven- year age difference, his clipped eating habits, and freshly vacuumed car mah-toor.  In short, I wanted to marry him and I knew it by our fourth date. 

“Well,” said Jeremy braking gently at a red light.  “Meredith is very competitive.  She’s a triathelete. She likes to ride bikes, swim, work out.  That sort of thing.”

“Oh.”

“Like you, she’s twenty-five and we are celebrating the fact that she just bought her first house, which given her age is really quite impressive.”

“How could she afford to buy a house?” I asked, sucking in my stomach.   

“She is working on an advanced degree in nutrition, but she also has a full time job as a health teacher with the schools. I think she skis, too.”

“When does she go to the gym?” I asked, wondering what would happen if I told him I had to set my alarm for 11 a.m. to avoid sleeping until dusk.

“From three until five everyday.” He looked out the window.  I didn’t know then that he was luxuriating in the fact that when Meredith stood up on her stationary “spin” cycle, he could see her thong.  But I was 25.  “How she manages all that is beyond me,” he continued. “She’s an impressive character.”           

“Yes,” I agreed, though I don’t recall feeling compelled to employ the same adjective. 

Meredith’s house was modest, but nice.  At least from the outside.  Now that I fill my days with what the experts call mind-numbing housework, I would have noted her lawn (was it manicured?) or her flower bed (what was her taste in flora?), but I didn’t notice any of these things.  Her abode seemed to maintain a leak-free roof and a functioning doorbell (at the time mine had neither). It was immediately evident her “home” was better than my one room shack by the river with the crunchy shag carpet, a roof any misplaced squirrel would collapse, and a toilet that kvetched for a good ten minutes after anyone flushed it.  Meredith’s dwelling was certainly more than a frumpy wannabe writer could afford —and we were the same age.  “It’s nice,” I said, clicking along her driveway in my scuffed flats.  “She lives here with her boyfriend,” Jeremy said and I exhaled, loudly.    “But,” he added.  “I hear he’s kind of a dick.” 

I heard shoes of the high-heel variety clickkety-clacking on the opposite side of the door.  Something fluttered in my chest—a frantic sputtering of wings.  I was nervous.  I reassured myself quickly: If Jeremy was so impressed with this whatsherface, why was he bringing me over?  Maybe she was ugly. Please Lord let her be ugly. 

  If this were a movie there would be a loud screeching sound when the door opened, and it would part slowly, like someone was prying it open during a tornado.  Then the choir would hum and a soft light would illuminate Meredith’s face. 

But this was Albuquerque.  Meredith swung open the door and hugged me as a means -- I now realize-- to hug Jeremy afterwards.  All I noticed was that she smelled especially nice, and that her breasts were larger than mine.  When she swept her arms wide as if to sprinkle fairy dust on the hardwood floors, skylights, and crisp sofa, and said, “This is my new home,” to which my husband replied, “I am deeply impressed,” I realized she was beautiful.  Stunning.  Exquisite.  Long curly blonde hair, big green eyes, fake tan glowing beatifically, rounded nails, pedicured feet, sandals, and a miniskirt just high enough to be heart-achingly sexy, but not whorish.  Maybe a little whorish.

“Wow,” my then boyfriend said.  “I am really impressed.”And then he hugged her.  Again. 

She offered Jeremy the tour more than me.  I was too busy feeling like an asshole.  Who was I to think I could take this man home and fuck him clumsily on gritty sheets, ask him to piss in a toilet that bellowed a Gregorian chant, offer him breakfast (stale doughnuts) on the floor amidst the plink-plinking of rain dripping into scattered Cool-Whip containers?  Who was I to matter after being in the presence of so much perfection—a sofa that wasn’t a futon, a career that paid actual money, a girl with teeth so recently bleached?  This Meredith who left such an impression? 

“Jamie,” Meredith said, guiding me down a hall.  “Can I fix you a drink?” “Better let me do it,” a voice called from a sparkly kitchen that featured an actual dishwasher.  “Meredith’s drinks are terrible.”  Her boyfriend wore a team jersey.  Cowboys, if I recall.  He was not handsome and even this depressed me, for it meant that average men (men like my Jeremy) had a shot.  She introduced me as Jamie to him too, and for the second time, no one bothered to correct her.  “I’m serious, Jamie,” the boyfriend insisted. “I wouldn’t give her drinks to a dog.”  I realized the rumor was true.  The guy was a dick.  I said no, I really prefer if Meredith do it.  He surrendered, reluctantly,“OK, miss.  Have it your way.”   

I carried my ice-chunked, lemon- limey, table-salt rimmed drink in its unusually heavy pink glass to the living room where we all sat down.  Jeremy and Meredith chattered on about spin classes and whey formulas and mortgage rates.  I secretly wondered if I would leave ass sweat on her leather sofa.  She asked what I did for a living and when I answered her she asked,“Do you have anemia?”  As far as I know I don’t nor have I ever had anemia.“I mean it’s ok if you do, you can take iron.  But you do look a little tired, Jamie.”After an excruciating ten minutes, in which I tried to seem effervescent and iron-ful, three more gym women showed up.  I had never seen such spectacular women in Albuquerque all confined in the same area.              

“Well well well,” said Meredith’s boyfriend, raising a beer.  “The sluts are here.”

Not that I wasn’t thinking the same thing, but I sipped my lip-pursingly strong drink and kept quiet.   The three sluts introduced themselves to everyone, grabbed Meredith’s purse, and sang, “Time to go.”  And here’s the rub.  After just twenty minutes Meredith left her own housewarming party.  Meanwhile, Jeremy, Meredith’s boyfriend, and I sat around her crisp house, still feeling her presence, still smelling her hair. Jeremy deep in fantasy about licking the very air that seemed danker without her. 

