Emily's Reasons Why Not Read Free Page A

yourself in the future. Because, Emily, if you can come up with ten reasons why you shouldn’t be dating a person,you probably shouldn’t date him. Writing it down will just help you figure it out a little sooner with less pain involved.”
    I PUT THE white top down on my navy ‘68 Mustang and start the engine. She dies. I pump the gas, turn the key, and she revs right up. Pulling out of the garage onto Sunset Boulevard, I turn up Tom Petty’s “American Girl” and sing along.
    At the end of the session, I committed to weed out the losers and become my own prince, which is fine, although, I don’t really want to be the prince. I think that was my whole point for going to therapy. I am tired of being the prince. The she-wolf, SSW The cor-pra-sexual. The woman working so hard to get ahead in corporate America, she bypassed love. I can check my own oil and take out the garbage, but it’s still a man’s job. I just do it by default.
    I came up with my own secret vow. I will find love. I just need Dr. D.’s help to guide me though the clutter in the maze of dating.
    Saturday night I am folding laundry. Sam, my six-year-old dog, a rescue pooch, part wolf, part German Shepherd, is lying with his tongue hanging out of the front of his mouth, as it’s too long for his snout and gives the appearance that he’s always sticking out his tongue at you, and refusing to get off. Every time he sees me folding clothes he thinks I am packing to go away. Thus he blocks the whole process even when it is just about having clean towels. I think the whole rescue thinghas given him abandonment issues, made him codependent. I know the feeling. He gets a scratch behind both ears. “Come on, boy … get off.”
    We live in a one-bedroom fourplex in Brentwood. It’s a cute forties bungalow-type apartment with hardwood floors, arched entries, and overstuffed shabby-chic furniture. I pull Sam out of the laundry basket and he goes for the forbidden sofa. His bad hips cause him to pause before jumping onto the end cushion. I can’t really blame him for settling in, as it is one of those sofas that makes you want to cozy up in it for the night and watch bad movies. Overall the apartment is a spacious spot with a little yard where Sam can sun and howl at passing strangers. No dishwasher, no garbage disposal, no washer and dryer. But plenty of charm. It’s home for Sam and me.
    The doorbell rings and Sam begins to howl.
    “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday … dear Emileeeeeeeee!” I hear the girls singing outside the front door. Sam howls and wags his tail, joining in the festivities. I open the door to Grace and Reilly holding a birthday cake with a huge “30” candle burning on top.
    “Happy birthday, you whore,” Reilly laughs, pushing in the door and patting Sam. “Helllloooo, Sammmmmy!”
    “Lovely,” I say, hugging Reilly.
    Reilly Swanson and Grace Hunter are my best girlfriends. Grace and I met in college after the DGs, the sorority we wanted, didn’t want us because our bangs weren’t big enough … it was the late ‘80s. A cute blonde from Davenport,Iowa, Grace is the type of girl who will ruin a New Year’s Eve to rescue a kitten. Reilly, an Asian with the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen, was adopted into the Swanson family of Manhattan Beach, California, the whitest, beachiest family in the area. Not only is she the youngest of all boys, she’s also the only Asian of the bunch. We all met at Cannery Row, a dive bar within walking distance from our freshman dorm at Arizona State University.
    Would-be frat boys in a beer chugging contest surrounded Reilly. She won and the boy she beat threw up all over me while I was waiting for a Coors Light at the bar. Eleven years ago we began our thicker-than-thieves bond. Wow, eleven years. The thought sends shivers.
    Grace kisses me on the cheek as she steps in the door. “Happy birthday, Em. You didn’t think we were going out tonight without us wishing