Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  “Good, because you’re sharing a room with her.” Great, I can’t wait to talk about eggs all weekend.

  A few hours and a few stops later, we’re dropped off in downtown Montauk. We schlep our weekenders half a mile to the house we’re staying in, which Michelle had described as a “share house.” As with the Hamptons, I had no idea what this meant, but I quickly learned that a share house is a large group of friends who pool their money and rent a house for the summer, offsetting the astronomical costs by alternating weekends. Apparently, it’s very common in New York, at least for the commoners like myself who don’t own mansions.

  There are about a dozen people staying in the five-bedroom house, among them one major hottie. He is the obvious prize of the house, and my eye is immediately on him. Later that evening, we all go out for dinner and drinks as one big, happy share-house family. I try to flirt with the hot guy—it should be the easiest hook-up of my life, considering he’s literally sleeping in the room next to me, but he’s not even glancing my way. He must have a girlfriend.

  The next day, we go to a place called the Surf Lodge, where an epic Memorial Day party is going on. I’ve heard the Surf Lodge is the place to be in Montauk, and when I get there, I instantly see that everything I’ve heard about it is actually true. People are lined up outside behind barricades, desperate to get in. Our group, having a table reserved, is immediately ushered to the outside deck, where hundreds of people dance to the live band playing on the raised stage. It’s as if the New York City club scene has been transported a hundred or so miles to the beach; same people, same vibe, but a better sunset. Sarah sees two of her girlfriends and invites them over to our table. They introduce themselves as Ava and Jess. I instantly take a liking to both of them, because while most of the girls at the party are in bikini tops and stilletos, they are wearing maxi dresses and flats like me.

  As the sun begins to set, we make our way to an area off to the side of the bar, where the deck turns into sand and a large fire pit with benches around it becomes the center of the action. We sit around and continue talking and drinking. At some point, a young girl wearing inappropriately short cut-off shorts and a man’s oversized sweatshirt lights a cigarette using the fire. She’s flirtatious, drunk, and alone, which means her friends have either passed out or ditched her and she is now looking for someone, anyone, to take her home. Some of the staff come over to load more wood onto the dwindling fire pit, which sparks the girl to randomly dare one of them to show the group his balls. In return she offers to show her boobs. Stunned, disturbed, I also find myself intrigued. I’m not sure why she wants to see a man’s balls. My guess is she really just wants to show off her boobs, hoping they will land her a ride home and a bed to sleep in, which is fine, to each her own, but does she have to make us suffer through the sight of a man’s balls in doing so? Still, I can’t help but watch in anticipation as she pleads her case. A young ginger-haired worker looks like he’s tempted to take the bait. You can just see it in his eyes. The rest of the staff starts egging him on. Mere seconds later, he pulls up his pleated khaki shorts and there in front of the crowd, whips out one little ball. Making good on her word, the brunette lifts her shirt and whips out one little nipple.

  The girls in the crowd, including myself, are a little repulsed by this act of indecency, while it seems to have fascinated most of the men, including one in particular. Yes, the chick who showed the tit accomplished her mission of finding a mate—and it was none other than the hot guy staying in the room next to mine. So much for thinking he had a girlfriend.

  The next morning, Michelle, Pete, Sarah, and I pack our bags and head to the Jitney stop.

  On the ride home, I can’t help but think about men in New York City. I wonder if I’m now in an entire new dating game, or is this how it is everywhere and I’ve just been too sheltered to notice? I’ve been in relationships for the majority of my life, including an engagement, and now that I’m back in the game, I wonder if it’s passed me by. Once upon a time, I had twenty-five men supposedly vying for me—in hindsight now, I see that half of them were just vying for future television gigs, but nonetheless they seemed to be vying for me. I wouldn’t say that I was necessarily in a position of control, but I’d say the odds were definitely in my favor. I was one woman swimming alone in a sea of twenty-five men. Now I’m one in a million women trying to swim the fastest among a giant sea. And though my life might not be as normal as my next-door neighbor’s in terms of jobs and red carpets, it most certainly is in terms of dating. Do I even have what it takes to stand out? If I’m not going to invite the guy up, or whip my tit out, am I ever going to survive in the dating world of New York City? And better yet, do I even want to try?

