My (Bald, Parasitic) Ex Is Everywhere

By YourTango

My (Bald, Parasitic) Ex Is Everywhere
After a breakup comes the hallucinatory period when we see him everywhere.

If you are familiar with the work of Federico Fellini, you must have seen his masterpiece, "Nights of Cabiria." It's the story of a plucky little prostitute who believes she has at last found true love right up until the moment where he steals her pocketbook and attempts to throw her off a bridge.

It is my favorite movie. I have a small but chic aluminum bucket that accompanies me to these screenings. One night at the Film Forum, I was weeping silently into it when I noticed a familiar outline five rows in front of me; a smooth, rounded skull attractively festooned with a matching set of ears, one on either side. Yakov? I thought so. Not only was the film ruined for me forever, but I sensed a certain foreboding.

The very next day, at those free Thursday nights at the Whitney Museum, the disconcerting and bald vision repeated itself, not once, but a total of eleven times. Further sightings occurred at Barnes & Noble, Staples, Lucky's Juice Joint, and (most appallingly) I Can't Believe It's Yogurt. I was hyper-vigilant, but when one turned up at my great-aunt Ruth's memorial at Temple Emmanu-El, I began to question the veracity of the sightings. Yakovs were popping up everywhere.

Any downtown street sported a handful of Yakovs, wearing black T-shirts and black Levi's. Baldly walking, baldly talking, holding their little black cell phones up to their little bald heads.

My extensive research in Yakoviana revealed the following facts: Of the 753,221 people residing in lower Manhattan, almost half of them are men. That leaves 376,610. Of these, about one fourth are too young or too old. That leaves 282,457. Of these a staggering two-thirds dress exclusively in black clothing. That leaves 188,304. Of these, my research has concluded that close to one quarter, or 47,076, are either intentionally or unintentionally, completely bald.

{C}By June, I had stopped going out of the house. On the rare occasions where I was forced to emerge to hunt for food, I took care to avoid all Radio Shacks, Duane Reade pharmacies, Banana Republics, Apple stores, movie theaters, art galleries, and avenues and/or streets perpendicular or parallel to Canal, Houston, Fourteenth and Twenty-Third Streets. All places where fresh-brewed coffee is served were off-limits as well, along with months ending in the letter "r".

It was around this time I developed a rabid aversion to hard-boiled eggs, new potatoes, and, as always, studiously avoided bowling, billiards and ping-pong.

But now it's years later, and at the time of this writing, the sightings have decreased from an all-time high, in December of 2001, of 67.3 Yakovs per week, to a mere 22.4, calculated as of last Wednesday. Herein lies the pathos of my story: although the black-clad-hairless-men trend has increased by 16 percent, comparatively few of these sightings, on closer inspection, proved to be genuine Yakovs.

On the occasions where a Yakov of the "non-clone" variety does make an appearance, usually accompanied by the female and their young, great care is taken not to disturb it, particularly during mating season. I wish them well.

Things are going well for Yakov! A few years ago he published a really lousy design book, wherein he gratefully acknowledged help and support from every single powerful person in the design world I introduced him to. He's put on a lot of weight, too, and no longer resembles anyone cute. He is not even young anymore!

I ask myself what I have learned from this experience with the Yakovs. Let me put it this way: it was a learning experience, but I didn't learn anything from it.

Well, maybe this: my future ex must be at least seven feet tall, with long Pink hair, a handlebar moustache, a few facial tattoos, and hunchbacked. Additionally, he must dress exclusively in yellow, and must speak with an Icelandic accent.

Thus, when we two are no longer as one, he will, at least, stand out in a crowd. A crowd of Yakovs.

* You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar
When I met you
I picked you out, I shook you up, and turned you around
Turned you into someone new
Now five years later on you've got the world at your feet
Success has been so easy for you
But don't forget its me who put you where you are now
And I can put you back down too

 


Copyright © 2008 by Laurie Rosenwald. Laurie Rosenwald is the author of And to Name but Just a Few: Red, Yellow, Green, Blue (Blue Apple Books); New York Notebook (Chronicle Books); and the upcoming All The Wrong People Have Self-Esteem: An Inappropriate Book for Young Ladies* *or, frankly, anybody else (Bloomsbury USA).

 

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