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What to Expect When You're Expecting

Forget positive or negative thinking. The real question is how to stop thinking entirely.

by Natalie
posted on July 01, 2007

Credits: Benjamin West

If you read this column regularly, you may have noticed that expectation vs. reality is a theme I often return to. And though I might fixate on this topic more than others, lately it seems to be sweeping the country. The runaway success of pop-philosophy wonder The Secret has proven that Americans are happy to subscribe to the idea that if you approach your goals with the same confidence in which you approach calling in an order from Amici’s, the universe will deliver. But while this horde of positive thinkers endorses a committed leap of faith, my inner circle takes a decidedly different stance when it comes to my personal life—urging me to lower my expectations so as to temper disappointment. My latest romantic encounter illustrated that it was this particular camp—and not the Secret keepers—who knew something I didn’t.

Having returned from a dream freelance assignment covering Cannes, I found myself suffering from re-entry blues. Once the exhaustion and the thrill of the trip had worn off, every subsequent night out seemed to be a letdown. The one bright spot in my calendar was the impending visit of a Hollywood agent with whom I’d flirted wildly at Cannes.

Russell represented an up-and-coming actor (let’s call him Adam) whose film had been the toast of the festival. Though I’d known the instant I met Russell that he was trouble—in an egomaniacal, pseudo-celeb, Hollywood-poser kind of way—he was charming and seemed to have a crush on me. Adam was due in SF for a press junket a few weeks after Cannes, and so, of course, was Russell. I found myself mentally billing Russell’s quick trip through town as the much-needed lift I’d been looking for. A harmless weekend flirtation with no danger of getting attached that came complete with a proven, but as-yet-unrequited, attraction was surely just what the doctor ordered.

“Honestly, I’m a little hesitant to endorse any Russell encounter,” Sia said when I related a phone date I’d had with him the evening before, during which we’d planned out the entire weekend. “I just get a sense that he has an over-inflated sense of self and is immature.”

“Well, yes, because that’s how I described him to you. And it’s true,” I said. “But this isn’t about long-term. This is just a booster—think of it as a social vitamin. Russell is a supplement to get me back on my feet again—like echinacea.”

“I’m worried he’s going to be more like a flu shot—no guarantee it will stave off an ailment, and it might just make you feel unnecessarily ill.”

As the date of Russell’s arrival neared, our text-messaging and email relationship intensified. Flirtatious “where are you taking me to dinner?” texts and “can’t wait to see you again” messages were waiting for me practically every time I glanced at my phone. The imaginary romance was invigorating. Despite Sia’s repeated warnings, I was really looking forward to it.

Russell got in on a Friday night and invited me to meet him at the Four Seasons, where he and Adam were staying. I arrived at 8 p.m. and called to let him know that I was in the lobby, but got his voice mail. Twenty minutes later, I got a text back—“Wrapping up a TV spot that’s running over. Hang tight.” Having already waited 20 minutes, I was starting to feel like a groupie and put in a hotheaded call to Jules, who calmed me down by reminding me that he was working and not just blowing me off. He was the one who had pursued me, after all. Fifteen minutes later, I decided I’d had my fill of waiting, and called him to tell him as much. “Hey, babe,” he said when he picked up the phone. “I’d invite you up, but Adam gets weird about having fans around.” Fans? “Trust me, I’m not a fan of anyone up there right now,” I said, surprising myself with the edge in my voice. “Okay, come up, but just play it cool.” he teased. I was beyond cool—I was positively icy. “It won’t be a problem,” I said, wondering whether I should just bag the whole thing entirely.

The frost melted, however, when the elevator doors opened and Russell stood there waiting for me. He gave me a hug and whispered, “It’s good to see you,” before leading me to the suite where Adam was wrapping up his interview. When Russell finally had clearance to leave, we decided to grab a few drinks at the hotel bar. Russell held my hand, stroked my leg and talked about himself—his apartment in the Hills, his career aspirations ... the list went on. I overlooked his self-absorption, though, choosing to focus on the glow I would get from a Four Seasons slumber party and reminding myself that I had seen this part coming.

But by the time the bar was closing down (and we’d engaged in a few clandestine kisses) Russell surprised me yet again. “I’d invite you to my room, but I’m pretty beat,” he said. “You free tomorrow night?” I tried to appear unfazed by my dismissal, but inside I was stunned—I’d prepared a defensive strategy for how far I was willing to take things that night, but nowhere in my playbook had I accounted for a forfeit on his end. I muttered something about talking tomorrow and fled for the elevator.

The next afternoon I got a text from him: “Had to leave for L.A. a day early. Wish we could have had that date, but great to see you.”

“He probably had an STD outbreak,” Sia kindly hypothesized when I filled her in. Some-how, I doubted it. But perplexed as I was by Russell’s hot/cold behavior, what I really couldn’t wrap my head around was how hurt I felt. How could someone I wasn’t really interested in have the capability to bruise my ego to this extent? “Because you were expecting a boost and instead you got ... ” she trailed off. “Rejected?” I offered. And that’s when it hit me: Sia’s warnings weren’t about me overlooking some quality in Russell; they were about me overlooking a quality in myself. As much as I had convinced myself that I could achieve a Buddhist-like detachment with regards to the weekend, I was really only fine with the outcome I had outlined in my head.

It was like in Notes on a Scandal, when Cate Blanchett’s character says that the phrase “mind the gap” refers to “the distance between life as you dream it and life as it is.” As much as I thought I’d watched my step, I’d still managed to get swallowed up by the space between. It’s not that my expectations were particularly unreasonable; it was that I couldn’t help but have them, and therein lay the disappointment.

And while I wasn’t sure I’d ever be one of those people who are able to clear their heads of preconceptions, I took solace in the fact that I am someone whose instincts about people are usually true. It was up to me to take better care of myself—such good care, in fact, that I’d never again fool myself into relying on echinacea to make me feel better.

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