Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  So why is it so different for a woman to be single from how it is for a man to be single? And don’t get me wrong, I’m not mad at my mom for asking the question. I know everyone’s thinking it anyway. Is it the fact that I have a uterus and my clock is ticking faster than a man’s that makes being single frowned upon? Am I not allowed to sow my wild oats like a man is?

  I hate that I get so riled up about this, but I have to be honest and admit that it’s one of the main reasons I find myself visiting home less and less often. I just don’t like coming back here that much. Once upon a time, it was the bad memories of my breakup that kept me away from here, but now it’s the feeling of insecurity I get about a lifestyle that I never question when I’m in New York. It makes me feel lonely, even though I’m generally not. Down here, everyone is married, pregnant, or trying. I come here, and I’m an outcast. People visibly feel bad for me here. Which, in turn, makes me feel bad about who I am: a single woman.

  Is it so bad that I am in a place in my life where I actually want to be single? I really, genuinely do. For the past year, I’ve enjoyed living life in New York as a single woman, doing what I please, how I please, when I please. When I decided to move to New York, I did it to look for me, not to look for love. I’ve embraced the single life and all the glorious independence it has to offer. Is that so wrong? I want to be able to go on vacations with my friends and not have to think about a man. I want to be able to come home to an empty apartment and drink a bottle of wine, or not, by myself. And most of all, I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else. I know that sounds selfish, but I don’t. I don’t want to be responsible for a man’s feelings right now. I’ve been in relationships for almost my entire life. The good ones gave me a sense of security, while the bad ones, particularly the last, were so volatile that I just don’t feel like dealing with love right now. Breakups are emotionally taxing, no matter how you slice it. I don’t want to be hurt, nor do I want to hurt anyone else. So instead, I find myself in a state of mind where I’m almost rebelling against the entire notion of a relationship. Not in a resentful way but in a liberating way. Sure, there are times when I’d like to have someone romantically in my life, but then I think about my life as a whole and realize I’m genuinely happy being alone.

  Plus, I’m not going to lie, I feel better physically than I ever have. My breasts still have some perkiness to them, my metabolism allows me to quickly work off any sesame chicken I consume. All in all, my body has done a good job at not succumbing to the inevitable curse of gravity that every woman faces. The way I see it, I’m in my prime, and I’m not sure I’m ready to waste my body on just one man. Isn’t that what marriage is for?

  And then I start to wonder, do all things in life revolve around love? And if so, what happens to those who don’t find it? What happens to someone like me if I never find a man? Will I not have lived a meaningful life? Will I never be looked at with anything but sad eyes? If the measure of a successful life is a successful relationship, can’t that relationship be one with myself? Does being alone necessarily mean being lonely? I swear, there should be a billboard that says, WELCOME TO THE SOUTH, WHERE THE MEASURE OF SUCCESS IS YOUR MARITAL STATUS. And on the back, Y’ALL COME BACK NOW—WHEN YOU’RE MARRIED!

  God, I’ve got to get out of this place and back to New York before I become old and rotten, forever.

  once upon a time in mexico

  With my first year in New York City coming to an end, it is time to celebrate the beginning of a new one. About a month ago, Ava, Sarah, and I decided to plan a beach vacation for New Year’s Eve.

  Jess already had plans with her new boyfriend to do something cute and romantic. Gag. I can’t wait for her to be single again so she can come back over to the fun side. I don’t even remember his name, maybe Mike or Mitch, something that starts with an “M.” He lives in Jersey. She actually met him years ago and only recently reconnected when he randomly DM’d her. It’s now turned into something halfway serious enough for them to be spending New Year’s Eve together. Ava thinks he might be the one, but I’m not so sure about that. From the sound of it, he’s more smitten with her, which is a relief. It’s never good to see your girlfriend more into a guy than he is into her, because that shit never ends well. I give it a month or two, max.

  Anyway, back to our New Year’s plans. It all came about because Ava believes the last place you want to be when the clock strikes midnight is in New York City. According to her, locals don’t do the city on this holiday. Instead, it’s a night that caters to tourists and kids in their twenties looking to rage. The tourists will brave the freezing-cold weather and pack themselves into Times Square with hundreds of thousands of other tourists just to watch a ball drop, despite the fact that they could watch the same ball drop on television from the comfort of their warm hotel rooms. The kids will brave the other kids and pack themselves into whatever bar they can get into without a cover charge. They will do the same thing they do every other night out: get wasted before filling the streets in their scanty outfits, some of them vomiting on themselves as they stumble around trying to catch a cab, which will be impossible. Hearing this, you can imagine how quickly I was sold when Ava brought up the idea of a beach vacation.

  Fast-forward to a cheap flight and a reasonably priced two-bedroom suite in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, and the three single amigas are bound for some fun, sun, and whatever trouble we can get ourselves into.

  We arrive at the hotel early Friday morning, just in time to catch a few rays at the rooftop pool. It is eerily quiet. One older couple is reading as they sunbathe, two small kids are playing tamely in the pool as their parents watch from the side, and then there are the three of us. Not quite the party scene I was expecting, in all honesty. I can tell we all feel the same sense of disappointment, but none of us wants to be the bitch who starts whining the very first day we’re in Mexico.

  Within twenty minutes or so, however, out of nowhere, a group of guys comes barreling into the pool area. It doesn’t take long for them to make their way over to us and introduce themselves. They are from Brazil. I physically eye each one of them up while mentally making notes about their hotness. Most of them fall into the never category, a couple fall into the if-I’m-drunk category, and one falls into the I-want-to-marry-that-guy category. My eye goes immediately toward him.

  He’s not just vacation hot, or pick-of-the-bad-Brazilian-litter hot, but real-life hot. And not in a pretty-boy kind of way. Just under six feet tall, he has a semi-ripped body. The kind that says, I don’t drink protein shakes and water, but I don’t only drink beer. His brown hair is thick, and I can tell it naturally styles itself. His light brown eyes stand out against his tan complexion. And the scruff. God, I love a man with scruff. And he has the perfect scruff.

  We spend the day partying with the Brazilians. Everyone is drinking, dancing to music, and having a blast. Except Sarah, who is sitting on a lounge chair, texting on her phone. She’s not drinking today because she is trying to curb her alcohol intake so she can start her egg-freezing process, so I give her a pass.

  At some point, I notice two random girls in the hot tub. I haven’t seen them before; they must have casually come in unnoticed. But there they were in the hot tub, both kind of oddly bouncing up and down. Strange, I thought. It’s not until one tilts her head to the left that I catch sight of what they are bouncing up and down on that my jaw hits the ground. Two of the Brazilians have also managed to slip into the hot tub, and each now has a woman atop of him.

  “Holy shit! Are they fucking? ” I say aloud.

  “They probably are.” The hot one has magically appeared and is now sitting in the chair next to me. “Brazilians love their women.” He rolls his eyes.

  “Gross! Do they even know them? ”

  “I think they met them last night. I know. Don’t hold it against me, though.”

  I’d like to hold a whole lot of stuff against you.

  “I’m a little out of my element with these guys, if
you couldn’t tell.”

  “I could. And your English . . . no offense, but where did you learn to speak so well? ”

  “My father is American, so even though we were raised in Brazil, we learned both cultures.”

  “We? ”

  “Yeah, me and my brother, Rodrigo, over there, and we have a sister.”

  “That’s your brother? ”

  He nods.

  “You two look nothing alike. But at least he’s not one of the guys in the hot tub.”

  This makes him laugh, and when he laughs, he goes from a ten to a fucking twelve, and I go from enamored to completely smitten. “My dad says he’s the milkman’s son, but no one really gets that joke in Brazil.”

  “Oh, well, don’t worry, I get it.”

