by Liz Tuccillo
“Hey, Julie,” she said, not giving anything away.
“Hey,” I said as I sat on the couch. I decided not to be coy. “Well, how was it?!”
Georgia sat in the armchair and thought about it for a good two minutes. “I have to say, it’s really not bad to pay for sex.”
Georgia didn’t look any different. I realize that’s a strange thing to notice, as if paying for sex would somehow be immediately traceable on one’s appearance. If that were the case, there’d be a lot more wives filing for divorce all across America. Anyway, I waited for her answer.
“It was a good thing. A very good thing.”
“Well, tell me about it!!”
“Okay, okay.” Georgia was being very serious, as if she were an astronaut describing what it was like to walk on the moon. “He was amazing in bed. Like, truly a professional. He was able to stay hard a really long time, he was really strong and threw me all around the room—in a good way—and it was really satisfying.”
“So, it was good,” I said. “It was a good thing. Are you happy you did it?”
Georgia thought again. “Yes. I am. I mean, it was physically perfectly satisfying.” She got up from her armchair and walked over to a mirror by the desk. She grabbed a lipstick from the desk and started applying it.
“And…?”
“And…that’s it. It was completely physically satisfying. If I have a complaint, I’d say it was a little cold. Not cold like harsh, or unfeeling. Cold, like…”
“Like you were having sex with a prostitute.”
Georgia started to laugh. “Exactly. Like I was having sex with a prostitute.”
Just then the phone rang. Georgia’s taxi was here. “But you know what?” Georgia said. “‘Completely physically satisfied’ is not a bad way to leave a room.”
I smiled. It was not a bad way at all.
It was time for Georgia to go. I walked her to the taxi and gave her a big hug. I thought about how nice it would be just to get in the car with her and go home. But I resisted. She handed me a piece of paper.
“This is the number of my cousin Rachel in Australia. She’s really fun and knows everyone there.”
“What? Australia?”
“It’s just a thought.”
“You have family in Sydney, Australia? That’s kind of far away.”
“I know, but don’t you have that pass thingy?”
“Yeah, but that seems too far. I don’t want to have an anxiety attack and run out of Lexomil, and then be flipping out over the South Pacific.”
“Here.” Georgia handed me a little plastic bag with some pills in it. “Take some of my Xanax. Just to supplement the Lexomil. They’re amazing.”
“But I’ll be flying alone. That’s a really long trip.”
“But once you get there, you’ll know my cousin Rachel. She’ll help you with everything you need.”
I looked down at the little Baggie. I definitely had enough medication for the trip. “Well, I read there was a man drought there. It would be a good place to go for my research.”
Georgia looked at me with that look, and spoke to me with that tone. “Julie. Go.”
I immediately obeyed.
RULE 6
Make Peace with the Statistics Because There Really Isn’t Anything We Can Do About Them (Or Is There?)
I always assumed that we live in a world where, if one wanted to go from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, to Sydney, Australia, one would just hop on a plane, perhaps have a little stopover in, say, New Zealand, and then be on one’s merry way. But when I got my itinerary printed out at the front desk of the hotel, it read like an issue of National Geographic. Flying from Rio, I’d have a layover four and a half hours later in Santiago, Chile. That sounded cute. I would then take a five-hour flight from Chile to Hanga Roa. Where is Hanga Roa, you ask? It’s the “capital” of Easter Island. Where is Easter Island? It’s off the coast of Chile, in the South Pacific. The natives call it Rapa Nui, population three thousand, and it’s famous for the mysterious giant sculptures of scary stone men that line the coast. It’s supposed to be a lovely place to visit, with snorkeling, horseback riding, mystical ruins, and spectacular hiking and views. But I would only be spending an hour at the airport, waiting for my connection to Papeete, Tahiti. Getting to Tahiti would take another five hours, with me arriving at 11:30 at night. And then after waiting in Papeete till three in the morning, I would take the eight-hour flight to Sydney.
