The 45 Loves of Lucy Lacrosse

By Chanin Kaye and Jake Vanchu

The 45 Loves of Lucy Lacrosse

Book 1

Oh Lucy...

Fed up after her 45th failed relationship, Lucy has decided she can no longer deny the fact that the only common denominator - is her. Up until now she has been living in a comforting state of denial, blaming the men she has chosen to date.  But a sudden

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chanin Kaye LLC
• Release date: Jun 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997210316

Book preview

The Common Denominator

After forty-five failed relationships I decided it was time to stop and take an honest look at what the fuck was going on with me. Up until recently I may have placed the majority of the blame on whomever I was dating. But after the last break up I drew two conclusions. One, like it or not, I knew I was partly to blame. And two, I was probably not going to be able to break the cycle on my own.

During the alcohol induced pity party that immediately followed that break up, I asked the bartender at my favorite bar, Bottles, for his help. I needed to determine if this problem was indeed internal or something more to do with my physical appearance. He didn’t seem to be listening quite as intently during the second or third hour as he was at the start. But, after weighing every possible pro and con I could think of he completely agreed that my idea to see a shrink may not be a bad idea.

Even so, I wanted to take a good look at my external situation and determine if there was something amiss. Standing naked in the bathroom, staring at my reflection, seemed like a good place to start. I spoke each word out loud, in an over dramatic whisper, as if I was a reporter on some cheesy documentary:

Bare…raw…exposed.

The fact that I am fairly blind without my glasses was putting a major snag in any possible progress. When my eyesight took a nose-dive six months ago I went to Costco vision center to look into what I was sure would prove to be an aggressive brain tumor. Doctor discount with the wrinkled shirt and Bacardi breath confirmed that I did not have a tumor after all. (Although I am not totally convinced.) As he so eloquently put it, I was just hitting middle age and my body parts are throwing in the towel one by one.

If I was going to put myself through the horror of a no holds barred, physical self-scrutiny, I was going to need to see myself in more detail than my blurry silhouette was currently providing. I shuffled in a few steps and squinted as hard as I could but it didn’t help. If any real answers were to be found, I had no choice but to go get my glasses. I shrugged and shook my head in disgust.

Good God this is sad.

When you are alone and doing something weird do you ever stop for just a second and imagine how you would react if you caught someone else, doing whatever it is that you are doing? How weird would it look from an outside point of view? I worry all the time about my fleeting grasp on sanity so I often try to find new ways to be outwardly objective. If I walked in on my roommate standing naked in front of the mirror just staring at herself what would my first reaction be? Maybe I would think it’s slightly odd. Yes, perhaps. But I’ll bet normal people do things like that once in a while too.

Am I right? I asked out loud. My blurry reflective-self nodded back at me in reassurance. I felt fairly sure I was well within the semi-sane parameters I allow myself to dwell in. So I decided to get back to it.

I was sure my glasses could be found somewhere in my room. I looked down in complete disgust at my clothes, which I slept in by the way, now in a pile on the bathroom floor. As I saw it, I had two options. One, streak down the long hallway to my room, or two, the classier option, put some clothes back on. Of course I chose option one. First of all, getting dressed again would have been way too much work. Second, I didn’t think my two roommates were awake yet so there was a very slim chance of being caught naked. Even so, I wanted to avoid that, so I peeked out into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. I heard the loud crack of an Olympic gunshot go off signaling me to start running. I flew out the bathroom door and made a naked mad dash down to my room. Thankfully, I made it without being seen.

The first few seconds consisted of semi-graceful tiptoeing, hands shielding my lady parts, as I casually glanced around the room. That only lasted about two minutes. Then frustration took over and the search turned into a far less modest, ass-in-the-air, tossing everything everywhere, total frantic flip out.

A lightbulb went off and I remembered I had been reading something on my phone just before I fell asleep. With my eyes closed and fingers mentally crossed, I slid my hand under the pillow.

Aaaaand jackpot!

I found them, put them on and ran back to the bathroom. Even with clearer vision I somehow misjudged the distance on my track and field style hurdle over the pile of my clothes. My heel caught an edge of something silky, and I slipped and fell flat on my back. After I caught my breath, I let out a sarcastic, Really? Without moving I laid there a moment longer, pondering my current situation.

Is this hopeless? Am I hopeless? Maybe I will never be fit for a normal relationship. I’m laying naked on my bathroom floor after slipping on a pile of my own clothes at nearly 40 years old. Who does that?

I wondered if somewhere in the world anyone was doing the exact same thing. Is another pathetic woman wondering why she can’t maintain a healthy relationship whilst laying naked on the bathroom floor? I took a wild guess that the answer was probably not. But, I crawled to my feet with refreshed enthusiasm. Now that I could see, I had a fair amount of hope that I would be able to clearly find the problem. Answers were bound to jump out at me. I closed my eyes.

