Why Not Me?

by Mindy Kaling

  An enormous vintage diamond engagement ring you are giving to me because you are going to announce at dinner that I am yours. I can’t believe it! I’m being proposed to at my own fussy dinner party even though I had all these irritating restrictions! I’m the luckiest girl on earth!

  A huge appetite and a cheerful tolerance for solid B-minus cooking. Just a friendly reminder: I truly cannot cook.

  PLAYER

  I WAS AT A friend’s birthday party at one of those bars in downtown L.A. where the cocktail waitresses have to dress up like Sally Bowles and take your drink orders in character. I was twenty-five and pretending to like the taste of absinthe. I had just been dumped by Nate, a guy I’d dated briefly. Nate was a comedy writer I had met at the gym. Every week or so he would wander over while I was on the elliptical machine and make small talk. Well, small talk for a comedy writer, which meant asking me nervously about some perceived environmental hazard at our gym. Once he asked if I thought there was asbestos coming out of the air-conditioner duct. Another time if the towels smelled like mildew. Every time, I told him no. I never think environmental hazards are going to kill me. I only think serial killers are.

  After months of thinking he was simply a friendly hypochondriac whose neuroses extended to bothering strangers while they did cardio, Nate asked me out. He turned out to be cooler than I thought, and I was impressed by his opinions about movies and music: he liked nothing unless he knew someone personally involved (I was twenty-five, this was a cool attitude to have then). But after two months of dating, he stopped calling me. Perhaps it was because I was never as alarmed about our health safety as he was; maybe it was because it was clear I wasn’t going to have sex for months and months (again, I was twenty-five); maybe he just thought I was lame. I will never know. It surprisingly hurt my feelings, because I made the mistake of talking about him excitedly to my friends, and then it was over.

  So it was not a great night at this Sally Bowles bar. It was a birthday party for a friend of a friend, but the first friend ended up not being able to go, so I was stuck with a room full of strangers. I could’ve bailed, but I was feeling a little lonely and therefore susceptible to a naïve spurt of positivity where I convinced myself: Who cares if you don’t know anyone? That’s the only way to meet someone!

  Of course, Nate was there, and he was making animated chitchat across the bar with a briefcase model from Deal or No Deal. She didn’t have her briefcase with her or anything, but people kept marveling about it. Something about having the prop of a briefcase made this model go from simply “hot” to “hot and interesting.” It was like the briefcases were fooling people into thinking all these models were not human display cases but in fact accomplished businesswomen. I was wearing a black pinafore-style dress with a long-sleeved T-shirt underneath, which, when I was getting dressed at home, seemed very stylish and French. But suddenly, in the face of the unabashed hotness of a Deal or No Deal girl, I felt like a middle-aged au pair for a family in the Pacific Palisades. I was nursing an absinthe because, though I loathe any alcoholic drink that isn’t brimming with maraschino cherries, this was the specialty drink of the venue, and I was in the kind of mood where I desperately wanted to fit in.

  After fifteen minutes of trying to make friendly eye contact with people and failing, I sighed and decided it was time to go home, figuring that if I left now I could pick up a Filet-O-Fish from the McDonald’s drive-thru and still catch “Weekend Update” on SNL. The number of times I have bailed on something on a Saturday night with the hopes that I could be “home in time for ‘Weekend Update’ ” is in the dozens. Somehow if I made it back in time to see Amy Poehler and Tina Fey’s take on the news, the night would not have been a total bust.

  I was pulling cash out of my clutch to pay when I saw her.

  IT IS THE EAST AND GRETA IS THE SUN

  Entering the speakeasy was a beautiful pale girl with long shiny blond hair, dressed in torn jeans and Converse, a plaid shirt tied sloppily around her shoulders. She was the only girl in the bar not wearing heels, and definitely the only person at the bar besides the busboys wearing sneakers. She carried an enormous Chanel bag. She was at once underdressed and overqualified for this party, and was instantly the coolest person there. She made eye contact with me, smiled, waved, and headed toward me. I smiled back. I did not know her.