  “What about you? Do you have any brothers or sisters? ”

  And just like that, thanks to two guys banging two girls in the hot tub, the conversation with one fine-ass Brazilian has officially begun. We somehow figure out that we both grew up playing competitive tennis. Not exactly the sexiest conversation, especially considering sex and alcohol are all around us, but at least it is a conversation. At some point, we shift from family life to talking about Brazilian life. Mainly the life of Brazilian women and their enviable asses.

  “Yeah, we American girls weren’t blessed with that.” I chuckle.

  “Aww, but you have a cute little pooch,” he replies as he pinches my belly.

  I swear to God, he actually leans over and with a thumb and an index finger pinches my pooch. Normally, my reaction to such a degrading move would be to take whatever glass I have near and smash it over the asshole’s head. But I don’t. Something about the way he says it is so adoring and charming that I can’t bear the thought of smashing his pretty face with a bottle, so instead, I lean over and pinch his gut right back. Mind you, there isn’t much to pinch, but it gives me a valid excuse to stroke my hand over his washboard abs. He laughs in an impressed way, almost as if it was a test, and I (and my pooch) passed with flying colors. And just like that, we’ve gone from officially talking to officially flirting.

  A few hours of flirting later, someone has the brilliant suggestion of taking this pool party to some swanky beach bar everyone is “dying” to check out. Having yet to see the Mexican sand, we all agree. Plus, at this point, I am going anywhere the Brazilian is going. We all stroll down the beach, the two of us walking side by side and exchanging flirtatious looks. At one point, his hand casually brushes mine.

  We arrive at the beach club, where a DJ is behind a sound board playing EDM music. Girls in G-string bikinis are dancing on tables, grinding up on average-looking men in T-shirts who are spraying bottles of champagne into the crowd. Basically, not exactly the type of place you want to be wearing a one-piece trying to impress a guy. But there I am, one-piece and all.

  “Want to go to the ocean? ” he whispers in my ear.

  I don’t hesitate for a second. “Yup!”

  He reaches out his hand to me before leading me outside the club. We weave through kids building sandcastles before reaching the shoreline. The brown water is freezing cold, filled with seaweed, and choppy. I have no desire to let it touch any more than my toes. But the Brazilian dives right in. He emerges from under the water and shouts for me to come in. I play damsel in distress as I stand on the shoreline, whining about how cold it is.

  “Oh, c’mon, you little cock.”

  “Excuse me? Cock? ”

  “Cock-a-doodle, like you little chicken.”

  I laugh in relief.

  He’s standing up, his abs somehow looking even better now that they are wet. Fuck, he’s so hot. How can I waste a chance to get pummeled by waves with him? The things I’m willing to do for hot men, I swear.

  I slowly make my way into the water inch by inch. I’m about waist deep when he starts splashing me. I rev up my damsel-in-distress game. He likes it. He likes it enough to pull me toward him. He likes it enough to take both his hands, place them on my cheeks . . . and kiss me. Right there in the middle of the ocean. The perfect amount of romantic but sexy but publicly appropriate kind of kiss. The I-don’t-know-if-these-chills-are-because-the-water-is-cold-or-I-am-sold type of kiss. The kind of kiss that takes a massive wave slamming against us to make us stop. If not for the salty taste of the dirty ocean water, it might go down as one of the best first kisses I’ve ever had. Because it isn’t just the kiss. It’s the feeling the kiss brings with it. A feeling of confusion. Did I just fall in love because of a kiss? I’ve only known him for a day, I’ve only talked to him for a few hours, but that one kiss somehow said so much more than words can say. But it can’t be love. Can it?

  I’m freezing as we head back to the beach bar. We are now hand in hand. The seal has been broken, and we can’t stop kissing. Everyone takes notice.

  At one point, Sarah moans, “Why do you always get the hot one? ”

  I want to downplay it and tell her he’s not the hot one, but she and I both know that would be a lie. So instead, I smile and say, “Don’t worry, we’ll find you a hottie tonight.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  Later that night, we get dolled up for the New Year’s Eve party the guys have invited us to. The party is swanky and fun, but I’m not noticing much of anything or anyone except my Brazilian. Before I know it, the crowd is counting down from ten when I realize I’ve lost sight of him.

