Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  It’s taken twenty-eight years, but now I finally understand why my mom always told me never to take rides from strangers.

  a charitable act

  Apparently charity events in New York City aren’t just for supporting worthy causes. They’re also grounds for man hunting.

  I’d been invited to attend an event uptown supporting the New York Police Department, my first as a New Yorker. Though I didn’t expect much in the man department, other than perhaps some cute police officers, I was pleasantly surprised when I walked into the event and found it filled with good-looking men. And not just good looking, but well-dressed and well-groomed. It was as if the stock market had packed up, traveled uptown, and turned itself into a single woman’s meat market. So there I am sipping my champagne when a guy comes up and introduces himself. The epitome of boyish all-American good looks, he had short salty-blond hair, pale skin, light eyes, and a freshly shaved face. I quickly learn that he isn’t a stockbroker but rather a writer, like me. An Ivy League graduate no less. And unlike the last two men I encountered, he doesn’t appear to be drunk and coked out or interested in a threesome. Thus when he asks for my number, I give it to him.

  Later that week, he invites me for a casual night of drinks at Employees Only, a trendy cocktail lounge in the West Village that is apparently impossible to get into. We meet there and sit at the bar, where we begin the typical first date conversation consisting of mundane topics like where we grew up and how many siblings we each have. And although I don’t find myself physically attracted to him, the more I drink, the cuter he becomes. Here is a smart, funny, well-mannered guy, something I thought after my first disastrous date might not exist in this city.

  “Can we have one more round? ” he asks the bartender, who shoots him an atta-boy look.

  I’ve always wondered what the view must look like from the vantage point of a sober bartender. It has to be comical for them to watch the progression of two strangers walking into a bar, getting more and more buzzed, inching closer and closer, until finally their hands find their way onto each other’s thighs, like ours are.

  We finish our last drink and make our way onto Hudson Street. It’s three in the morning, and we’re both starving, so we decide to walk to Bleecker Street for pizza. As we walk, his hand gently brushes against mine for a brief second. We keep walking. His hand brushes up against mine again, this time for a bit longer. Finally, he grips my hand. I don’t resist. We turn the corner. His grip goes from timid to confident. Suddenly, without any provocation, he gently but authoritatively pushes me up against a brick wall covered in graffiti. His eyes gaze into mine as he leans closer. And there, at three o’clock in the morning, up against a dirty brick wall . . . I have my first New York City kiss.

  It turns out that what he lacked in hotness he made up for in the way his lips move over mine. It’s incredible the way a good kiss can bring up a man’s average. And kiss we do, the entire way down Seventh Avenue, in fact, until we arrive at Bleecker Street Pizza. There we sit at a table and drunkenly share a greasy pepperoni pie. I’m feeling more satisfied than ever until I’m on my way out of the restaurant and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Thank God it’s still dark. He walks me the few blocks back to my apartment, where we find ourselves kissing once again, when suddenly, things start to brighten. The sunrise is breaking.

  “Holy shit!” I look at my watch, “it’s six in the morning.”

  “What do you want to do? ” he asks.

  I know what this means. I know what he’s wanting. He wants to come up. And the time has come to decide whether or not I want him to. Even with a little buzz, I rationally debate it in my mind. On one hand, maybe I need to rip off the Band-Aid and go for it. On the other hand, deep down, I’m not ready to have a new man in my bed. I’ve just had my first kiss since my broken engagement, and I fear I’ll regret anything more. Plus, why not end on a high note, and who knows, maybe I’ll actually get to see him again?

  “We better not. I had so much fun tonight, though. Good night,” I say, giving him one last kiss.

  “That’s it? You’re not going to invite me in? ”

  “It’s late.”

  “So? ”

  “And also, I just . . . I’m not ready for anything more.”

  “Wow, what a fucking tease.”

  I wait for him to laugh and say he was just joking, but he doesn’t. Instead he simply turns around, stomps down the stairs of my stoop, and disappears into the morning fog.

