Oh the manity

My friend Patricia has no faith in what she calls "manity." ("humanity" minus the "hu," i.e. all men.) She is the cynic, the unapologetic pessimist when it comes to men. "They're all dogs," she repeats to me like a mantra. I however still believe that the Ones are out there, that the Ones are not dogs, and that one day I'll meet one of my Ones. She thinks I'm silly.

"There are no 'Ones,' " she says. "Just dogs."

I suspect that this belief underlies her embarking on an affair with her third married man. It is so odd--Patricia is perfectly fine in every respect except when it comes to men. When it comes to men, she has no conscience. Maybe it's because of her parents' bitter divorce during middle school, maybe it's because she later learned her father got another woman pregnant while her parents were still married, maybe it's because her last real boyfriend cheated on her. At any rate, she has a pretty low opinion of "manity."

I tell her she's smart, pretty, and funny--she can have any guy she wants. Why the married guys?

"It's not that I actively seek them out. The ones I happened to be immensely attracted to just so happen to be...married," she says to me matter of factly.

Married Man #3, however, gives her pause. "He has a family," she says to me. "A daughter. I saw her picture."

"Oh god," I say to her. "Please....just stop it."

"I know I know," she says, cupping her face in her hands. "I only saw that picture once, early on, before anything happened."

"Uh huh."

"Now, I keep seeing that girl in my mind. That girl reminds me of me," she says, "I think of my dad. And what my dad did. It kills me."

I nod at her.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?"

I don't know what to say to her. If I say "nothing," I'm lying. If I say "I don't know," I'd be acknowledging there was something fucking wrong with her. So I just look at her. "Patricia, you know what you have to do. You know what it was like, as the girl."

"Yes."

"So please stop it all. It took you like twenty years to forgive your dad and now you guys are finally speaking," I remind her.

"Yeah," she says.

"And aren't you and your dad doing something for Father's Day this Sunday?"

"Yeah," she says. Then her eyes light up and I instantly know she's thinking about Married Man #3. "But he's--he's--wonderful," she effuses. "God I'm fucked up."

I look at her. She is clearly in pain. I try to understand and not judge.

"Today he called me while he was driving," Patricia says.

"Uh huh."

"With her in the car."

"His wife?!"

"Worse," she says, "his daughter."

"Oh god."

"He tells me not to worry. She's falling asleep and she can't even understand what he's saying. She doesn't speak English, only Chinese. He and his wife speak to her only in Chinese." Patricia is an ABC -- American Born Chinese and apparently so is Married Man #3.

She continues, "They get to the park, and he opens the minivan door, with me still on the phone. And I hear this tiny voice squeal in the background. 'Is that her?' I asked him. 'Yeah,' he said. I heard what she said. 'Let's go!' in Mandarin. It was so cute, it fucking broke my heart."

"Patricia," I say.

"His wife is living the life I'll never have."

"What, a cheating husband?" I ask her. I look at her to make sure I didn't offend her too much. But she just nods.

I see her pattern. She is attracted to unavailable men. Maybe it's just easier to like an unavailable guy because that way, she could never get hurt and never get too vulnerable. Everything could be attributed to the fact that he was married. And she would never have to deal with the drama of a real relationship, of real love, which in her past has always been linked to pain and deceit. Who knows how anyone would've turned out had they had her childhood? Obviously, my constant lectures to her about the One or the Ones have been about as effective as her lectures to me on the Dog-dom of Manity.

"Patricia," I say, "you know I love you like a sister. I don't want you to get hurt. There is no way this can end well."

"I know." She sighs. I always envied her perfect oval face. Even at her most miserable, she was beautiful. I can almost discern the expression on her face at this moment; it was one of resignation and yielding, one in painful recognition of the fact that she will always be, out of choice, unhappy.