We excused ourselves and drove home in an awkward silence punctuated only by this:

“She’s very nice,” I said.

“Yes,” replied Jeremy.  “She is.”  

Jeremy never admitted her liked her, which I found maddening.  That’s like someone admitting they don’t like dessert or blowjobs. “How can you not like her?” I wondered, though never too vehemently because I wanted to believe him.  I really did.I found proof stating otherwise when I went through his things months later, after we had moved in together and were headed for a disastrous break-up.  He had made up a list of Roget’s synonyms for beauty and interspersed them among a few lines from Dave Matthews.  I remember reading these missives (scratched out adjectives like delicate and penetrative green eyes) and experiencing that gut -sinking sensation one gets moments before a disaster strikes. That vomitous feeling---when you knew all along this day was going to come, but somehow you weren’t (and you never are) prepared for just how bad it is going to be.

I am ashamed to admit I blamed Meredith for our break-up.  He only spoke to her briefly, maybe once or twice while we were together, but he thought about her.  Often.  She was his “First Choice.” She was the one who would inspire him to stay fit, put the toilet seat down, strive for all things better than average.  She was the one he wanted draped over him like a voluptuous pink boa—Meredith would make an impression.The only impression I made were the little rivets in his carpet when I moved my desk out.  Maybe a few cat paw prints surfaced on the windowsill when he pulled the blinds up.  No doubt the bed swung a little lower from where my fat ass sunk into it. But this is not a sad story. We got back together a few months later.  We married six months later.  Maybe he slept with Meredith or maybe she wasn’t interested.  I am not so stupid as to think he didn’t at least TRY.

My point is that I thought about her. For years.  I looked for her in the gym (where I began frequenting as an ex-smoker).  I expected her to appear suddenly, like a genie.   She’d be naked in the locker room, cellulite-free ass exposed in a pocket of steam.  Maybe she’d swim by me in the pool, a breast stroke so smooth it barely disrupted the water.  Bards would perch on diving boards awed at such a spectacle.             

Even recently, after a house and a baby, sometimes, only half-jokingly, I’d say, “Well if you want someone perfect go give your friend Meredith a call.”  I’d sing her name out like a child would.  Meredith.  Mer a Dith . Mer A dith.“Oh for God’s sake, Jen.”  This launched across the kitchen from my husband.  “How long has it been now?”

Too long.  Only when I was just about to forget her, she would materialize in my imagination again--sauntering up steadily on high heels, reclining on her leather sofa, crossing her long, long legs . . .Yoo-hoo, Jamie. 

Knowing she was out there in the city, somewhere, oozing beauty like some kind of radiation, it killed me.  So I planned our reunion, plotted it the way you would an affair: all guile and intrigue, one rife with mystery and double entendre.

Yet when I did run into her again I didn’t even know it.   She was at the park.  We had talked for a few minutes.  She worked part time at a school, her husband did something or other.  I half tune out many women I meet because their stories were so boring, so maudlin, so very much like mine: nap schedules, teething toys, pull- ups or diapers.  I tuned out Meredith, apparently, because I only remember this part of our conversation. 

“You said your husband manages a bookstore.”“Yes.”  “Jeremy, right?  I know him.”  She wrapped her doughy baby up in a snugli.  “It’s nap time,” she said.  “You know how it is.”  She smiled at me.  “Tell Jeremy Mary Beth said hello.”And then she left.  

Sadly, I still didn’t put it together.  I figured she was just some lady who worked with my husband.  Later I asked Jeremy if he knew a Mary Beth from work, some woman with a kid—pretty green eyes.  “I don’t know any Mary Beth,” he said.  Then he went through the litany of employees and none of them matched the description.  No, I kept saying, she was probably my age, brownish hair, green eyes, average -looking.  “Do you mean Meredith?” Jeremy asked.  “She comes in the store sometimes.  I think I last saw her and she was pregnant.  Maybe it was her.”“No way,” I said.  “Besides, I swore she said Mary Beth.  And she looked like a Mary Beth.  Trust me: your Meredith is etched pretty deep in my memory.  This park mom had short brown hair, green eyes, she was kind of petite, but she had big. . .” (Jeremy covered my daughter’s ears) “B-O-O-B-S?”“Yes.”“That’s her.”“No way.  I swore she was blonde.  And tall.”“Memory,” he said.  “It’s a slippery thing.” 

Long gone Mer E dith.  No short skirts.  No night on the town, the “sluts” following obediently behind her. This was 100% pure bona fide M-O-M.   I probably passed her in the grocery store.  Maybe she took the treadmill next to me and I almost told my husband how plain she looked, how predictable, how matronly —like everyone else-- only slightly prettier, only with slightly bigger breasts.  But had I not mentioned where my husband worked, or confirmed his name, I doubt she would have connected the dots either—that this woman sitting next to her straddling a toddler and careening down a slide; this woman pulling juice from a rucksack, she would have never have guessed that it was me who walked into her house on the arm of a man who now hasn’t been to the gym in eight years.  It was me impatiently tapping my Payless shoes on her hardwood floors, sipping her potent drink in an effort to be polite.  That was me spinning around my boyfriend like a satellite, wondering what it would be like to be the girl who could leave her own party.  Me: tattoos, reeking of cigarettes, proclaiming to be a writer, this bold and daring force moving across the country with little more than a cat, a 1988 Toyota and thesaurus— here to teach inmates how to read, what to read.  That twenty five year old to whom she had expressed, “God I am the worst writer.” To which I replied, “Oh I doubt that,” all the while knowing deep, deep down it was invariably true.  I was the girl who somehow got the guy she may or may not have even wanted.  That was the real story, the true one and, in the end, the sad one.  She hadn’t recognized me either.