  I go to sleep that morning thinking about men in general and the few I’ve met in New York City. So far, I’ve met a drunk and high man who flirted with the bartender, a married man who propositioned me for a threesome, and now a pretentious asshole whose only intention was to get laid. Yeah, I don’t think this city is one where you meet Mr. Forever. But having my first New York kiss at sunrise on my stoop does make for one hell of a story.

  Speaking of stories, I’ve been avidly writing my book for the past week or so—the first half of my draft was due to my editor—and it turns out writing is much harder than I anticipated. Nobody really tells you how difficult it is to string together three-hundred-some-odd pages. And that whole notion of writer’s block? It exists. You can’t just phone it in if you’re having an off day. Turns out writing’s not just a physical effort but a mental one as well.

  And an emotional one. With every page I write, I feel an overwhelming sense of anxiety about the book. Do I really want to do this? Do I really want to expose my deepest, darkest inner emotions on paper for everyone to judge? For the first time in my life, I won’t be able to combat public judgments with any scapegoats—I won’t be able to blame things on a bad edit or a conniving producer or say that the tabloids twisted my words. With this book, I am forgoing every shield I have.

  I guess in a way I’ve already done that. Everyone has already seen me sob over my broken heart on national television, and I’ve already broken the (brief) streak of successful Bachelor couples. But what no one saw was the real torture and pain behind the tears. Nobody saw behind the scenes of the heartbreak show.

  It makes me wonder why women, including myself, don’t talk more honestly and openly about heartbreak. I mean, yes, it sucks to have to talk about something painful, but it’s not like it’s an abnormal thing to go through. Every one of us has experienced heartbreak, and yet we hoard the pain, burying it deep inside so outwardly we appear strong, all the while being one broken stiletto heel away from a total meltdown. I wonder, if women shared more about their heartbreak, would it hurt less?

  But even if I can get past the hurdle of being ready to talk, I’m left wondering how much is safe to reveal. There were horrible, absolutely horrible, moments in my “fairy tale” relationship that to this day I can’t believe happened. Even if I disguise the names, it’s not like people won’t put the pieces together about which horrible moments belong to what horrible human being. And though my opinions may be harsh, part of me justifies it all as the consequences of fame. The way I see it, when people go on a reality television show, we open the door and willingly expose ourselves to such opinions. And when people subsequently go on multiple reality television shows, they aren’t just opening the door; they’re taking the damn thing off its hinges, and nothing is off limits, right? We all have chosen to do our own things once the show is over; my exes have chosen to go on television shows, I now have chosen to write. All’s fair in love and reality television, right? There seems to be no way to be truly raw and still conceal the many truths of my relationship at the same time. I want so badly to air every piece of the dirty laundry that was my engagement. But I don’t want to just vent. I want this book to mean something.

  So story by story, as I look back through my heartbreak journal, I don’t just read them, I feel them. Some entries make me recall the day I got engaged and remind me how genuinely happy I was. People often ask me if I really thought it would last. I want to say no, but I can’t lie. Those days bring a smile to my fac
e; they were the highs. But then I turn the page, and I’m dealt a blow when I read about the lows. Moments, like when my fiancé left me at my best friend’s wedding, that make me irate, not just at him but at myself for ever tolerating such behavior.

  And with another turn of the page, I’m taken back to some of the darkest days of my life, like the day my engagement officially ended. As I read those pages, I cry. But the more pages I turn, the more I write, and the more I feel a sense of purge. And page by page, I find myself crying less and smiling more. With every page, the light at the end of the tunnel feels closer and closer. And then I stop and think about how far I’ve come from where I was. Months ago, I was wallowing, in pajamas, scarfing down sesame chicken, and now here I am, writing a book and making out on my stoop and building a life here. A life to call my own. A life that’s starting to become a routine, in a good way.