  Had we gone to high school together? Was she that friendly nameless girl who got me a glass of water when I had my hair cut? I blotted my shiny cheeks and nose, suddenly sweating like I do when I meet a guy I like. Am I gay?, I thought, wondering why I was so nervous. When she finally made her way to me at the bar, she stopped and covered her mouth with her hands in a look of utter delighted shock. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Can I just hug you, please? We don’t know each other, but I’m obsessed with you.” Puzzled but incredibly flattered, I nodded. She then gave me the warmest and sweetest-smelling hug I have ever received. “My name is Greta,” she said. “And we are going to be best friends.”

  One thing you should know about me is that I am not a hugger. For the record, in New York, that is a perfectly acceptable way to be. If you hug someone there they are either a person in your immediate family whom you have not seen in months, or they are gravely ill. In Los Angeles, however, if you’re not hugging everyone hello and goodbye you are considered to be a total asshole with anger problems. But Greta’s embrace was so full of love, and I was so sad and insecure, that it was like being wrapped in the coziest blanket.

  Greta became my date for the evening and was the wing-woman I had always wanted. She was pretty enough to be an actress but thought the idea was absurd. She was, from what I could tell, some kind of freelance creative producer/consultant/tastemaker. Someone whispered to me that she was fourth-generation Yale but had dropped out to work for MTV in Hong Kong. She knew everyone at the party and, from what I could see, everyone was delighted to see her. And though this was the first time I had ever met her, she was giving me career advice with the kind of confidence that made me feel like it was 100 percent correct. Greta introduced me to people and then pulled me aside after. “You must get coffee with Stacy. She’s stylish, she gets it, she’s someone you should know.” I nodded, taking this very seriously. She’s someone you should know. I had never heard this phrase and now it was the most important phrase of my life.

  About Nate and the Deal or No Deal girl, Greta rolled her eyes and assured me: “You have nothing to worry about. She’s just a Tiffany in American Apparel leggings. You’ve outgrown Nate, anyway.” “Her name is Tiffany?” I asked. Greta wrinkled her nose. “No. Tiffany is her essence.” She did not know Nate, and she did not know me, but I believed her, because I liked the idealized version of me that she saw, even though we were strangers. Whatever Greta saw? That’s what I wanted to be. We spent the evening at the bar laughing and drinking, and we exchanged phone numbers. She texted me on the way home.

  GRETA: Nate can (_X_)

  ME: ???

  GRETA: Kiss my butt!

  I felt a tugging in my chest and recognized it as love.

  AT LONG LAST, MY LONG-LOST LOVE

  The week after I met Greta, I started the hiatus between seasons 1 and 2 of The Office, which is like our summer vacation. Greta was suddenly with me everywhere. She was always available to hang out, and when we did she was a blast. It is not hard to have fun with someone who thinks you are the funniest and most fabulous celebrity she has ever met. But she wasn’t just some random sycophant. Greta told me when I wore an outfit that was unflattering, which was how I knew she was real. And she would do it the best way anyone had ever given me an insult: “You have so much more to offer than that skirt. Find a skirt that deserves you.” But her candor did not make her edgy or cynical. Quite the opposite. Greta was so sweet, she was completely intoxicating. She never seemed to dislike or hate anything, no movie or TV show, no matter how bad it was. We saw Poseidon and as we walked out of the theater she said, “It must have been challenging to do a movie with s
o much water.” And her positivity had a great effect on me. I was no longer the frowning comedy writer with my arms crossed in skepticism. I liked things! It was so nice to have someone in my life who was not caustic or judgmental.

  Greta was also a massive resource for all things Los Angeles, having moved there from New York with her family when she was twelve. When I complained of being tired, Greta recommended her “exhaustion guy.” She wasn’t like my lame parents who said that I needed to sleep more and eat better to combat tiredness. Greta’s solution was pharmaceutical and therefore much more fun. She recommended that I get B-complex shots from a guy she knew named Doug. Doug was not exactly a doctor, but he had some kind of degree and kept his prices low by using the storage closet of a Culver City health-food store as his clinic. I was willing to try anything that would make me feel better and required no lifestyle changes, so Doug was a great solution. It also helped that Greta mentioned Doug was the “exhaustion guy” for a handful of energetic and skinny celebrities I admired, one of whom I had seen in my spinning class destroying, a mere two weeks after giving birth naturally. If I ever give birth naturally (never going to happen), I will never sit upon a bike again. I’m not very in touch with my body, but I would never do that to my vagina.

  The “clinic” was windowless and no bigger than a handicapped bathroom stall. I sat around for fifteen minutes, looking at all the boxes of Latisse and facial injectables available for purchase. Doug appeared, clad in an Affliction waffle-knit tee and True Religion jeans. It was 2006, so this was a sign of great success. Doug was very busy and a little brusque. He said he was only seeing me “because you’re friends with Greta.” Without asking me any of my medical information he swiped an alcohol wipe over my love handle, gave me a quick jab of B-complex, and told me to come back the next week.

  When I tried to pay, he shook his head. “I take care of Greta’s people.”

  It had only been a month, but I was now one of Greta’s people. I felt exclusive and Jewish. This was my favorite club.

  ARIEL AND AMANDA AND CHIARA AND KELSEY

  Greta had an enormous group of girlfriends. They were all vivacious L.A. girls with lots of style and personality, all involved in offshoots of Hollywood entertainment, with many specific things in common: they were rich, thin, white, and in search of meaning for their lives.

  I found myself sitting cross-legged on the floors of living rooms of mansions all over Los Angeles, attending trunk shows and book clubs and self-empowerment classes in homes with catered luncheon spreads where no one ate but me. Greta’s girlfriends would tell bawdy stories in white jeans and had old, ugly husbands.

  I absolutely loved it. I had no friends like this at all, people so quintessentially “L.A.” My friends were neurotic brown-haired people from the tristate area or New England.

  And their names! Oh, the names. Greta’s friends had the best names: Ariel the jewelry designer. Chiara the celebrity makeup artist. Amanda the hand model. Kelsey who ran PR for a clothing brand of slutty sweaters that are very popular. I was in girly name heaven. When you grow up with the name Mindy, it’s not the best. In addition to a lifetime of gym teachers trying to create rapport with you by asking “How is Mork doing?” it didn’t have the frilly femininity of the names I really coveted. “Mindy” is the name of a bank teller or a babysitter, but not even the hot babysitter who you hope will tell you about French kissing. Mindy is the responsible babysitter who makes you do your homework and go to bed before Cheers.

  Meanwhile, my real best friend, Jocelyn, who lived in New York, was getting mildly irritated by photos of Greta and me surfacing on Facebook. Jocelyn was my best friend from the first week of college. She and I had lived together all through Dartmouth, and then in New York City for three years before I moved to Los Angeles. She would come to my house for Thanksgiving every year, and I am now the godmother to her son. She’s an excellent example of what a hip-hop artist might call a “ride-or-die bitch.” And I missed her. I missed female friendship! I had no real girlfriends in the year I moved to Los Angeles from New York. My only pals were my work friends, and they were mostly older married guys who barely understood their phones.

  “Who the hell is Greta?” Jocelyn asked one Sunday afternoon on the phone. “Why did she tag you in a photo album called ‘BFFs’?!” she demanded. Jocelyn and I had long made fun of terms like “BFF” and “girl crush.” To us, they signified the infantilization of women, and we were way too sophisticated for that. We had lived in Brooklyn near Jonathan Safran Foer! But hanging out with Greta had dulled my critical eye, because, frankly, it felt good to be called someone’s “BFF.” And when had a critical eye ever helped me, really? Nobody likes the girl who points out all the inherent sexism on The Bachelor. But people are charmed by the girl kvelling about nail art, boba tea, and the homeopathic benefits of ayahuasca.

  THE VACCINATION TRAP

  I was at a baby shower with Greta for an extremely famous pop singer. The pop singer had turned her enormous backyard into a miniature World’s Fair for children, complete with gluten-free everything and a woman whose job it was to do face-paint designs so intricate they rivaled the work done on Pirates of the Caribbean.

