by Ilyse Mimoun
“So you’re not really a mermaid,” you say, idiotically.
“Of course I am,” Shelly says.
“That’s a costume,” you point out as Shelly swings her legs into it.
Shelly leans forward in an irritated whisper. “What are you doing? I thought you guys were into MCP.”
“Sssh, honey,” Max says.
“MCP,” Shelly continues. “Mythical Creature Play. I thought that’s what this is about. You’re supposed to go along with it.”
You feel blood pounding in your temples. Mommy Tired equals Mommy Stupid. How could you not have realized? But if Shelly isn’t a mermaid, this is just Greg and Oasis all over again. It’s just another man wanting to have kinky sex with a pretty young girl. No! Shelly isn’t a mermaid—it doesn’t count!
On the other hand, kicking Shelly out now means openly admitting you believed this girl was going to turn into a fish.
It’s humiliating!
Humiliation Shmumiliation—no freebies for Max. Kick her out, turn to page 98, section 28.
Ah, what the hell? Jump on the MCP train!
Turn to page 16, section 5.
23
There are obvious things you should do now, such as exercise, look for a job, or write a Facebook post about how blessed and grateful you are to be going through a difficult time because this is when you learn the most.
Instead, you go see an old friend at a comedy show––Lord knows she’s posted enough about it on social media. It’s nice to hide in the darkness of the crowded theater that reeks of stale beer and cleaning fluid smeared on the tables. Plus, it’s only five dollars. Your friend’s jokes are mostly about dieting, sex, and her mother-in-law. It’s hard to muster up chuckles. But the laughter of the rest of the crowd eases your loneliness. You are all here in search of a smile. You are all here to share in the (almost) universal experience of feeling like a complete loser. You start attending stand-up comedy regularly. You don’t laugh much, but you do appreciate the humiliation involved. There’s a kinship there.
However, you notice with concern that a lot of comics use the word vagina lately. In fact, the word is bandied about everywhere: movies, sitcoms, YouTube videos. Your problem with the vagina thing is that no one is using the word correctly. The female genitals are not vaginas. The hole is the vagina. The whole thing, the external genitals, that’s a vulva.
You want everyone to say vulva, you want your mother to stop asking if you have met a man yet, and you want it to be okay that you won’t wake up early enough to spruce up your limp hair. Is this too much to ask?
Let’s face it: You are not drop-dead gorgeous. You’re just kinda cute and adequately proportioned. That’s not easy in Los Angeles. Is it anywhere?
Your mom says it’s fine, just remember you never know who you’re going to bump into at the supermarket. But you do know who you’re going to bump into at the supermarket—Luis, the guy at the register. He’s married, like everyone else. You would like to be married too, but you don’t want to doll up every time you buy frozen chicken nuggets. You like to be relaxed and authentic. Maybe authenticity isn’t obviously sexy and that’s why Greg preferred Oasis, but you bet a lot of other guys will find it refreshing.
“They might not find it as refreshing as you think,” your friend Meg tells you one Sunday night. You are at Meg’s opulent Brentwood home, sipping chilled white wine in the master bedroom. Meg is a few years older but light years ahead of you. She’s rich, successful, married to a devoted stock analyst, and mother to an adorable dumpling of a child. You’d hate her guts if she weren’t one of your best friends.
“The thing you have to realize is that dating in your thirties is a lot different from your twenties.”
“Oh that’s a revelation,” you snap at her. “I know about my stupid biological clock, okay?!” Who even wants kids anyway, you say silently. All your friends with kids are perpetually exhausted, cranky, and overwhelmed by drudgery. Then they post baby pics on Instagram about how miraculous it all is. Ugh.
Meg says, “Ssshh, you’ll wake the baby! This isn’t about biological clocks. But you can’t get away with the stuff you did in your youth anymore. You have to start knowing a little about fashion and style.”
