Elaine Benes
Last Friday night I flew to Scotland to see a play that my husband directed for the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. The plan was to stay in Edinburgh for the final three performances and then spend a week exploring the rest of the country with my husband and the playwright, a man who also happens to be one of my husband’s closest friends. Now, as I ride around the Scottish Highlands with these two 30-somethings, I can’t help but think that I’ve left the world of Sex and the City and entered an episode of Seinfeld.
My traveling partners represent the best and the worst of the Seinfeld gang. Between the two of them, they are as neurotic as George, as funny as Jerry, and as strange and slap-happy as Kramer. They repeatedly get themselves into absurd situations and nothing, nothing is sentimental. And yet, in the midst of all this, I find myself not only holding my own as Elaine, but enjoying every minute of it.
On this trip, conversations about feelings have been replaced by conversations about events. The debate over the existence of soul mates, the one I’ve had with girls over wine in the West Village, has been usurped by a whiskey-fueled debate over whether breakfast is or is not the most awesome meal of the day. The hours that would have been spent analyzing texts messages from love interests were I traveling with the ladies, have instead been spent quoting Groundhog Day and The Big Lebowski and Monty Python. Making fun of one another is not only allowed, it’s encouraged, and anything that is related to Louise Hay, The Secret, or Deepak Choprah is automatically dismissed without consequence. The whole thing is refreshing.
I’ve made another interesting discovery during my time here with the boys. Last night at dinner, my husband’s friend made a comment about our waitress being pretty. I would never have noticed her if he hadn’t pointed her out. As soon as he said it my husband chimed in, agreeing as if he’d been thinking the same thing all along. I told them I didn’t understand. My husband rolled his eyes and said that girls always assume that men only notice blondes with big breasts and how many times had he told me that wasn’t true? The brunette waitress with the big eyes, average body, and ill-fitting skirt could have been Elaine or…well…me. Again, refreshing.
I think we girls could all learn something from a little trip with the boys. Remember what happened when Miranda had that friendly chat with Berger and the entire “He’s Just Not That Into You” industry was born? There is stuff to be mined here, ladies. And don’t worry about the Monty Python thing—I’ve never seen it either.
My husband often tells me I dance like Elaine.
Emily Sproch is a writer and a “Sex and the City” tour guide. Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”