  However, the children were not having a good time. The reason? One little girl had been jumping on the trampoline, and when she touched the metal frame, which had been sitting in the sun, she screamed “too hot!” and burst into tears. She was subsequently circled by adults examining her “burned” leg, which turned out to be nothing. The damage was done, however. Now none of the children at the party would touch anything for fear of it being “too hot.” The party moved inside, where there was nothing to do but drink.

  Unfortunately, for me, “nothing to do but drink” tends to mean “nothing to do but get into trouble.”

  I drink when I don’t know a lot of people, which is a useful habit I picked up in college. When I am a bit tipsy, I am instantly cheerful and not so socially anxious. The key is that I can drink no more than two drinks because, after that, I go from making charming small talk to slurred rants.

  Three Champagnes in, the pop singer brought up that she was firing her pediatrician and asked if anyone could recommend a doctor. One of my acquaintances from college, Asha, was a pediatrician in Santa Monica, so I excitedly recommended her, thinking this would be the beginning of a lifetime of Asha and me getting free tickets to see the pop star at the Staples Center. Imagine, me and Asha being pulled up onstage to get sung to! Why would I be invited, you ask? As the middleman, of course.

  POP STAR: Oh, that’s so great. I’m really looking for someone young and cool. My last guy had really antiquated ideas.

  ME: Asha is the best. And very young and cool. Unless of course you don’t want to get your kids vaccinated, hahaha.

  The pop star froze and everyone went silent. Greta looked at me, eyes widening in horror. I could not have offended a group of people more quickly than if I had announced to a room of male comedy writers that the movie Caddyshack sucks (which I have done, and which did not go over very well). The point is, people were incredibly offended.

  POP STAR: (icily) I’m actually leaving my pediatrician because of his outdated position on vaccinations and autism.

  Now, had I been one Champagne in, I could’ve backtracked so deftly you would think I was Michael Jackson moonwalking across the stage on his Bad world tour. Even two Champagnes and I could’ve charmed my way out of this by pretending I was being ironic the whole time. But not three. Three glasses of anything alcoholic is like truth serum for me.

  MINDY: (slurry rant) Oh God, Pop Star! Say it ain’t so. Say you aren’t one of those crazy Hollywood people who doesn’t believe in vaccination.

  I glanced at Greta. Greta’s gaze was on the ground. Oh, no.

  POP STAR: (stone cold) Actually, I am.

  Within ninety seconds, Greta and I were in her Fiat, headed down Doheny out of the hills. I could see the worry pass over her eyes as we drove home. What will Mindy say about at-home
births? Kabbalah? My psychic? She was silent and turned up the Justin Timberlake. We didn’t even stop for frozen yogurt on the way home. It was the closest to furious I had ever seen her.

  The frayed edges of Greta’s and my relationship became more apparent. Her sweetness and accommodating personality also extended to beliefs that I ridiculed, and even thought were bad for humanity.

  Still, Greta was all about forgiveness and getting over stuff. I had messed up, but she would look past it. She hugged me before I got out of the car and said she would call. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  GONE BABY GONE

  At the end of July, work started up again at The Office. I was back on the schedule of six-a.m. call times and staying in the writers’ room until nine p.m. We still grabbed dinner or got exhaustion shots sometimes, but I couldn’t go with Greta to screenings and baby showers anymore. In the beginning, Greta was fine with my busyness. We kept in close touch, texting at least twenty times a day. But then, as the weeks went by, I heard from Greta less and less. She told me she was working more, though for the life of me I still could not pinpoint exactly what her job was. One weekend in September, I was miffed that she couldn’t get iced green teas with me. I texted: “I MISS you!” and “Why are we not getting frozen yogurt together right now?!” using all the emoticons Greta herself had taught me. But more and more, my texts went unanswered. Once I read down our text chain and saw she had written the exact phrase “Hey QT. Love you miss you xoxo” three times, like it had been copied and pasted.