I handled most of my 22.5 hours of air travel masterfully, mixing my drugs like a skilled pharmacist. I took Tylenol PM to Chile, then again to Easter Island. I popped a Lexomil to Tahiti and a Xanax to Sydney. It was genius.
This time it wasn’t during my flight that I started breathing heavily, sweating, and becoming dizzy. The drugs worked quite well for that. No, this time it was in the various airports where I almost lost my mind.
I had decided to start reading about this supposed “man drought” plaguing Australia and New Zealand during my layovers at the various airports. So I printed out all the articles I could find online and read them. In airport bars and waiting areas throughout the South Pacific, I got the bad news: that a thirty-two-year-old New Zealand woman had as much chance in 2004 of finding a male partner her own age as an eighty-two-year-old woman did; that there are five women to every man in Sydney, Australia. Then there was the British report that stated that for every sixteen-point rise in a woman’s IQ, there is a 40 percent drop in her likelihood of marriage, not to mention the oft-quoted advice given to Australian women in their twenties to “tag and bag” their men before they hit thirty, because after that it’s anyone’s guess if you’ll ever be able to meet a guy, let alone get him to commit.
By the time I was headed to Papeete, I no longer was panicking about plunging through the clouds, spiraling down to my death, those last few minutes turning into an eternity and so giving me time to realize that these would be my last minutes on earth, that I would never again see my friends, my family, that I would never fall in love and have children, that my life was about to be over. No, that no longer worried me. It was now scary enough just reading about being a single woman over thirty-five. As I got on my flight to Sydney and popped the Xanax, I was confounded. Whatever happened to the idea that there was a goddamn lid for every pot? People have to stop saying that shit. Because here’s what—the statistics are telling us that there definitely is not a lid for every pot. It sounds like a lot of the lids have left the kitchen to go find better pots elsewhere, or maybe to meet younger, prettier pots. Whatever the reason—it seems like there are a lot of big empty pots hanging out in the kitchen these days.
The Xanax was trying to take hold as my mind was racing, obsessing, worrying. What’s going to happen to all these women? If there isn’t a guarantee that there’s a pea for every pod, then what are these women supposed to believe? That they might not ever fall in love, get married, have a conventional family? Or do some of them realize that they’ll have to settle: not everyone gets to have love in their life, so they should just make the best of it? And what are they supposed to think about the idea of never ever having someone in their life whom they really love, who loves them back, deeply and passionately? And when I say “they,” I mean “we.” And when I say “we,” I really mean “me.”
So my question is, How sad are we supposed to think this is? On the one hand, we are told by movies and love songs, and our own personal experiences at times, that a life without love is a tragedy; it’s one of the worst fates imaginable. On the other hand, we’re also told that we’re not supposed to need a man in our lives. That we’re vital, fantastic people who are fabulous the way we are. So which is it? Is it a tragedy if we never have the love we’re all still searching for, or is that an old-fashioned, antifeminist notion? Or has love been completely overrated? Maybe not overrated, but oversimplified. Maybe we should stop watching films and listening to music that makes it seem like people are falling in love and living happily ever after as often as they
buy chewing gum. They should tell us that it’s more like winning the lottery. Lots of people play, but very few actually win. Depending on which study you look at, 43 to 51 percent of all American marriages end in divorce. In fact, the average American will spend more years unmarried during their adult years if they live past the age of seventy. And a new census study shows that married couples who head households have officially become a slight minority.
The lights inside the plane were now being shut off. I love that about night flights. The flight attendants turn into camp counselors and decide when it’s “lights out,” subtly forcing an entire cabin of grown-ups to go to sleep. But I couldn’t. Even with the Xanax, I was obsessing over the idea of statistics in general. What were we supposed to do with these hateful things? I mean, any woman living in New York City can tell you about the little statistic from 1986, when Newsweek told us that if you were over forty and living in New York you were more likely to get hit by a terrorist attack than get married. But then, lo and behold, twenty years later, after many forty-plus women moved to Vermont, or married guys they didn’t love, or spent thousands of dollars on Marianne Williamson courses or plastic surgery, or just woke up every morning in sheer terror because of that damn statistic, Newsweek published an article saying, basically, “Ooops! We were wrong! Sorry. You guys actually have a fine chance of getting married. Everyone, go about your business now, carry on.”