  I’ve started to find my go-to spots. There’s the small bodega on my corner that carries mundane groceries at extortion-level prices. It’s the type of place that sucks you in because you’re so hungry that you’d rather shell out $7.29 for a box of cereal than walk the extra four blocks to the drugstore where it’s sold for half the price. I usually try to avoid the cereal and instead go for the breakfast sandwiches. I swear, they make the best goddamn breakfast sandwiches in the city.

  Then there’s Stan, the fruit man who sets up a few tables under an umbrella on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Greenwich. He’s so friendly and sweet but his fruit and veggies aren’t. Half of them are usually moldy, but every time I pass him clutching a brown bag from Whole Foods, my guilt subconsciously forces me to dig through my purse and buy the least rotten-looking produce, which is often an apple or two and, rarely, an avocado.

  Then there’s the homeless guy who sits outside an empty storefront on Seventh, smoking a cigarette in one hand, shaking a paper coffee cup in another hand, as he asks passersby for money. I used to drop a dollar bill or some loose change into his cup, but one day I asked him if he’d like a slice of pizza from the store on the corner, to which he replied, “Nah, bitch, money.” That was pretty much the end of our relationship. Now, whenever I see him, I do the New York thing and put in my headphones and pretend not to hear him.

  I’ve also found my go-to post office, which is just a few blocks away on Hudson. Despite being in New York City, it still has the archaic charm and small-town feel to it that I love. I like to think of my trips there as a visit to the retirement home, only instead of chatting with my grandparents, I’m chatting with the cashiers. There’s Marge, the sweet, fragile grandmother type who is so slow that I have to take deep breaths while counting to ten so I can restrain myself from jumping over the counter and angrily taping the package myself. And there’s Carlos, the grumpy grandfather type who never lets me use my American Express card because there’s no signature on the back of it. (Marge, on the other hand, couldn’t care less.) And lastly, there’s Alfred, who might be a robot. Like clockwork, after I pay, he prints my receipt, lays it on the counter, takes out his highlighter, circles the bottom, and says, “Now, please be sure to take our survey online and let us know how your experience was with us today.” Either Alfred forgets that I’m there every single week and am therefore well aware of the online survey, or he is, in fact, a robot.

  I’ve even started to volunteer at a charity, Dress for Success, on Tuesday afternoons. It’s an organization I got involved with when I first moved to the city—I met the founder at an event. She told me how she was a former prosecutor and that she now runs this charity that gives donated clothes to underprivileged women trying to get jobs and provide for themselves. Having been a career woman and still being a woman who is providing for herself, I couldn’t resist the urge to help. So now every week I go in and help women pick out interview outfits, write their résumés, and help prepare them for their interviews. It’s good. It’s good for them because they get to start fresh and have the tools to make it on their own. And it’s good for me because it gives me a sense of purpose. Even if it’s just for one day a week, I find myself stepping out of my sheltered world, not caring about who is doing what on social media, and actually doing something that has meaning.

  I’ve even taken up running, something I’ve never been a fan of. I used to judge people who ran. I’d look at them and think about how they looked like they were in pain. Who would put themselves through that? But one day, I was walking along the West Side Highway and saw all these people running, and out of nowhere I decided to start running the next day.

  Honestly, I hate it.

  I hate every quarter mile of it. But it’s a good way to get me out of the house and off the wine. It’s actually become a little thing for me. I’ve got my route down. I start off on Charles Street, always making sure to pass Sarah Jessica Parker’s house in hopes of getting a glimpse of her. One time, I actually did. She was standing on her stoop, all dressed up, taking a photo with Andy Cohen. Turns out they were on their way to the Met Gala. I almost died.

