The Panic Years: A Guide to Surviving Smug Married Friends, Bad Taffeta, and Life on the Wrong Side of 25 without a Ring - Hardcover

Lewak, Doree

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0767925998 ISBN 13: 9780767925990

Verlag: Broadway Books, 2008

Inhaltsangabe

A spirited guide for single women looking for marriage explains how to survive the "Panic Years" and transform their dating strategies in order to get the man--and the proposal--of their dreams, offering tips on how to hunt for PFs (potential fiancés), cope with pushy relatives and friends, switch from panic to being proactive, and more. 50,000 first printing.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Doree Lewak lives Panic-free in Manhattan. She is a full-time writer whose work has appeared in Entertainment Weekly, Glamour, Time Out New York, Newsday, and New York Daily News, among other publications. Visit www.thepanicyears.com to learn more.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1
Confessions of a Panicker

Anointing myself the Panic Years Pioneer brings with it great responsibility. To panic in solitude is a lonely cause. But in truth, I panic not in solitude but in solidarity! I walk among you every day without you even knowing it. I sit next to you-eyes averted-on the subway, and stand next to you clawing through the Bloomingdales sales racks. I look like you and I talk like you. You'd never know there was a Potential Fiancé (PF) predator among you, but if you look closely, you'll see a stunning little blonde looking into the middle distance, looking for her PF. My cool girl-about-town exterior belies my true inner panic, churning furiously, restlessly, internally.

Something has dealt a mighty blow to my happiness-and that something is other people's happiness. The detestable kind of happiness that only newly minted married friends can spew. You know the type-those friends who are married for five minutes and will exult during the salad course, "You have to try this! Marriage is the best feeling in the world!" in perpetual self-celebration. A Self-Pitying Spinster's sanity is but a flickering ember, and the mountain of wedding invitations from her "best friends" is the mighty wind that threatens to blow it out. And so this is where my Panic Memoir-or Panoir-begins.

My name is Doree Samantha Lewak and I'm a reformed panicker of the highest order. My journey through the highs and lows of the Panic Years has been a rocky one-inadvertently taking down a few PF pawns along the way-but I can proudly declare myself panic-free, and with this book I want to help you get there too.

Allow me to fill in some of the gaps in my panic saga. I'm single and I just turned twenty-seven, which is really just a nice way of saying thirty. Damn euphemisms-let's call a spade a spade, or in this case, a spinster a spinster. I know what I am (just the teensiest bit self- obsessed, but with high cheekbones and even higher hopes to nail down that investment banker) and I know what I'm not (married, or at least sporting a garish, if not killer, 2.1-carat round solitaire that's as blinding as it is show-stopping).

I know that I had a boyfriend, who, coincidentally or not, recently booked a one-way ticket to the Middle East and is trying- unsuccessfully, though I must applaud his efforts-to convince me that I'd never be able to handle the unforgiving heat. The poor guy actually thinks the 112-degree days in the shade will dilute my determination to get a proposal out of him. I haven't doggedly practiced saying, "Honey, you know this dry heat really isn't that bad!" for two months only to quit five minutes before the matrimonial miracle.

I know that in certain dim light and standing next to a haggard thirty-three-year-old, I can easily pass for twenty-two. I know that perfunctorily going on a blind date with Eccentric Eye Patch Guy-no pun intended-is not helping me keep the panic at bay. And I know-the way you just know when a force greater than you has penetrated the depths of your soul-that the Panic Years have gripped me.

It was late 2002, when I was but a twenty-two-year-old effervescent innocent ready to make her mark, that the term "Panic Years" first entered my vernacular. It was a Saturday night and I'd piggybacked onto my sister and her married friends, who had dinner plans (never a good sign). But I was only twenty-two, after all, and not remotely concerned with my romantic status: what was the rush to date, let alone date seriously? I still got away with posing as a high school student to get a discount on haircuts, why would I hurry to settle down when I had the world on a golden string? So when the Settled and Pious (SAP) Mark asked if I was dating anyone, I quickly shrugged him off and joked, "Well, you're off the market, so what else is there to look forward to out there in the dating pool?" But Mark didn't give me the reaction I was hoping for. He didn't laugh and he didn't play along. What he did do, however, was instill in me a state of fear so palpable, so deeply embedded, that his corrosiveness has consumed me ever since. "Oh, that's okay," he said smugly. "You still have a few years before you really start to panic."

"Panic? There are Panic Years?" I gulped, my eyes expanding wider than the saucers of milk I'd soon be leaving for my single-gal litter of cats at home. "Is it contagious?" I demanded, with increasing alarm. Mark just gave me a knowing smirk-knowing full well that his verbal bullet had torn right through my heart-and moved on to another topic, leaving me speechless, confused, and very, very afraid. And this is where the seeds of incipient panic about my single status were sown, and when getting 15 percent off on a haircut suddenly didn't seem so exhilarating anymore.

Since then, life had generally been the stuff of muted discontent eventually giving way to singles' ennui.


High Priestess of Panic

Sure enough, it all fell into place the morning of my twenty-sixth birthday, just as legend (and Mark) said it would. I awoke from my otherwise peaceful repose in the seaside Mediterranean villa where I was vacationing-and where sun-kissed Stavroses and Nikoses abounded- with an unmistakable case of the single-at-twenty-six-and-starting-to- feel-like-I-can't-breathe thing wresting control of my system. Was this sinking feeling a foreboding omen for a marriage-less year to come? What other conclusions could I draw? It was panic season-the predetermined writing was on the white stuccoed wall!

The catalyst was clear: the night before, my boyfriend at the time had sent me a birthday e-mail with a cryptic line that haunted me: "I wish you everything you wish for yourself on your birthday, plus something else." What did "something else" mean? An engagement ring? For me to be stricken with a bolt of lightning? (Were the chances I'd get either about the same?) Something about his stunningly glib and evasive remark woke me up to the reality that this relationship probably didn't have a viable future and that, at twenty-six, I didn't want to invest in a person who didn't want to make a long-term investment in me. The breakup took place a few weeks after my return, when my hope for our future, and coincidentally my tan, had all but faded irrevocably.

That fateful birthday marked the unequivocal crossover into my Panic Years abyss-the murky, yet all too clear reality that those "expression lines" on my face aren't going to reverse themselves and that the "You'll get there!" affirmations from my enthused engaged and married friends were creeping into conversations with a little too much frequency and self-satisfaction for my taste.

Applying eye cream at night had become futile. The deluge of tears in bed about it not happening for me routinely diluted my eighty-five- dollar-an-ounce cream always ending in "de la mer" that I don't think softened any lines anyway. My best friend's wedding at the time didn't help matters. Serving as her maid of honor, I carried off a puffy, burgundy taffeta number-which can only be described as a really shiny rhinestone-encrusted sleeping bag-with the refinement I always knew would surface one day when I needed it badly enough.

The day of the wedding, the rabbi-who I'd known since grade school- was all too happy to nod to the bride and make the pronouncement that I'd be next. Smiling through clenched teeth, I tried to rationalize that he meant no harm by his soothsaying, but I just couldn't let it go and sheepishly had to ask him to knock on wood. Despite the beard masking most of his face, I could discern an unmistakable expression of bewilderment and disgust when he explained, "The Jews don't believe in superstitions....

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Broadway Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2008
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0767925998
• ISBN 13: 9780767925990
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 275
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar