Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  The week continues with interviews with Good Morning America followed by Entertainment Tonight, Extra, The Insider, AOL’s Build, and a dozen more.

  I am on my way to my very own book signing when my agent calls to tell me that my book has made the New York Times Best Sellers list. Upon hearing the news, I immediately begin to tear up. My mom is in the backseat and asks what’s wrong.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you tearing up? ”

  “I have some good news.”

  “Whaaaaaaat? ”

  “I made the New York Times Best Sellers list.”

  “What the faaaaack!” my mom squeals. The use of the f-bomb makes it undeniable that she is both ecstatic and surprised. “Seriously, though? ”

  “Yeah!”

  She leans across the backseat to give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, my God, I am so proud of you.”

  My dad leans back from the front seat. “Wow, that is so awesome. I am so proud—” His voice starts to crack. “So proud of you.”

  “You have to call Shishy,” my mom says as she is already dialing my sister’s number. “Shishy, how are you? ” my mom shouts into the phone. “Oh, good . . . Hang on, I’m with Pookie, and she has something to tell you.” She hands me the phone.

  “Hi, Shishy! How are you? ”

  “Hi, Shishy! Good! How are you? Have you killed Mom yet? ”

  I laugh. “Not yet. But I have some good news.” I pause as my mom nudges me and mouths tell her. My mom knows I hate boasting, even if it is to my own sister.

  “I made the Best Sellers list.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing! Congratulations. Holy shit, you are a bestselling author, and you aren’t even thirty.”

  For some reason, hearing her say this takes my high to a new level. It takes her putting it into context for me to realize that I have actually accomplished something in my life. I did it. I wrote a book, I got it published, and it made it to the Best Sellers list. It is one of the rare times where I actually take a second and give myself some credit.

  I think since moving away from my old job as a lawyer, I’ve struggled to find substance in my life. I’ve found that a job is the single most tangible and obvious measure of success. Whether it’s winning a case, getting a raise, or landing a promotion, most jobs allow you to visibly see your progress. But having quit my legal career, I don’t have a job that allows me to see my progress. My day-to-day life often feels like it lacks a certain substantive value that it once had. It feels stagnant at times. I don’t get promotions. I don’t get raises. In fact, I’ve never gotten either in my life. I have no boss to buy me a holiday gift or coworkers to celebrate my birthday. I’ve never had a wedding or a baby shower, and I know those things are trivial, but the point is that I just haven’t felt proud or celebrated in a long time. Until now. My sister’s words replay in my mind. I am a bestselling author, I am a bestselling author. I. Am. A. Best. Selling. Author. It is the single greatest accomplishment of my life. And even if it is the last, I will always have that. No show, no ex, no one can take that away from me.

  Someone equally excited for my accomplishment is Kelly, who is also in the backseat. She immediately asks, “Now that you’re a bestseller, what are you going to buy? ”

  “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “How have you not thought about it? That’s the best part of being a New York Times Best Seller.”

  “That I have to buy myself a gift? ”

  She rolls her eyes.

  She’s right. I haven’t thought about the fact that I need to celebrate my accomplishment. “I don’t even know what I’d buy.”

  “Well, is there anything you’ve been eyeing? ”

  “Yeah, that watch!” I point to her wrist. When the fuck did she get a Cartier watch?

  She laughs and tells me it’s just on loan until the one her husband custom-ordered for her anniversary comes in.

  “Great. Then I can get it.” I’m half joking, half serious.

  Kelly takes it off her wrist and hands it to me. “Try it on.”

  I do, and it’s perfect. “I can’t, though.”

  “Why not? ”

  “Cartier? How many dollar signs do I need to explain why not? ”

  “You can, and you will.”

  That night, I share the news with Mr. Seattle. He’s overcome with pride. He can’t stop saying how proud of me he is. There’s not a shred of jealousy or the desire to knock me off a pedestal like I’ve experienced in past relationships. My success makes him happy, and that in turn makes me happy for my success.

  The following morning, Kelly and I head north to Madison Avenue. It’s the first time I’ve ever walked through the doors of a Cartier store. Kelly takes the lead as if it were just her regular neighborhood bodega, while I follow behind, eyeing the pristine glass cases. Before I know it, Kelly has flagged down a woman in a black suit behind the counter.

  “Hi. She’d like to see the Tank Solo, please, all three sizes.”

  The woman returns moments later with a tray of three silver watches on a red velvet pillow. There in the middle is the most perfect Cartier Tank Solo I’ve ever laid eyes on. The woman places it on my wrist. I look down, admiring it. It’s the second time I’ve ever felt love at first sight. But it is the first time I am feeling love at first sight over something that I know won’t end up being a crazy asshole.