This you do not want to hear because you’ve never been great about fashion and style. You never understand when something is blousy or just frumpy and when it is tight/sexy or tight/too small. But suddenly Meg is doing a whole fashion lesson, describing which kind of sneakers are “unacceptable,” jeans with “good fades,” and “belts.” You try to explain that you never wear belts—you fundamentally don’t understand them. Are you supposed to purposely buy clothes that are too big so that you can wear a belt? What outfits warrant a chunky versus a thin belt?
“I don’t understand the fashion rules,” you explain, “especially the one that says there are no rules, because really what that means is that there are rules, they’re just too confusing to be explained clearly. I can’t be bothered with all that. I don’t have the time. I’ve become an avid supporter of the Los Angeles comedy scene.”
“Just try this on,” Meg throws a bright yellow dress at you. It has loops and compartments and seems like it’s from the future.
“I don’t even understand where these flaps go,” you say, but Meg has stopped listening. She is staring at your body as you pull the dress over your head. Her glossy mouth hangs open in horror.
“What?” you ask.
Meg’s jaw clenches grimly.
“Just say it!”
“Okay,” Meg breathes slowly, trying to calm herself down. “What is that underwear?”
You look down and chuckle fondly at your ten-year-old Costco panties. “What? Are they really bad or something?”
But Meg is truly horrified. “They’re homeless-people underwear.”
You laugh again. You know you should feel the standard female levels of shame and self-hatred, but you really don’t understand what your friend is saying.
“What’s so bad about them?”
“There are holes in them! They’re falling apart!”
You look again as though in a fog. There are holes, they are falling apart, but you’re having a hard time grasping what’s so bad about that.
“I mean they’re not unflattering,” you say. “My body looks okay—you know, for a normal woman. They’re not lingerie or something.”
Meg is just as confused as you.
“I don’t understand what’s going on here,” Meg says. “You need to throw those out. Does all your underwear look like that?”
“Well, some are worse,” you say. “These aren’t period underwear.”
“You have more than one pair of underwear with holes in them?” Meg starts ransacking her meticulous underwear drawers, grabbing pretty, lacy panties and throwing them at your face.
“So it’s the holes that are bad?” Your brain feels gooey.
“It’s everything! They’re like a hundred years old!”
“Oh . . . but, I mean, they still work.”
“No, they don’t!” Meg struggles to break down a seemingly simple concept. “They’re not holding you up. And they bunch up and creep out of your jeans!”
“Well, I pull them down,” you say. “Are you saying you just throw out perfectly good underwear?”
“They’re not perfectly good!” Meg finally explodes. “They’re terrible, terrible underwear! Shit, I’m going to wake the baby.”
The two of you stand there.
Your friend: beautiful, fashionable, successful.
You: disheveled, half-naked, wondering if you have enough frozen chicken nuggets left for dinner.
Meg quiets down and takes one last look at your withering cotton friend. “Just get rid of them.”
“Okay. I had no idea. I mean, I know they’re not like underwear people wear in the movies, but I’m not one of those girls.”
Meg’s frustration has turned to concern, so she gathers some patience.
&
nbsp; “You don’t have to be one of those girls, sweetie. But underwear is more than a strip of cloth to protect your genitals.”
“Ohh,” you murmur. “It’s weird because that’s exactly how I think of them.”
“No,” she urges. “Underwear can actually work for you. It can make you look good in your clothes or be attractive when you’re out of your clothes. I mean you’re single now . . . ”
All of a sudden, finally, it hits you. You wore this underwear with your ex-boyfriend Greg. This is why he left you for Oasis. Of course—it wasn’t his fear of commitment! Does any man even have a fear of commitment, or is that just something women fabricate to feel slightly less horrible?
“Oh my god,” you say, sitting quietly on the bed. “How could I have thought he didn’t care about panties or insouciance? Deep down all guys want one of those girls. I’m not refreshing . . . I’m disgusting.” The tears start falling.
“No,” Meg says.
“Yes,” you cry. “I’m like some weird freak. I’ve somehow missed the memo on how to live life as a human.” You can feel your scalp tingling into the shape of a conehead.
