Love by the Book Read Free Page B

arm. “Lo, I’ve heard some of those guides tell you to”—her eyes widened—“
stop having sex
.”
    I arranged my face into a Zen-like expression. “I’ll just have to draw on my reserves of inner strength.”
    â€œHmm.” I could tell she was wavering. Her eyes brightened suddenly. “What happens if you fall in love with one of your test subjects? What then?”
    I rolled my eyes. “I’ve had enough of that love shit to last me a lifetime. This, my friend, is for the advancement of single women everywhere!”
    â€œIn that case, I’m all for it!” she cried, and we raised our glasses to toast.
    â€œTo science!”

BOOK ONE
THE RULES
April 1
    Written in 1995 , after both the first and second waves of feminism had crashed on our shores and in the middle of the post-structuralist tidal pool of the third,
The Rules
preaches a message that could be described as old-fashioned. Victorian, even. Chapter headings include “Don’t Talk to a Man First (or Ask Him to Dance)” and “Don’t Stare at Men or Talk Too Much,” which sounds like the advice a fictional grandmother would give her young granddaughter in a made-for- TV movie about the Amish.
    Most worrying is this: “Don’t Discuss
The Rules
with Your Therapist.” Surely it’s a red flag if a book is encouraging you to behave in a way that you should hide from your therapist?
    The main concept behind the book is that you’re meant to make him chase you. Forever. Apparently, by seeming like an elusive creature unlike any other, who never looks a man in the eye, only speaks when spoken to and with no discernible thoughts or opinions, you’ll be the sexiest damn thing on legs. Stick that in your post-structuralist pipe and smoke it.
    The idea seems to be that you repress your entire personality in order to become some sort of mysterious feminine ideal. “Be feminine,” the book advises. “Don’t tell sarcastic jokes. Don’t be a loud, knee-slapping, hysterically funny girl . . . be quiet and act mysterious, act ladylike, cross your legs and smile.” As I tended to feel more like smiling when opening my legs than when closing them, I was a bit worried about how suited I was for this challenge.
The Rules
had some comfort on that front: “You may feel that you won’t be able to be yourself, but men will love it!”
    I was daunted, but at the same time I could see there was a method to the madness. Here’s the working ratio:
    Seventy percent total and complete horseshit that goes against all I believe in to thirty percent total genius
.
    The more I read, the more I wondered if it was actually . . . well, empowering in a way.
Rules
girls don’t date men who don’t want them, the book proclaims, and if a man really wants you, he’ll chase after you. He’ll make the effort. I thought briefly about Adrian and
Football Focus
and the distinct lack of effort that had come from him in recent months. Hmm.
    I tried to distill the essence of it to Lucy after work that night.
    â€œSo, you’re not meant to call him, ask him out, talk very much, return calls or look at him?”
    I nodded.
    â€œThat sounds grim.” Lucy took a drag on her cigarette, looking pensive. “How are you meant to flirt?”
    â€œThat’s the thing! You’re not. Or at least you’re not supposed to flirt in the way we flirt. You’re meant to be all shy and bashful.” I heard a keening sound below and leaned over the balcony. “Are those guys fighting their dogs down there?”
    Lucy looked over my shoulder. “I think it’s a drug deal, actually.”
    â€œAnyway, according to this, we’re meant to be intangible. Like some kind of wood nymph. Men are never supposed to be completely comfortable or sure that they’ve won us over; they’re meant to constantly work to win