  I mean certainly I want to eventually have a boyfriend. I’d like a companion. I’d be lying if I said these past few months of living in New York weren’t a little lonely.

  My new life as a writer in New York City is obviously quite different from my old life as a prosecutor in Atlanta. I have more flexibility and no boss to report to (other than my editor). And while I wouldn’t trade it, I often miss the camaraderie that comes with going to an office. The night times and weekends are fun. Lately I’ve found myself spending a lot of time with Ava and Jess. And occasionally Sarah, who still talks nonstop about her eggs. It’s more the weekdays when I feel the loneliness that comes with being a single woman working from home as a writer. Sometimes I don’t see a familiar face, other than Mad Mary’s, all day long—who has turned out to be a hell of a good source of entertainment. First of all, she walks around Perry Street barefoot, wearing the same Yankees T-shirt for three to five days in a row. She calls herself the queen of Perry Street, and she kind of is. Well, more like the Nazi of Perry Street. She questions everyone she sees coming to my apartment, which I have told her on multiple occasions is inappropriately invasive.

  One day I was texting while walking up the stoop when I heard a voice say, “Lucy died.” I look down to see Mary perched on the stoop crying. I lean down, reaching my hand to her shoulder to console her. She slaps it away. “I’m sure you’re happy. Now she won’t bark.” I politely tell her how sorry I am for her loss and to let me know if she needs anything before frantically digging through my purse for my keys. I wait until I get into the building to mumble, “fucking New Yorkers,” under my breath. We’ve built a love-hate relationship.

  As I adjust to life with a crazy super, I find myself having to adjust to life with just myself and all that comes with. When I’m actually writing, I feel great. When I’m not, I feel useless. I feel like I’m just sort of existing instead of actually living. I guess I need to just look at writing more as a job. I have a responsibility, I fulfill that responsibility, I get paid, and then I call it a day.

  Maybe I should give myself a little more credit for literally rebuilding my entire life by myself. Which by the way, isn’t easy or cheap. Sure, there are advantages to being single, like being able to take baths whenever and for however long I want and usually with a glass—or a bottle—of wine. I love that every day can be a “no pants” day if I want it to be. I walk around wearing anything or nothing, and no one can say anything because no one is here. Sometimes there’s no better feeling in the world than that moment you put the key into the door to your apartment and know that nobody is inside.

  But this independence comes at a cost. Nobody tells you that living alone is one hell of a tough job. There is no man around to climb onto a ladder and replace a burnt-out lightbulb. No man around to plunge the toilet or help you carry your groceries up the stairs. In fact, I’ve had to ask my Uber driver to zip my dress for me on several occasions. Do you know how embarrassing that is? And it doesn’t end there, the other day, I had to build an IKEA armoire by myself. It took four fucking hours. When I finally finished, I looked it over to admire it, only to realize the door was upside down. A man would have noticed that midway through.

  If that’s not bad enough, just last week I was in the basement putting my t
rash in the bin when I turned the corner and saw a giant ass crack on top of the washer. It was Mary. She appeared to be trying to fix the washer or something. Honestly, there is no telling with her. The sound of the trash bag plummeting into the bin alerted her.

  “Just so you know, the washers and dryers are temporarily out of order. I’m trying to fix it, but no laundry right now.”

  “No problem. Do you know when they’ll be working again? ”

  “No.”

  All righty, then.

  I was carefully sorting my recycling so she wouldn’t yell at me when I saw her hop off the washer.

  “Also, some asshole threw a goddamn air-conditioning unit in the alley.”

  “Huh? ”

  “Yeah, some asshole just tossed an AC unit in the alley.”

  “Well, that’s a shame.”

  “Swear to God, this job is going to kill me,” she muttered before climbing back onto the washer.