It had never occurred to you that somewhere between being a Victoria’s Secret model and a hideous lunatic is some sort of moderate approach to underwear. You just didn’t see it.
You know what to do! Get your ass in shape, get some sexy underwear, and get your true love Greg back once and for all!
Turn to page 138, section 38.
So maybe you’re a little gross—someone has to find that charming.
Stay true to yourself and turn to page 85, section 25.
24
For some strange reason you don’t actually want to savage this Adonis. Yes, there is a passion inside you, but if you listen closely, what it’s really asking you to do is . . . paint a picture of the moussaka at your table.
What?
You take another sip of ouzo and quiet yourself. You focus again on that stirring in your heart.
Paint the moussaka!
Huh?
Paint it!
It’s a strange compulsion, but following your instincts has led to good things lately. A two-day search leads you to a hidden crafts store to buy paints and an easel. You lug them to the balcony of your little hostel and let the wind cool your flushed cheeks. You begin painting, the strokes coming naturally, as if from another person. A divine energy is working through you, bringing the lasagna-like dish from your mind onto the paper in lush, vivid strokes!
From here you enter a state of clear, contented knowing.
You are meant to live in Greece. You are meant to paint food. You are meant to be untethered by romantic entanglements and live as free as the wind. It flutters through your hair now, in tandem with your wild heart.
THE END
25
“Honey,” Meg sighs. “People don’t break up because of underwear. And if it meant that much to him, he should have said something.”
At that moment the baby starts crying, and you are left with your own fevered brain. Your first thought is to call Greg––heart slayer!––to beg him to forgive you and give you a chance to make it right. You can get fun little polka-dotted panties or maybe those shiny, porny kinds . . . but then you think:
If I start wearing perfectly intact underwear, what’s next? Wearing skinny jeans to Trader Joe’s? Doing a juice cleanse? Getting Brazilian waxes and referring to them as “just keeping tidy”? Where does it end?
Meg’s baby crawls groggily into the room, excited that his “auntie” is here. You scoop him against your chest and feel his sweet powdery breath on your cheek. Maybe being a godmother is enough. You think of your own three great aunts, how none of them ever married, and you wonder what kind of panties they wore. You decide right now that you can at least commit to throwing away mostly disintegrated clothing—that seems reasonable.
It doesn’t much matter because your next boyfriend, J. P., is a terrific guy who says he doesn’t care about undergarments at all. And he says that belts are for suckers and that your opposition to whimsy is charming. But then, for your birthday—sexy underwear.
Guys may not be as complicated as you thought.
You tell J. P. that lingerie is a gift for him, not you, and you would have preferred a beautiful teacup. You almost add: Plus, they aren’t even cotton-crotch! You might as well have given me a yeast infection wrapped in tissue paper!
What stops you is the thought that maybe, on some level, lingerie is a decent gift. Maybe every woman—whether she is beautiful or plain, married or single, quirky and perky, or grumpy and dumpy—maybe you all deserve a beautiful pair of underwear.
“I guess I’ll put them on later,” you say.
“That’s entirely up to you,” J. P. says. “I just want your vulva to be happy.”
He could be the one.
Have you finally met your match?
Turn to page 87, section 26.
26
You have hit the jackpot, Miss Thang! J. P. is a real adult—stable, mature, and self-assured. He’s sandy haired and trim, with a reassuring smile like he could run a Wall Street meeting or clean up a kid’s puke, and it will all turn out just fine. You’ve now been dating for twelve weeks, and they’ve whizzed by in a colorful blur of avant-garde art exhibits and world music concerts.
Tonight you’re munching (rubbery) chicken tikka masala and basmati rice at a new Indian restaurant near his Hancock Park condo.
“This food probably doesn’t live up to your standards,” J. P. says sheepishly. “I remember it being better.”
“Oh posh!” you say, though he’s right. The masala sauce is all butter without the delicate interplay of paprika, cumin, and cinnamon that ought to be there. But you don’t want to make J. P. feel bad. After all, it’s hard to be a man these days. You and your friends still want guys to be powerful and dominant but only in an evolved diaper-changing way. It’s a tightrope.
