How to Be Single (2 page)

“By staying busy. By doing interesting things. I kayak in the Hudson, rock climb at Chelsea Piers, take carpentry classes at Home Depot, which you should totally do with me, by the way, I made an amazing cabinet, and I'm also thinking about taking this sailing course at the South Street Seaport. I'm keeping busy doing things I find interesting, so that I can trick myself into forgetting that I'm really just trying to look for guys. Because you can't look desperate. That's the
worst
.”

As she is telling people this, she often comes across as a little deranged, particularly because she's usually chain-popping Tums as she says all this. Her indigestion problems stem, I believe, from a little acid reflux condition called “I'm terrified of being alone.”

So, of course, who else would I call first when I needed to go out with a bunch of girlfriends and “have fun” than Alice, who is basically a professional at it now. She now knows all the bartenders, doormen, maître d's, bars, clubs, out-of-the-way places, tourist hangouts, dives, and happening scenes in New York City. And naturally, Alice was ready to go.

“I'm on it,” she said. “Don't you worry. We'll make sure tomorrow night, Georgia has the best time of her life.”

I hung up the phone, relieved. I knew I could count on Alice, because no matter how Alice's life might have changed, she still loved a good cause.

How Serena Is Single

“It's too smoky, no way.”

“You don't even know where we're going.”

“I know, but it's going to be too smoky. Every place is too smoky.”

“Serena, there's a smoking ban in New York; you can't smoke in bars.”

“I know, but it still seems too smoky. And it's always too loud at these places.”

We are sitting at the Zen Palate—the only place I have ever met Serena at in the past three years. Serena doesn't like to go out. Serena also doesn't like to eat cheese, gluten, nightshade vegetables, nonorganic vegetables, and pineapple. None of it agrees with her blood type. If you haven't guessed, Serena is very, very thin. She is one of those very pretty, waiflike blond girls you see in yoga classes in every major city across America. She is a vegetarian chef for a New York celebrity family, about whom I'm not allowed to speak due to a confidentiality agreement Serena made me sign so that she wouldn't feel guilty about breaking the confidentiality agreement
she
signed with her employer when she gossiped to me about them. Really. But let's just say for the purposes here, that their names are Robert and Joanna, and their son's name is Kip. And to be honest, Serena doesn't say anything bad about them at all; they treat her really well and seem to appreciate her gentle spirit. But by God, when Madonna comes over for lunch and makes a dig about Serena's cooking, Serena has to be able to tell someone. She's only human.

Serena is also a student of Hinduism. She believes in equanimity in all things. She wants to see divine perfection in all of life, even the fact that she literally hasn't had a date or sex in four years. She sees this as perfection, the world showing her that she needs to work on herself more. For how can you really be a true partner to someone until you are a fully realized human being yourself?

So Serena has worked on herself. She has worked on herself to such an extent that she has actually become a human maze. I pity the man who ever attempts to enter the winding corridors and dead-end tunnels that are her dietary restrictions, meditation schedule, new age workshops, yoga classes, vitamin regimes, and distilled water needs. If she works on herself any more, she will become a shut-in.

Serena is that friend you always see alone; the one whom no one else knows. The one who, if you ever mention her in passing, prompts your other friends to say, “Serena? You have a friend named Serena?” But things weren't always like this. I met Serena in college and she used to be just like everyone else. She was always a tad obsessive-compulsive, but back then it was a quirk and not a lifestyle choice. All through her twenties she would meet guys and go out. And she had a long-term boyfriend for three years as well. Clyde. He was really sweet and was crazy about her, but Serena always knew he wasn't the one. She sort of settled into a nice routine with him—and if you haven't guessed, Serena does enjoy her routines. So we encouraged her not to lead him along—never dreaming that he might be the last real relationship for the rest of her wheat-free life. And after Clyde she still managed to date—not aggressively so, but whenever something came up. But around thirty-five, when she never found anyone who truly interested her, she started focusing on other aspects of her life. Which, to be fair, is what many of the self-help books that I help publicize tell women to do. These books also tell you to love yourself. In fact, if you had to boil every self-help book down to two words, it would be “love yourself.” I can't tell you why, but this irritates me immensely.

So Serena started focusing on other things, and thus began the classes and crazy diet stuff. Unlike Alice, at least in terms of dating, Serena decided to go quietly into that good night. It's a slippery slope, the decision just to let go of the dream of love in your life. Because if done well, it can make you relax, enjoy your life, and actually allow your inner light to shine brighter and stronger than ever before. (Yes, I am talking about someone's inner light—we are dealing with Serena right now, after all.) But in my opinion, that strategy, if followed incorrectly or for too long, can make your light go out, slowly, day by day. You can become sexless and cut off. Even though I think it might be extreme to quit your job to start dating, I don't think you can ever just sit back and let love just find you. Love isn't that clever. Love isn't actually all that concerned about you. I think love is out there finding people whose lights are burning so brightly that you could actually see them from the space shuttle. And frankly, somewhere between the high-colonics and the African dance classes, Serena's light went out.

But still, she has a calming effect on me. She is capable of listening to me vent about how much I hate my job, with the patience of Gandhi. Besides the books I have already mentioned, I have helped publicize such tomes as
The Clock Is Ticking! How to Meet and Marry the Man of Your Dreams in Ten Days, How to Know if Your Man Really Loves You,
and the runaway hit
How to Be Lovely
(it's supposedly the secret to all feminine happiness).

I grew up in New Jersey, not so terribly far away, just a bridge or a tunnel from the city of my dreams. I moved here to be a writer, then I thought I might be a documentary filmmaker, then I even took a few courses in anthropology, thinking I might move to Africa and study the Masai warriors or some other almost-extinct tribe. I am fascinated by our species, and loved the idea of reporting on them in some way. But I realized I inherited a strong practical streak from my father. I liked indoor plumbing, and knowing I had health insurance. So I got a job in publishing.