Deep cleansing breath…opening eyes…and…absolutely nothing. What am I not seeing?

I couldn’t deny the simple fact that the only common denominator in all of the failed relationships …was me.

Ouch.

This epiphany made me physically shudder. My entire adult life I have spent blaming my relationship woes on the men I chose to date. It is easier on the ego then taking full (or any) responsibility. And when things go to shit, as they always have, this one excuse helps takes the sting out of it. But what I had to face was that very state of denial, of which I have always taken such comfort in, truthfully hadn’t benefitted me in any way.

Like an overprotective mother, denial hadn’t allowed me to face harsh reality. In fact, it has more than likely only prolonged my perpetual single status. Having said that, even a conscious acknowledgement of those facts didn’t do a single thing to stop the argument that was going on in my head. My good ol’ faithful internal defense mechanism had kicked in and I immediately started the familiar excuses. They were firing off in my head like a 21-gun salute. BOOM! It’s not me, it’s the men I choose. BOOM! I just haven’t found the right one! BOOM! I am a total catch and any man would be lucky to have me. I stared at the bathroom mirror with a wide-eyed pause in thought as if waiting for my reflection to reveal a solution.

Say something! Please!

I didn’t think there was any possible way I was the cause of every single relationship ending up in the toilet. I rolled with that thought for a moment and attempted to let it sink in. I waited and waited for that refreshing feeling that normally washed over me and relieved me of any responsibility. But it just wasn’t happening. I guess I knew it was a lie. Even saying it out loud didn’t make me believe it. It was no longer going to alleviate the weight in my heart that was caused by my need to find the truth.

I turned to the side and sucked in my gut as hard as I could.

Not perfect, but not bad, not bad at all.

I could stand to lose a few pounds and maybe firm up a little, but for nearing forty I was not feeling all that insecure about my physical self. I turned forward and saw that my personal maintenance had been a little neglected.

Oh yikes. I could use a little lady-scaping down there.

The bushes needed a trim if you know what I mean. I grabbed the back of each of my thighs and squeezed so they would appear smaller in the reflection.

Hey…that’s nice. I wonder if that size is even possible any more?

When I had thighs of that size for real, I was less skeptical, happier, had a fewer number of fails and most of all, hope. My thighs are definitely my trouble spot. The older you get those extra inches might as well be made of cast iron because that shit’s not going anywhere. I would need to live at the gym to see that size again and I’m not willing to work that hard. Sometimes I kid myself and blame those last ten or fifteen pounds on why men dump on me. Just when I almost fall for my own lie I’ll see an attractive man with a woman much bigger than myself and that excuse implodes.

My hair is probably too long for my age, but I have an emotional attachment to it. It has always been long and I think something about the length is linked to my identity or maybe my youth because I’m afraid to cut it. Even in high school kids would say, ‘Yeah, you know Lucy, the one with the really long blonde hair?’ What would they say if I cut it? Something like, ‘Lucy, you know her, she’s the one with the glasses.’ Bleh. No thank you.

Back to the main issue. Truthfully, I felt deep in my soul that I would be a great girlfriend in the right relationship with the right guy.

Ouch. What was that?

I felt a weird ping in my gut. I thought it might be that word: Girlfriend. I said it out loud one more time and once again I felt a little sick. It just didn’t sound right. I had never felt weird about that word but suddenly it sounded juvenile.

Now that’s a new emotion.

I definitely thought I was on to something.

Is that what all this is about? A transition? Maybe the universe thinks it’s time for me to be…gulp…married? Is this the biological clock everyone talks about? I thought that was just about having babies. Well thanks a lot, nature! You took your sweet fucking time, didn’t you? You couldn’t have gotten off your ass ten years ago when every good guy wasn’t already married?

Whatever it was or wasn’t, what I knew for sure was the word girlfriend, just wasn’t sitting well.

I know that I would make a great wife. I nodded at the reflection in the mirror and said out loud, "I would definitely make a great wife. And I liked the way that words sounded. I said it again with emphasis, Wife."

I envisioned myself in a sexy version of a June Cleaver dress and pearls in a room full of handsome men playing poker. They are drinking and watching football in my perfectly decorated living room as I prepare a tray of drinks in the kitchen. I pause for just a moment to sing along with the baby birds in my windowsill, and then float into the living room with the fresh cocktails. As I bend over to set them down I glance at my gorgeous husband and catch him checking out my cleavage from across the table. I give him a wink.

As I set his drink down next to him I whisper something a little naughty in his ear. All the other men are staring at us with an envious if-only-my-wife-were-like-her look. They lean on their elbows and let out a collective sigh in perfect unison. I just smile at them and tilt my head in pity. It really is too bad there isn’t more of me to go around.

