I dated a girl in 1980. Our first date was to see The Blue Lagoon with Brooke Shields and Christopher Atkins. The next date we went to see Ragtime. From the beginning, this girl resisted doing anything, and I mean anything. Spending time with her became a chore. At first, I thought the problem was me, that maybe I wasn’t putting in enough effort. But I was young back then, and I didn’t recognize that her resistance was simply who she was. Everywhere we went was either too hot, too cold, or not good enough for her. No matter what we did or how we did it, she found problems everywhere. What I didn’t understand then was that she wasn’t looking for a partner, she was looking for a provider.
Thirty five years later, I saw her again at age 53, sitting inside a Dunkin’ Donuts in New York City, waiting for the beauty salon next door to open so the workers could comb her hair. She had a shopping cart with her and a handkerchief tied over her head to hide her messy hair. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This was the same woman who came from privilege. Her parents lived on 87th Street and Park Avenue, right across the street from Gimbels, and spoiled her with everything she could ever want. Even as an adult she never found a job, because she didn’t have to. Her parents paid for her apartment, her rent and utilities, and even her daily salon visits. She spent her mornings waiting at Dunkin’ Donuts while others took care of her most basic needs.
She looked like a wreck. The years of never lifting a finger for herself had caught up to her. She had been trained to expect everything to be handed to her, and when the people who enabled her stopped, or life moved on, she had nothing. She couldn’t even manage the simplest things on her own. She always had a provider, someone to cover every want, need, and desire. And that dependence was her downfall.