J. P. has walked it well—allowing himself to get teary at a foreign film but assertive in the boudoir. Making you scrambled eggs for breakfast but killing bugs with swift efficiency. There is a lot of late-night soulful talking too. Masala shmasala!
And now he says, “So what do you think about meeting my parents in a week or so? They’ve done some remodeling and want to show it off.”
Your heart scampers inside its little cage. Meet his creators!
“You don’t think it’s too soon for that?” you ask casually. You don’t want to appear too eager about the offer, don’t want to be one of those girls who does hula hoops every time a guy steps the relationship forward. At the same time, you want to be sweet and encouraging. It’s a tightrope.
“Well, I won’t propose that night, how’s that?” J. P. winks. Few men can get away with winking, but J. P. is a natural. He’s got a law degree from Berkeley and now helps run a company teaching students how to prepare for the LSAT. You wonder how many winks he has to throw at the hordes of anxious students before they can relax and focus on their logic puzzles. Sometimes he sends you a puzzle, but you’d rather curl up on the couch with a Brontë novel.
“Oh, my parents are going to love your whole literature thing. My dad is very into Joan Didion.”
“Hmm,” you say mysteriously. After a decade of dating, you’ve decided a little game playing is okay in the first months. Your new goal is to reel them in with your quiet wit and then slowly let the crazy out. It’s not like you’re truly unstable or anything, but having been tackled so many times on the football field of love, you’re a little bruised.
Tonight all the others recede into the background of your mind, with only J. P. shining brightly in the fore. You are two mature adults ready for commitment. You can do this. In the days leading up to meeting his parents you both fall in love a bit more.
The morning of the dinner is uncommonly drizzly. You and J. P. cuddle up on the couch with coffee and the New York Times and rain pouring against the window. He breathes into your neck and caresses your
soft belly. You feel yourself slipping into that dream state, as though you have been holding onto a bright balloon in the clouds and now are floating away.
You’re still wrapped in that gauzy bliss when you knock on the Morettis’ door.
“Oh my God, she’s beautiful,” Mrs. Moretti immediately pulls you into an intense hug. She is a tiny woman, and you can feel her bones press against you. Her face is delicate, and her slacks and silky blouse look like they cost more than your rent.
J. P. winks and takes your hand as you enter an elegant Beachwood mansion.
“What a lovely place,” you murmur.
“We should really get a smaller one,” Mrs. Moretti says. “WHO NEEDS IT?!” The roar is surprising bursting out of such a small body. What she lacks in flesh she makes up for with sheer lung power.
You smile shyly, and Mrs. Moretti shoves a glass of wine in your hand. “It’s from Napa Valley! SIT DOWN!” You note her habit of working toward a yell at the end of any given thought.
You and J. P. sit down next to each other as Mother barks, “BOYS!” and her husband and another handsome man amble in.
“Steve . . . what are you doing here?” J. P. was not expecting to see his lanky, unshaven brother.
“Laid off again, dude. Kathy split. I’m just regrouping.”
J. P. has only briefly mentioned his brother to you, something about a distant relationship and a gambling problem. J. P.’s pursed lips do not suggest pleasure at the reunion.
“Regrouping,” Mr. Moretti grunts in a thick Italian accent. He is thick, swarthy, and as authoritative as his wife. He settles into his chair. “Mooching is what we call it.”
“Fuck off, Dad,” Steve says.
“Go fuck yourself,” Mr. Moretti says back. They aren’t yelling, but they aren’t smiling either, and you have no idea whether they are kidding or not. People in your family don’t talk this way.
“YOU LIKE SALAD!” Mrs. Moretti barks. It’s not a question, so you just take the bowl of dandelion salad placed in front of you. You are mentally rehearsing answers to all the expected questions (What do you do? Do you want kids? Where are your parents from?), but no one asks you anything.