But here are my statistics. One: every man I know, see, or hear about, poor, boring, bald, fat, arrogant, or whatever, unless he’s actually a shut-in, can get a girlfriend whenever he wants. And two: I know dozens of smart, funny, gorgeous, sane, financially stable, professionally fulfilled, fascinating, fit women in New York in their mid-thirties to mid-forties who are single. And not just single like “in between boyfriends” but single for years. When I hear of a couple breaking up, I know that the man will be in his next relationship much sooner than the woman.
I took out my trusty vinyl sleep mask and put it on. Because I knew it looked really good on me. Just kidding. I was trying to shut my brain off. Because here’s the other thing. This little monologue I’ve been doing? It’s been performed for many years. Not just by me, but by many women before me, women my mother’s age, and perhaps even before that. And the complaint remains the same: There are not enough good men out there. So what does one do? How do you be single when the statistics (and reality) are telling you that you are doomed?
I arrived at the hotel tired and cranky; after more than twenty-four hours of traveling I just needed to get to bed. As the bellhop got my suitcases out of the cab, I turned and looked into the distance.
Even in my haze of drugs and sleep deprivation, I couldn’t help but be a little dumbstruck at the sight of the Sydney Opera House, jutting out into the harbor like a little miracle. I really don’t have much of a passion for architecture in general, but seeing it up close, I was surprised at how breathtaking I found it. I had never before seen a building that seemed to be such an organic extension of a city’s natural landscape. Apparently the architect, Jorn Utzon, designed the roof to look like a “ship at full sail.” And that’s what I saw—the Sydney Opera House setting sail right before my eyes.
My hotel was right on the wharf, and even though all I wanted to do was go to bed, I had to stand there, as my suitcases were taken into the hotel, just to soak it all in. As I did, I became sure that, statistics be damned, I was going to have a great time in Sydney. The ride from the airport had been pleasant, the weather warm and the sun shining. Sydney seemed modern, yet quaint, English yet Pan-Asian. The gloom and doom I felt on the plane had lifted. I had overindulged in statistics and they had made me sick. The reality of Sydney was a different situation altogether.
As I entered my room, the good news was that it was really great-looking, with a view of the water and lots of space. The bad news was that there was someone already sleeping in one of my double beds. I let out a little gasp and froze in my tracks. Assuming I had barged into someone else’s room, I slowly backed up, trying to get out before I woke the person up. Then I heard a sound I would be able to recognize anywhere: Alice’s sleep-breathing. It wasn’t really a snore, it was much more delicate than that. It was like a loud purr. I knew it from trips we took to the Bahamas and New Orleans. I walked closer to the bed and saw I was right: it was Alice, sound asleep. I didn’t know how she got there, but there she was. I lay down on the other bed and passed out.
When we woke up, Alice explained that Georgia had called her from the airport in Rio to tell her what a good time she had. Alice, who’s a little competitive and never likes to miss a party, asked Georgia where I was going next and decided to join me. Now, I wasn’t sure what was going on with Jim at this moment, but I didn’t think it was a good sign that Alice, in the middle of a new relationship, decided she just had to go halfway around the world. So, being a friend, I had to ask.
“So, tell me about this Jim guy, how’s it going?”
Alice bobbed her head and sort of half smiled. “He’s great. Really nice. I mean, oh my God, so nice.” Alice quickly got out of bed. “Should we go get something to eat? I’m starving.”
That night, we met Georgia’s cousin Rachel for a drink at the hotel bar. We were sitting at a table outside, overlooking the harbor. The water was sparkling and the wind was balmy and that darn opera house was showing off again. It was heavenly.
Rachel was a thirty-year-old Australian girl-about-town. She was bubbly and upbeat, with long curly blond hair. She worked as a publicist for a very successful family-run company that owned many restaurants and hotels all throughout Sydney. She talked really fast and sort of through her nose, as people with Australian accents sometimes do. We were drinking a lovely Australian rosé, and she was telling us all about the night to come.
