Sleepless in Washington - single woman looking for man to marry - Column

Ebony, Nov, 1993 by Laura B. Randolph

"Why aren't you married?" a professional acquaintance asked me at one of those stuffy Washington cocktail parties the other day. "Why aren't you thin?" I was tempted to reply. Instead, I spilled my Chardonnay on her suede pumps.

To be fair, like most single Black women in their 30s, I have heard this question a lot. And not just from snoopy strangers. My three closest girlfriends have spent long hours at each other's kitchen tables discussing, debating, and dissecting "potentials." That's what they call the pool of men they hope to reduce to The One who will make me shop for a white lace dress.

And because these women love me, all of the men they have sent my way have been, by any standard, extraordinary. There have been lawyers (not just associates, but partners with school loans paid:in-full), doctors (but only pediatricians because, as these wise women explained, they love babies but they don't have to get up in the middle of the night to deliver them), and several top executives. There was even a professional athlete with a body like Mike and bankbook to match.

And professional status wasn't the only thing these men had to recommend them. These were truly nice guys; that is to say men who viewed marriage as a sacred partnership to be nurtured and treasured, not a lifetime live-in cooking and cleaning service. In short, these brothers were winning tickets in the Good Man Lotto: Reliable. Responsible. Real.

And therein lies the problem. At first I thought it was just my problem. Because I'm always reading and hearing how the only thing Black women really want in a relationship is a good (translation: straight and employed) Black man, I assumed that I was out of sync with my sisters, that no one else was so, well fixated, so utterly convinced of the importance of experiencing The Love, not just A Love.

And then I went to see Sleepless in Seattle. The theater was packed with Black women: college interns in jeans and tennis shoes, Capitol Hill lobbyists in pumps and pearls, sisters of every age and occupation. And in the two hours it took Meg Ryan to break ties with her dull but devoted fiance for the chance to connect with the man who feeds her soul, the reaction of these women forever silenced the little voice inside me that has sometimes wondered: Is it me, only me?

It is not. I am, in fact, one among many. I know this because, as diverse as these sisters were, they had one thing in common: their tears -- tears that were, if not uncontrollable then certainly heartfelt. And what was provoking this collective cryfest? A schmaltzy Hollywood movie whose message is perfectly summed up by its female writer-director, Nora Ephron: "People should not settle for what is safe and secure. There are moments when you should just go for it, or you will regret it for the rest of your life."

In other words, you can find your dream. Your dream. Not just a nice, successful pediatrician who knows how to brings down a baby's temperature but exactly how to raise yours. And that's the thing I'm having such a hard time getting

Because I am no longer a teenager and haven't been one for quite some time now, these women think that what I should want in a relationship is comfort, security and certainty when what I really want in passion, perfect understanding and weekly deliveries of long stemmed roses. Okay, that's an exaggeration. They don't have to be long-stemmed.

"He's perfect, right?" the Search Committee asks expectantly after after each date.

"No."

"No? Are you nuts? The guy has everything. My God, what do you want?"

What I want is magic. What I want is someone who makes me feel the way I did the first time I drove a convertible, watched the sunrise over the ocean, turned on the radio and heard Aretha singing "Natural Woman."

Yes, those brothers had everything. Except, as every woman in that theater knew at the center of her heart, this has nothing to do with what a man has. This has to do with how he makes you feel. It has to do with music and magic and the wind in your hair, with that thing -- whatever it is -- that makes two people know that everyone who came before was just a dress rehearsal.

After the movie ended, I noticed several sisters didn't leave. They just sat there in the darkness watching the credits roll up the screen, as if by staying some of the magic Meg Ryan found might somehow float down on them. I was one of those women.

As I got up to leave, two of these women came over to me and said how glad they were to know they weren't alone, how much better they felt just knowing they weren't the only sisters Sleepless in Washington.

"The magic. Do you think it happens in real life, or that it's only in the movies?" the youngest one asked me.

I know my answer. But she was so young, so impressionable, that for a long moment I didn't know what to say. And the truth -- that sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn't, and each woman must decide within her own heart if someone is better than no one, even if he isn't The One -- seemed so equivocal, so gutless.