  So I take Charles down to the West Side Highway. At Washington Street, I stop and say hello to the doormen who work at what appears to be quite a fancy building. I think they must enjoy seeing and talking to commoners like myself. If a few days pass without seeing me, they ask where I’ve been. Sometimes they joke that I’ve been slacking. I usually quip back, and off I go across the West Side Highway, headed south. The Freedom Tower is in full view as I run. After I pass the tennis courts on the left, which always seem to have a line of players waiting for the next open court, there’s a mall called Brookfield Place. It’s one of those high-end malls with designer shops like Burberry, Gucci, Hermès, and so on. Basically, the only people who shop here are the tourists visiting the World Trade Center across the street. But there are a few normal-people stores, like J.Crew and Club Monaco, where I always window-shop. And best of all, there’s a lululemon store. I always refill my water bottle here, and I always feel bad about it, so sometimes I’ll pretend to shop. Sometimes I actually do shop. Then I peruse the day’s offerings at Le District, which is a market slash bunch of little restaurants. I get a cappuccino as I waltz around. Sometimes I wander up to Saks, which never seems to have anything on sale. Again, total tourist trap of a mall. When I finish my coffee, I continue my run down to Pier A, the southernmost part of Manhattan. From there, I can see the Statue of Liberty, and, just like the view of the Freedom Tower, it makes me smile.

  At that point, I’m officially halfway done with my run, so I head back. Although sometimes there will be a sale I can’t resist. I get so immersed that by the time I walk out of the store with three bags, I realize that I forgot I was on a run and therefore must now cab home. That or a friend will see my Snapchat of the Freedom Tower and tell me to come meet her at Grand Banks, a bar on my route. I usually do, and I usually end up getting drunk and have to cab it home. If I don’t get distracted by shopping or rosé, I continue my run, taking the same route north but making a detour to run on top of the Holland Tunnel. I go all the way to the end, where I find myself halfway across the Hudson River in front of a locked gate. I methodically touch the gate, each and every time, before I take a seat on a bench and stare out at the Freedom Tower and the rest of Battery Park City. It’s there that I seem to find myself transported into my own therapeutic sanctuary. I do a lot of thinking there for some reason. Some days, I think about whatever is bothering me, whether it’s love or where I’m going in life. But most days, the wind hits my face and I breathe the air in, just like I did the very first day I arrived in New York, and I think about how happy I feel. Happy and free. Happy and proud. The skyscrapers have an odd way of making me feel accomplished, almost as if I built them all by myself. But what I’ve really begun to do is build a life here all by myself.

  Whether it’s my weekly volunteer job or my weekly visit to the post office, or my running route, I find that all of these little things and people around me are becoming small pieces of my new life. Pieces that finally have me feeling like thi
s city is also my city. And even though I may not have a man to call my own, at least I have a neighborhood to call my own.

  beach, please

  “There’s only one place to be come Memorial Day Weekend, and that’s the Hamptons,” said Michelle.

  I’ve just spent a weekend there, and let me be the first to say, Michelle is wrong. It’s not terrible, don’t get me wrong. I think I had too high of expectations when she’d invited me to come. I mean I couldn’t think of anything that could make a Southerner feel more posh than telling people she’s going to the Hamptons for the weekend.

  The truth is, I didn’t know if the Hamptons was a slew of beach islands off the coast of Manhattan or a cluster of bars or, hell, a hotel in Jersey. All I knew was that this was the perfect way to kick off my first summer as a New Yorker.

  Next thing I know, it’s Friday afternoon and I’m meeting Michelle at a random block in midtown where we stand in line for fifteen minutes before a green bus labeled THE JITNEY pulls up. We check in with the bus attendant and take our seats. It’s a nice bus, one of those luxury liners with air-conditioning and Wi-Fi and even a host who passes around sodas and snacks. Michelle has brought her own rosé that we crack open and start drinking straight from the bottle.

  “So, am I even going to know anyone staying with us? ” I ask her.

  “Well, Pete will be there, some of his friends. A few other girls. And then, Sarah, who you met at my birthday party.”

  “Oh right, I liked her.” I didn’t really like Sarah, but I didn’t mind her. I just remember she wouldn’t stop talking about how she was freezing her eggs because she was old and single and hopeless. Eggs, single, sad. That’s all I remember about her.