But now, the novelty of being able to afford groceries had definitely lost its initial thrill. And throughout all my complaining, Serena listens quietly.

“Why don't you just quit?”

“And do what? Get another job in publicity? I hate publicity. Or be unemployed? I'm too dependent on a steady paycheck to be that free-spirited.”

“Sometimes you have to take a risk.”

If
Serena
was thinking I was in a rut, I knew things must be really bad. “Like what?” I asked.

“Like—didn't you always say you wanted to write?”

“Yes. But I don't have a big enough ego to be a writer.”

In my professional life, I was a bit stuck. My “voice of reason,” so relied on by others, only caused me to talk myself out of pretty much everything. But every Friday, Serena would listen to me bitch about my work frustrations as if it were the first time I was bringing it up.

So I thought, why not? My friends have always been curious about her. Why not try to convince her to go out?

“The chances of any of us going out tomorrow night and meeting the man of our dreams is practically zero. So why bother?” Serena asked as she took another bite of her tempeh burger.

In terms of the facts, Serena has a point. I have been going out at night in the hopes of meeting the one guy that's going to adore me for the rest of my life. Let's say I've been doing this for two or three times a week for, oh, fifteen years. I have met men and dated, but clearly, as of today, not the guy that gets written down in my big book of life as “The One.” That adds up to a hell of a lot of nights out
not
meeting the man of my dreams.

I know, I know, we weren't just going out to meet men. We were going out to have fun, to celebrate being single and being sort of young (or at least not yet old) and alive and living in the best city in the world. It's just funny how when you finally do meet someone and begin dating, the first thing you both do is start staying home to snuggle on the couch. Because going out with your friends was simply that much fun.

So I couldn't really argue with Serena. The whole concept of “going out” is somewhat flawed. But I continued my plea. “We're not going out to meet guys. We are just going out to go out. To show Georgia that it's fun to just go out. To be out in the world, eating, drinking, talking, laughing. Sometimes something unexpected happens and sometimes, most of the time, you just go home. But you go out, you know, to
go out.
To see what
might
happen. That's the fun of it.”

The argument for the benefits of spontaneity and the unknown was usually not the way to Serena's heart, but for some reason, she agreed.

“Fine. But I don't want it to be anywhere too smoky or too noisy. And make sure they have a vegetable plate on the menu.”

How Ruby Is Single

And then, there's Ruby.

It was Saturday, at two in the afternoon, and I had come over to Ruby's apartment to try to recruit her into going out that night—and because I knew she might not have gotten out of bed yet.

Ruby opened the door in her pajamas. Her hair was severely matted, almost in a predreadlocked state of knots.

“Did you get out of bed today?” I asked, worried.

“Yes. Of course. Right now,” she said, offended. She proceeded to walk back into her bedroom. Her apartment was impeccably neat. None of your cliché telltale depression signs, such as moldy ice cream cartons, half-eaten doughnuts, or weeks of dirty laundry strewn around. She was a very tidy depressive. It gave me hope.

“How are you feeling today?” I asked, following her into her bedroom.

“Better. When I woke up he wasn't the first thing I thought about.” She crawled back into her very fluffy, downy, flowery bed and pulled the covers around her. It looked really comfortable. I was starting to think about taking a nap myself.

“Great!” I said, knowing I was about to hear much more than that. Ruby is an adorable, long-haired brunette, a perfectly curvy, feminine creature of soothing tones and tender words. And Ruby likes to talk about her feelings.

She sat up. “My first thought this morning was ‘I feel okay.' You know what I mean—that moment before you remember who you are and what the actual facts of your life are? My first thought, in my gut, in my body, was ‘I feel okay.' I haven't felt like that in a long time. Usually, you know, I open my eyes and I already feel like shit. Like in my sleep I was feeling like shit, and waking up was just an extension of that, you know? But this morning, my first thought was ‘I feel okay.' As if my body wasn't, you know, housing any more sadness.”

“That's awesome,” I said, cheerfully. Maybe things aren't as bad as I thought.

“Yeah, well, of course, once I remembered everything, then I started crying and couldn't stop for three hours. But I think it was an improvement, you know? It made me see that I was getting better. Because Ralph can't stay in my memory so strongly, he just can't. Soon I'll wake up and it'll take me three whole minutes to start crying about him. And then fifteen minutes. And then an hour, then a whole day, and then I'll finally be through this, you know?” She looked as if she was going to start crying again.

Ralph was Ruby's cat. He died of kidney failure three months ago. She has been keeping me updated on the physical sensations of her profound depression every day since. This is particularly difficult for me because I have absolutely no idea why anyone would pour all their emotional energy into something that can't even give you a back rub. And not only that, but I feel superior about it. I believe anyone with a pet is actually weaker than I. Because when I ask somebody why they love their pet so much, they invariably say something like, “You just can't believe the amount of unconditional love Beemie gives me.” Well, guess what. I don't need unconditional love, how about that? I need conditional love. I need someone who can walk on two legs and form sentences and use tools and remind me that that was the second time in a week that I yelled at a customer service person over the phone when I didn't get my way and
I may want to look into that.
I need to be loved by someone who can fully comprehend that when he sees me get locked out of my apartment three times in one month, that that may very well be the Thing About Me That Is Never Going to Change. And he loves me anyway. Not because it's an unconditional love, but because he actually truly knows me and has decided that my fascinating mind and hot bod are worth perhaps missing a flight or two because I forgot my driver's license at home.