This is edited text of my first stand up comedy act, performed for the first time on October 3, 2011 for Good Humor Comedy, at Mom’s Bar in Santa Monica, CA.
Tonight, on The Life of Jill, “Serial Monogomist Meets Free Spirit.”
First, allow me to confess. I am 70 years old. I’m a sex addict and I’m dating a 32 year old.
Seventy years old and still trying to get the love thing right.
With all the wrong guys. (How many wrongs does it take to get it right?)
But love is blind makes smart people dumb.
I couldn’t have done better if I’d walked onto the Psychiatric ward at Bellvue and hand picked him myself.
“Oh, there’s an attractive guy. He seems to be slaying imaginary dragons while holding cogent conversations with six imaginary people. I’ll take HIM. That’s my guy. Sign me up.” Or sign me in.
Toss in a dash of schizophrenia and you’ve got the banana split of mental disorders.
So the red flags were waving so wildly when I met Shawn that he might as well have been wearing a warning label. We’ve been seeing each other for about a year.
Shawn is 32, a handsome, charming, bipolar, alcoholic, pathological narcissist writer with mother issues and a compulsion to seduce every woman he meets. He also talks to a battery of “advisors” acting out each voice separately.
And what did I think was good about this?
He’s sweet and decent and passionate and he’s the smartest person I know. And when we’re in our little bubble of bliss, there’s a kind of normalcy above the chaos of issues. We cook, take road trips, snuggle and snooze, read great literature, write poetry and laugh like hell. We just connect.
But Shawn is no crowd pleaser. All my friends hate him. My daughter is HORRIFIED by him. She ran screaming out of the bathroom the day she saw his boxer shorts which say “Cash Only” on them, hanging on the towel bar. “Disgusting, Mother! TMI!!” as she watches her mother behave like a wreckless adolescent.
But she’s trying to save me with endless, pleading text messages: Mother, he is incapable of giving you what you want or Mother, WTF! I’m glad I gave her some values because now she can teach them back to me.
But when you’re overdosing on catnip, logic just doesn’t apply. It’s like trying to stop a dog from raiding a garbage can. All they hear you say is, “Blah, blah, blah.” Well, blah, blah, blah.
But there’s no way to tell what makes two people tick. It can be as simple as the way he smiles at you or holds your hand all night long.
So we’re rolling along, loving life together when I get the call. The one that changes everything. Even before you utter a word you can feel something’s not right in the radio frequencies of the silence. This is NOT GOOD.
Shawn says, ” Hey babe, you’re going to get a facebook message from this crazy stalker chic. I had a “slip.” I’m really, really sorry. I love you and care about you deeply. I never meant for this to happen.”
“Shawn WTF! One slip? A six month slip? A slip of the day?”
I read the message. The “crazy stalker chick” tells me he’s been having a five month “slip.”
Knife through my heart. Ouch.
In that moment my life becomes a procedural drama, a giant white board begging for answers. Lover as perpetrator. And I’m looking for the truth.
Now, everything is suspect.
Where were you the night of….. were you really out with the boys?
When I couldn’t reach you that day…. were you with her?
Physical evidence. That really expensive bottle of lube – he couldn’t have bought that. Exhibit A.
Long strand of dyed black hair on the sink, not my color. Exhibit B.
But it’s pointless. Once someone has lied to you, you can’t believe anything they tell you. Everything they conjure will be some smaller incremental lie designed to make you not feel bad. But you already feel bad. Really bad. The innocence is lost. The game has changed. Something has died.
It’s like what Jack Nicholson says to Diane Keaton in “Something’s Gotta Give.” ” I’ve always told you some version of the truth.”
But there are no “versions” to the truth.
Your heart is bleeding. Where do you go from here?
You call 911 for bleeding hearts. They send an ambulance and take your heart to UCLA where they have a special ward. Your heart gets its own private nurse.
You come out in a week, your heart’s in a sling. You start making up cheesy country western lyrics, ” My heart’s in a sling and I can’t feel a thing since my baby done me wrong. All tied up inside, no one at my side since my baby’s done me wrong. Feel so confused, alone and abused, since my baby did me wrong.”
Serial monogomist meets free spirit comes full circle. Smart person turned dumb.
But even broken hearted, I believe the only way out of love is through love. And you hope amends are made and they do whatever it takes to make things right. Because in the end, love will prevail. It always does.
So, glass half full, I’m praying to the love Gods that next time I get it right. And if love is blind, please God, send me a guide dog.
(P.S. Not really 70, lol)