  It wasn’t until I was lying in my bed with a pounding headache watching the latest episode of Orange Is the New Black that I glanced toward the corner of my living room. There was a box sitting on the hardwood floor below the windowsill. A box that said FRIGIDAIRE. It seemed very out of place. Oh, shit. That isn’t what I think it is, is it? I got out of bed and walked over to it. As I peered into the box, I saw it was empty. Fuck. What happened yesterday? Think, Andi. Think. We had brunch at Chalk Point Kitchen, where we all ordered the unlimited mimosa special, and then we went to Blue Haven, then to another bar across the street, and then I went home and just went to bed. Right?

  Oh, fuck.

  I did go to sleep, but I woke up in the middle of the night sweating. I opened the window, but it was hot as balls out. Oh, God, I did. I tried to install the AC unit. And then it dropped and I ran down in the basement and tried to find a way to access the alley, but I was in the backyard, and there was no gate, no door, no ladder, nothing. And so I said to myself, There goes two hundred bucks, and then I guess I just crept back upstairs and into my bed and fell asleep. I was the asshole who threw the goddamn air-conditioning unit in the alley. Shit! I’m never drinking again. Ever.

  Yeah, add a new AC unit to the long list of costs that come with being a single woman. That’s another thing people don’t tell you. It’s bad enough that you have to build armoires and install chandeliers alone, but you also have to pay more because you are alone. There is no splitting of the rent or utilities or having someone pay for dinners. You don’t get gifts for your birthday. Instead, you get bills. Bills that don’t pay themselves.

  But bitching and moaning aside, I’ve come to find that there really is no price for the freedom I feel in being single. And I really do love the single life. I’m just a little worried I might love it too much. I find myself in my late twenties and feeling as though I’m just coming into my own. On one hand, I embrace this newfound independence, while on the other hand, I’m afraid that I’ll become accustomed to it.

  What if year after year, I find myself still content with being single only to wake up in twenty years and suddenly realize that because I was so set in my ways, in my own lifestyle, that I didn’t bother with relationships and now it’s too late? I hate to say this, but what if I’m not far from being the woman who only talks about her eggs, like Sarah? Or even worse, what if I’m not that far from Mad Mary?

  i’ll have a screwdriver

  I’ve just boarded a plane bound for JFK when the flight attendant comes by and asks me if I’d like anything to drink.

  “A screwdriver, please.”

  She pauses.

  Oh, don’t give me that look. I know the sun has yet to rise because it’s half past six in the morning, and it’s a Sunday, and instead of asking for a cocktail, I should either be at church, at brunch (at my church), or at a yoga class like a grown adult woman should be. But as a flight attendant, if you’re going to ask me if I’d like anything to drink, you shouldn’t be allowed to judge me for responding in the affirmative. Plus, if only you knew just how much I deserve this cocktail.

  She brings me my drink, and I take a gulp before closing my eyes. I can’t wait to get the fuck out of Canada and be back home. What was supposed to be the weekend I met my potential Mr. Right turned into—well, where do I even start?

  I guess I can start at the beginning, where in hindsight it was doomed considering I met him on Twitter. I know, I know. Take away my dignity card now. But here’s the thing, it’s not like I’ve had much luck since moving here. I mean I’ve had the drunk dude who left me for the bartender, the married dude who wanted a threesome, the writer who wanted me to put out, and the Hamptons guy who went for the flasher. So I’m not really in a position to turn down any dating options. Plus, you’d be surprised what an unbelievably great source Twitter can be for finding a date. You see, thanks to my undeserved status as an E-list (maybe D-list if I’m having a really good week) celebrity, I get a cute little blue check mark next to my Twitter handle. Aside from being cute, it also functions as a filter and notifies me when someone else with a cute little check mark follows me, and vice versa.

  So one day, out of the blue, I got a notification that someone with a check mark was now following me. Naturally, I clicked on the notification, which directed me to the handle of a guy who, based on his profile picture, seemed to have been or currently was a professional rugby player of some sort. I’d never even met a rugby player, but something about them always made me think they were t-r-o-u-b-l-e, a kind of trouble I was ready, willing, and absolutely able to get into. A quick Google search revealed that he was, in fact, a current professional rugby player. Intrigued, I followed him back, and just like that, the chase was on. Mere minutes later, another notification came across my phone. It was a new message. It was from him.

