ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY. I’m getting married again.

December 2, 1982

I’m getting married again.

It’s not a decision I’ve taken lightly. But after seventeen years of miserable bachelorhood I’ve come to understand why Noah’s Ark was not a singles’ cruise.

I’ve been fighting the prospect ever since my initial marital catastrophe. The only trouble is, I get lonely — especially around Christmastime. So I’ve finally resolved to get remarried. And by the time The Class gathers in June, I want to be able to trumpet the great news.

Now all I have to do is find a wife.

The possibilities are rich and various.

First, there’s Laura Hartley, whom I saw a lot of in New York. Of course, she’s probably too high-powered for me, being managing editor of a famous women’s magazine. I admire career girls and Laura sure is dynamic. It’s probably why, at thirty-nine, she hasn’t gotten married yet. I mean, she’s so dedicated to her job that sometimes when we’re in bed she leaps out to write down an idea for a column or a feature. And this can sometimes spoil the mood.

There are also a couple of other small problems.

First, she doesn’t eat.

Not that she’s overweight. On the contrary, Laura’s like a toothpick in boots. She’s on a perpetual diet of coffee and sugarless chewing gum. I don’t know how she survives, but it’s kind of rough on me since I have to gobble a sandwich when she isn’t looking.

The second difficulty is that she smokes. Not just occasionally, but an endless chain of unfiltered cigarettes that pretty well fog up her apartment. And with her near-emaciation and the low visibility, it is sometimes hard to know if she’s actually there.

Still I thought she was a definite candidate until I moved up to Boston.

This city is a real mecca for nubilities. To begin with, Beacon Hill is populated with clones of Faith — newer, turbo-charged models, you might say. Yet, I seem to have a Pavlovian aversion to female preppies. So I keep my distance from the deb set. Especially since there are so many other possibilities.

Like Cora Avery. She’s probably one of the most glowing examples of young womanhood in the whole United States. I met her while jogging along the Charles one afternoon. It was clear even despite her floppy sweatsuit that she had an absolutely amazing figure. I was able to keep up with her just long enough to get her phone number. And we started going out.

On our first date I learned that she was a gym teacher at Brookline High. And a marathon runner. And a skier. And a long-distance swimmer. For relaxation she did aerobic dancing.

Naturally she wanted to recruit me for all these invigorating activities, and initially I went along. The fact that every muscle in my body ached was compensated by the fact that she could give a really great massage.

For a while there I thought We really had something going. But when I started staying overnight at her place I began to get cold feet. Literally. She’d shake me at 5:00 A.M., make me down a cocktail of megavitamins, and drag me out to jog. None of Boston’s notoriously inclement weather could deter her. Like a mailman, neither snow nor rain nor sleet nor gloom of night could keep her from her appointed rounds. We’d get back at around seven, and instead of letting me tumble into a bath or back to bed, we had to spend another half-hour lifting weights. By the time I got to the office I was a wreck.

But she was a great kid and liked me a lot. She’d often call and suggest we spend a lunch hour together. Unfortunately, this was always at the Harvard pool. Where, after quickly downing a can of Nutrament, she would entice me into the water and I would wearily paddle while she churned her daily mile.

Even my friends remarked that I’d never looked better in my life. And I know if I married Cora I’d probably live to be at least a hundred.

But then there are a couple of drawbacks.

I was beginning to get so tired in the evenings that when she returned from dance class feeling all romantic, I was simply too exhausted to do anything but snooze. She began to think I was not interested in her body. In truth, I was obsessed by her body. It was my own that was the problem.

At the end of next semester she plans to move to Hawaii, where there are better facilities to train for the triathlon (a combination of swimming, biking, and marathoning).

So, time is running out.

The reason I’m having trouble deciding is that new opportunities present themselves at every turn.

There’s Roz, a divorcee who lives in Weston. She’s bright, well read, and (for a change) a terrific cook. She’s constantly asking me out to the house, which is where I find the single obstacle. Or rather, multiple one. Her five kids loathe me. And I guess they’d have to be included in a connubial arrangement.

There are lots of other candidates too. But none of them seems to be quite right.

Perhaps it’s my fault, I guess my expectations are too high. I’d like to marry someone who enjoys sitting quietly (without doing push-ups) and chatting about everything from politics to children. A woman who enjoys reading the same books and discussing them.

Most of all, I’d like to find someone as lonely as I. Who wants a hand to hold and a grown-up person to love. Maybe that’s too much to ask, But I’ll keep looking.

***

From the “Milestones” section of Time magazine, January 4, 1983:

DIVORCED. George Keller , 47, Deputy Secretary of State, and Catherine Fitzgerald Keller , 39, political activist; on grounds of irreconcilable differences; after nine years of marriage; no children.