“It’s going to be an absolutely brilliant party, it is. This man, whose birthday it is, he’s really rich. His family made their money in cattle. It’s a big deal that we’re getting to go. My friend Leo got us the invites. Isn’t it absolutely brilliant?”
“Yes, we’re so excited,” I said, politely.
“And the guys in Sydney are just gorgeous, they are.”
“But what about this man drought?” I asked. “Is it true?”
Rachel nodded her head vigorously. “It does seem like the men have the pick of the litter. That’s why I’m never going to leave my boyfriend. No matter how much of a tosser he is.”
“Is he not nice to you?” I asked, guessing at the meaning of tosser.
“Not at all. But he’s absolutely yummy.”
When we got to the party, it was already in full swing. The most beautiful men and women in Sydney were there, all in their Saturday-night coolest. The women were in cute little tops and jeans or flowing dresses, with their hair all fluffy and flipped, their lips glossy and pink. The men looked slick in their jackets and jeans and groomed hair. The folks in Sydney knew how to dress for the occasion—it could be called “casual-fabulous.” The private club seemed to be going for a Paris opera house aesthetic, all in red velvet, gold leaf, and murals.
As we made our way to the bar, a tall man with black hair that had a lot of product in it came over to us. Rachel told us that this was our host, Clark. He kissed Rachel on the cheek.
“So these must be the ladies from New York?”
“Yes, this is Julie and Alice.”
He looked at me. “Are you the one interviewing single women all over the world?”
“Yes, I guess I am,” I said, a little embarrassed.
“Brilliant,” he said. “Can I get you three some Sammy’s? That’s what everyone’s drinking tonight.”
“Perfect,” Rachel said, and he leaned over to order.
“What’s a Sammy?” Alice asked Rachel.
“A Semillon. It’s a local white wine. It’s not big in the States, but it’s everywhere in Australia.”
Clark brought the wine over.
“Would you like me to introduce you to some s
ingle ladies that you might like to talk to?”
“Sure,” I said, taking my little journal out of my bag.
Alice took my wrist. “No, not right now,” she said. “It’s time for Julie to talk to some single men.” She then led me toward a crowd of men. Then she added, “Man drought my ass. Statistics don’t mean anything. I’ll prove it.”
Soon enough, Alice had made friends with a group of four young men, all in business suits. She had the whole group in rapt attention as she started telling how she once got a judge to let a drug dealer go because of a lack of evidence, and the drug dealer promptly offered to thank her by giving her an ounce of blow. They were enthralled and impressed.
“That’s awesome, really,” one of the exceptionally handsome men said.
“It’s impressive, to be so young and so accomplished,” another said.
Jim back home must have been doing something good for Alice, because at that moment she didn’t feel the need to lie or minimize herself in any way. She felt good enough about herself to just blurt out the truth. “Well, I’m not that young. I’m thirty-eight.”
All the blokes looked incredulous. The exceptionally handsome one said, “I thought you were around thirty-two!”
“I reckoned you were about thirty,” the shorter, stockier one said. Their two mates murmured in agreement.
“No. Thirty-eight.” And then Alice had to drag me into it. “Julie here is thirty-eight, too.”
Now, let’s be honest, the only correct response from any man at that moment would be a gigantic display of disbelief, which they all thankfully made.
I always feel so guilty at how pleased I am when someone thinks I look much younger than I am. As if it’s such a disgrace to just look your age. Every time I say “thank you” when someone says I look much younger than I am, I always think, We both just acknowledged that it’s terrible for a woman to be old.
“Wow, you both look great for your age,” the short, stocky one said. Somehow, just by the detached way he said that, I suddenly felt ancient. The music started to get louder and people were begining to dance. Suddenly, two of the men seemed to have somewhere else in the room they urgently needed to be. The exceptionally handsome blond man wasn’t going to get away that easily. Alice asked him to dance. He said okay, and then, the shorter, stockier man and I stood there and stared at each other until I asked him if he wanted to dance. He politely said yes.