I lay a sweet little peck on my husband’s cheek and give his zipper area a discreet pet as I lay a crisp ironed linen napkin in his lap. We stare deep into each other’s eyes and telepathically ponder together the content of my naughty whisper for a second longer. I blow him a kiss and then, with a fancy dress flying twirl, I pirouette and hitch kick away to fix another round of perfectly crafted cocktails. He looks up to heaven and thanks God above at the thought that I'm his wife, the best wife in the history of the worl—

GOOD MOR—ohhhh no.

The morning salutation from my roommate Charlotte snapped me right back to reality like cold water to the face.

What happened? She asked with a sympathetic pout.

I don’t know if I was more irritated that she shattered my future husband fantasy or at the fact that she caught me in my naked self-scrutinization. Either way the barrage of questions was bound to begin. I head her off at the pass and let her in on the demise of number forty-five.

I told him how I have been feeling all this time.

Charlotte brightened up. Finally! That’s great! What did he s—

I held up my hand signaling her to stop talking. It didn’t go well. Her smile turned into a frown. "But on the plus side he thinks I am a wonderful person." (We all know in the adult dating world that phrase is the kiss of death.)

"Oh Luce… you are a—"

I cut her off, Stop. I can’t bear a spiritual pep talk today.

Charlotte and her fiancé Rob are my roommates and two of my favorite people in the whole world. She is a teacher at a local private school. It is very hippy-dippy, organic, gluten free, peace and love and all that crap. It suits her perfectly. Speaking of organic, I knew the cleanse conversation was about to happen. In her ever cheerful motherly tone she started in.

You know what you need…

Here it comes.

You need a full body, mind, and spirit cleanse

Charlotte, I love you to death but I don’t need, or want, another cleanse.

"Yes, yes you do. And the fact that you say you don’t should be a clear sign that you absolutely do! You need to purge all the negative. Come on, I’ll do it with you. We can—"

I impatiently interrupted one more time. How can you possibly need a cleanse? You are as cleansed as one can be. You don’t eat anything bad for you in the first place. And hold up, didn’t you just do a colonic a couple of days ago? There’s probably nothing left inside you at this point anyway!

Never deterred from her incessant quest to improve my health she continued.

"This isn’t about me. You need a positive energy boost and a power partner, someone like me to support you and help get you through this. It will prevent you from going through another one of your poor me phases."

I smiled. Now that is where you are correct Charlotte. I agree, I don’t want to go through another phase like that either. Not alone anyway. So, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I have decided to see a shrink.

She winced. Oops. I shouldn’t have said that, I knew she hated that term.

THER-A-PY, she over enunciated, is healthy and I am so glad you are doing that. This is a very positive step. And you know what, I have just the person! In fact, there’s a group that meets—

I grabbed her hands and forced her to look at me. I have someone. I went online and—

Online?

I knew she would disagree, it is too impersonal and random. She is not at all big on things she refers to as modern technology. In fact, she just finally got a decent cell phone a few months ago. She used the excuse that she liked being able to do the angry flip when she was pissed off and needed to aggressively hang up. How do you hang up on your phone when you are mad? she would jokingly argue. Do you push the screen harder or something? That’s no fun! But I knew better. She paid no attention to what was latest and greatest in the cellular world. Even if she did her phone was usually dead at the bottom of her bag. Her organically grown hemp fiber, crocheted by monks in a blessed temple in a sacred land and sold on Amazon shoulder bag.

I am sure she would have preferred that I choose a group session where I could feed off positive energy and auras and all that voodoo crap. The thought of sharing my past with a roomful of strangers makes suicide look like my best option. I subscribe to the school of thinking that things, people, opportunities, or whatever it is, gets put in our paths at the very time they need to be put there. But who the hell knows, maybe it’s all fate and whatever is going to happen is going to happen. One of my coworkers married a guy she met when she spilled a drink on him at a bar. They have been married five years now and are blissfully happy. Although if I dated every guy I spilled drinks on we would be at about eighty-five and counting.

I realized I had completely tuned Charlotte out. She was still going on about something to do with chi and mother earth. I tried to mentally jump back in without her noticing I had checked out.

…I mean, really, be serious, what do you know about this person, their qualifications, beliefs, background…

(Here is how well I know my roommate)

Charlotte, I did some meditation. She stood up straight, her facial expression immediately showed signs of approval. And I put it out into the universe that I was seeking out the perfect therapist to guide me through this journey.

She smiled. Journey was a big word in her life. Everyone is on a fucking journey and she often uses that word to negate and or excuse bad behavior. As in ‘He wasn’t trying to hurt you with his cheating, he was just on a journey to explore his sexuality.’ That is actually a true story. He was failure number 40. Turned out he also had a wife who didn’t know about his journey either.

I went on, After my meditation I opened my laptop and researched reviews on local therapists. One clinic stood out to me. I filled out a detailed questionnaire and they paired me with a therapist that specializes in my particular needs. So, I just feel like this is where I was meant to be. Where I was meant to take the first step, if you will. The truth is it wasn’t after meditation at all, it was after four martinis. I closed my eyes