  “Nine, eight, seven.”

  Shit, where is he?

  “Six, five.”

  An arm wraps around my waist from behind.

  “Four, three.”

  I turn around. There he is.

  “Two, one” . . . and we kiss.

  Fast-forward to four in the morning, and my white mini-dress now looks like graffiti art with different colors of alcohol splattered across it along with a twelve-digit number. It’s the Brazilian’s phone number, which he wrote with a Sharpie borrowed from the bartender. Swoon. The club is closing, and the partyers are all going their separate ways. I have an eight a.m. flight back to New York, which means that at this point, my night is going one of two ways: to bed or into the morning. The Brazilian wants to go to the beach. Hmmmm. Beach, stranger, four in the morning? It sounds like one of those situations that your mother always told you to avoid, but my mother isn’t here right now, and one sexy Brazilian sure is. Fuck it.

  “Let’s go.”

  I’m pleasantly surprised to see that the beach is actually packed with people. It doesn’t look or feel like four in the morning. We lie on the sand and make out before deciding to walk back to the hotel. The streets are still littered with people, and music continues blaring from the bars we pass as we walk along the cobblestone strip. It’s nearly five o’clock now, and though the sun has yet to rise, the energy is as vibrant as it was hours ago.

  And then out of nowhere, I hear a crack of thunder. It begins to rain. Pouring rain. There I am, in my high heels, wearing a white dress (hoping the phone number doesn’t smear), hand in hand with a hot Brazilian. We run to the corner and stand underneath an awning in an attempt to stay dry. He asks if we should get a taxi, but I say no. Instead, in an act of sheer spontaneity, I take off my shoes, walk into the street, hold my hands to the sky, and lift my head, letting the rain drench me.

  “You are loco!” he shouts from under the awning.

  “Come be loco with me,” I respond.

  And he does. It is the best line I’ve ever used to get a man to dance in the rain with me. Granted, it’s the first time I’ve ever tried to get a man to dance in the rain with me. With a giant grin, he takes off his shoes, wraps one arm around my waist, takes his other hand, and grabs mine. And we begin to dance. It’s the most romantic scene I’ve ever seen, let alone been a part of. I begin to twirl around. He kisses me. I twirl again. We kiss and twirl . . . all the way home.

  When we arrive back at the hotel, it’s around six in the morning, which means I must be on my way to the airport if I have any shot of making the f
light. We’re standing in the lobby, my shoes still in my hand. He’s begging me to stay in his sexy Brazilian accent. I want to. I want to stay and go to his room and top off this seductive story with some seductive sex. I know I could, and it wouldn’t be the first flight I missed. I’m standing in the lobby with two paths in front of me. The path to the right leads me to my room, where my suitcase waits to be packed. The path to the left leads me to his room, where his hot body waits to be touched. The path to the right has me going out on top, taking the weekend for what it is, an unbelievably romantic time with an unbelievably hot Brazilian, and nothing more. The path to the left has me going out on bottom, literally, capping off the weekend with a bang or two. I have no reason not to go left. In fact, I have every reason to. I take one last look in his eyes. Damn, they are tempting.

  “Good night.” I kiss him on the lips and walk away.

  I don’t turn around, because I know one more glimpse of him will lead to me being in his arms again. Instead, I walk with dignity into my hotel room, pack my belongings, and get a cab to the airport, still smitten but in control. I may have had my fairy tale and my prince, but we all know that once the clock strikes midnight, or, in this case, six, the princess has to disappear. And so did I. Maybe it was love, maybe it was just another kiss of a frog. I think I’ll never know. All I know is I’ve just had one hell of a weekend with one hell of a guy. And it is one hell of a way to start a new year.

  And though it may have been nothing more than a midnight kiss and a weekend fling, it’s managed to get me over the hump of dating life in New York City. It’s almost as if this romantic weekend is my reward for a year filled with anything but romance.