Ask About A Ring, You Get the Finger

Last month, I moved across the country for a boy. People generally reacted one of two ways. There were those who would shriek in excitement for me, and jump up and down as if Madonna’s “Like a Prayer“ just came on in the bar. Then there were those would grab my hand, give me a condescending eyebrow raise and scoff, ”Where’s the ring?”

There were many things that prompted my transfer to Chicago, but saying I was moving for my relationship was met with such a strong reaction, I just started playing into the idea that my life was turning into a romantic comedy. I’d say things like, “Dreams really do come true!” and then skip away, humming like a Disney princess. Strangely enough, nobody batted an eye 10 years ago when I announced that I was moving to Hollywood to become an actress, even though that choice could have easily led to a life of porn and a heroin addiction. The closest I came to either of these was dressing up as Wonder Woman for Halloween in 2005.

If I had told people that I was moving for a dream job, they would have congratulated me. So, why not move for a dream guy? I mean, I didn’t know at the time if he was the human equivalent of my dream job which, incidentally, consists of making $4,000 a day frosting cupcakes and popping bubble wrap while Skyping with Faith Hill as we write her book, “I’m Married to Tim McGraw and You’re Not.” But my boyfriend seemed like a stable career with great pay and I’d be doing something I loved. I wasn’t tied to a contract and the benefits sounded tremendous. And if he fired me, I knew I could probably find another gig.

So why did some people react as though I had just told them I took my life savings and invested it in rotary phones when I said I was relocating without being engaged? I didn’t move to marry my boyfriend. I moved to date him. I swear I’m not saying that so I look like one of those really cool non-needy chicks. Truth is, I’m really needy. The other night my teddy bear told me I was smothering him.

A couple of years ago, I was standing in front of The Comedy Store in L.A. and got into a cab with Gallagher as we headed to an undisclosed location because I thought it would be adventurous. I’m lucky he didn’t smash my head like a watermelon. Point being, I’ve made worse decisions. And if my heart ends up smashed like a watermelon, at least I’ll know it was open to the possibility that I could have my “Pretty Woman” ending, without all the hooker stuff. Though I might have to keep that career path open as an option should I find myself moving back to Hollywood. Just kidding, Dad.