  “Was not expecting a follow back. Thanks! How are you? ”

  I want to write him back immediately, but I remember the “rule of three.” It’s a rule I made up that requires me to wait to respond to a guy at least three times the length of time it took for him to respond to me. So if it takes him ten minutes, he’ll hear from me in thirty; if he takes one hour, I wait three hours, and so on. I’m not sure when or why I came up with this rule, but it’s served me well in the past. I’ve played enough you-chase-me-first games with men to know that this rule not only keeps me winning, but it puts a hell of a lot of power in my fingertips.

  Thirty minutes later, the alarm I’d set to hold me to my own rule went off on my phone. It was time to respond.

  “Hi! Ha ha should we pretend it never happened then? I’m good, you? ”

  So basic, I know, but he took the bait, just like every man does, and next thing I knew, after about one hundred messages over the course of a few days, he finally asked for my phone number. I obliged, giving him the number to my burner phone. Yes, I have a burner phone, which is simply a cool way of saying “second phone.” Truth is, a little while back, I’d cracked the screen to my phone, and when I went to get it fixed, the salesperson told me it’d be cheaper to just add a line, and in doing so, I’d actually get a new free phone. In my head, I justified this second line as a business expense, which was only partially bogus. In all honesty, the main purpose of the burner phone has become a way to make me feel like the badass I most certainly am not.

  So the Canadian and I began a nice little texting affair, talking all day, every day, before eventually progressing into the FaceTime stage of our “relationship.” He might have been an athlete, but he didn’t act like one. There was something different about him. He was smart, he was funny, he had plans for life after rugby. And did I mention he was hot? Not just athlete hot, real-life hot. Though I wouldn’t call him my boyfriend, clearly he was more than just a friend. Not knowing where it would lead, I figured there was only one way to find out: accept his invitation to come visit him in Canada and embark on my first international booty call, which could very well turn into my first boyfriend since my broken engagement.

  Then came the Friday
morning of my trip to Canada. A vibration coming from the phone on my nightstand woke me up. I looked over to see it was ten o’clock, which meant my flight from JFK had departed exactly two hours ago. Shit, shit, shit! I knew I shouldn’t have taken that Xanax last night, but in my defense, I’d needed it. I’d needed as much sleep as I could get. After all, I couldn’t show up to my first international booty call looking like, well, a booty call. In a panic, I jolted out of bed and immediately called the airline. There were no more direct flights for the day, so I sacrificed and said I’d take the flight with a layover in Minneapolis, which left in two hours. Thank God I was already packed.

  After my call to the airline, I texted the Canadian to tell him of my mishap. I expected him to say something to the effect of “Shit, that sucks, but at least you got on the next flight” or “So you’ll be a few hours late, but at least I still get to see you.” Instead, I was met with “Ugh. K.” Maybe it was nerves or anxiety, but whatever it was, it had manifested into sheer agitation. Hoping this agitation would turn into excitement, I endured the flight and the layover before finally landing in Canada, where I cleared customs and skipped my way to baggage claim. Once there, I texted him again.

  Me: “I’m heeeeeerrree! Just getting my bags, where are you? ”

  The Canadian: “Outside at curb. Passenger pickup A.”

  Uh-oh, looks like someone’s still mad. I lugged my suitcase through the baggage claim and outside to find him standing by a black Tahoe. The sight of him was sort of perplexing to me, even though, of course, I’d seen what he looked like during our multiple FaceTime sessions. But in the flesh, he just looked so different. He was kind of an enigma; tall with a long torso and short, thick legs, but then his waist was very lean. It was like someone had taken three different sections of a human body and put them all together with no rhyme or reason. But they were all good sections. With a grin, I jumped on him, wrapping my legs and arms around him in a hug. He stood stiff.