  “She’ll take it,” Kelly barks.

  “I will? ”

  “Yes, you will.”

  “It’s a lot.”

  “You can afford it. Plus, when is the last time you bought yourself something? ”

  “I buy clothes and shoes all the time.”

  “No, the last time you bought something really special. Something to celebrate an accomplishment.”

  She’s right. The last time I bought myself something to celebrate anything was . . . well, I guess the Burberry coat, but that was a year ago. Since then, I haven’t really had anything to celebrate.

  “You just wrote your first book, and it became a New York Times Best Seller. And you did it by yourself. You didn’t just slap your name on it, you wrote it. You. And now you are going to celebrate that by buying this watch.”

  She’s right, again. Expensively right.

  A small tear wells up in my eye as I realize how hard I am on myself. I get caught up in this world where everyone expects perfection, and thus I, too, expect perfection. My feats nowadays may not be the same as winning a court case, but they are still feats. And perhaps I need something as simple and as materialistic as a piece of jewelry to remind me of that.

  I look down, admiring my wrist. It really is great. “I’ll take it,” I say to the woman, handing her my credit card.

  She starts to place the watch in a red leather box but I tell her I’d like to wear it now. She places the empty box in a bag and hands me back my card and the receipt. I make Kelly sign my name, because I can’t bear to look at how many zeros might be on there. I walk out, red bag in hand, feeling a little poorer yet again. But this time, a feeling of pride drowns it all away. I smile knowing that the title of my book might be It’s Not Okay, but the jewelry around my wrist is straight-up Cartier.

  smitten in seattle

  I’ve just returned home from visiting Seattle, and what a ten days it was. For starters, I think we were both a little overambitious in making the first time we ever met each other in person a ten-day trip. Note to self: ten days with one man in a city you’ve never been to . . . is a long time.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a nervous wreck as the plane took off from New York. First off, if anyone knows that phone relationships don’t always translate into real relationships, it’s me. And despite feeling as though I knew him better than any man I’ve ever met, including my own ex-fiancé, there was still a fear that everything would change once we finally met face-to-face. Second, I lied to my own mother about why I was going across the country. I told her it was for
a book signing. (Sorry, Mom.) I doubt she even believed me, but I just didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t want her asking a zillion questions and googling the guy like any normal mother would. And I didn’t want to let her down if this didn’t work out. She’s had to endure my relationship mishaps too many times, and something inside me needs to protect her from that now. I know she’s not going to grow emotionally attached to someone I’ve never met and who lives thousands of miles away, but still I feel the need to shield her. Plus, it was kind of too late to tell her now, considering this thing had been going on for so long. What was I going to say, Hey, Mom, I’ve kept this secret from you for six weeks, but I’ve been talking to this guy, and now I’m going to visit him? I guess that’s the perk of being independent. I get to do me, how I want, when I want, and I don’t have to tell anyone if I don’t want to, not even my own mother.

  After a six-hour flight, I exited the plane and nervously walked through the terminal, making a pit stop in the bathroom to freshen up. As I walked toward the baggage claim, there he was, holding a bouquet of flowers. My heart sank. The first thing I thought was Awww, how sweet. The second thing I thought was Wow, he’s a lot shorter than I imagined. Like really short. I mean, I knew he wasn’t huge, considering when I googled him, his height came up as five-eleven, but there was no way he was even close to that. And his hunched-over posture wasn’t doing him any favors. Thank God I brought flats. We hugged each other with relief and excitement before making our way to his car, a sleek Mercedes G Wagon. As we drove away from the airport, I couldn’t help but feel his undeniable nervousness and wonder if this was going to be a repeat of the Canadian, who turned out to be a hate-fucking meathead.

  We decided to grab some lunch on the way to his house, and a few drinks later, he began to relax. We both did. After lunch, we drove through town a little bit before he pulled over on the side of a gravel road and told me he wanted to show me a cool view. We got out of the car and peered over the guardrails at the beautiful sight of downtown Seattle and snowcapped Mount Rainier in the background.

  “It’s stunning,” I said.

  “It really is, isn’t it? ”

  And then he pulled me toward him and kissed me. It was a tender kiss that felt like a ribbon being tied on a present. The final touch to make all of this the perfect gift.

  We drove to his house, which sat atop a hill overlooking the neighborhood below. It was big and expensive-looking. Sleek and modern, it was the home of a grown man, not a twenty-five-year-old boy. I suppose that’s what you get when you are a professional baseball player with a fat paycheck.

  As we walked in the front door, I could immediately hear a woman talking on the phone coming from upstairs.

  “Mom? ” he shouted.

  “I’ll be right down!”

  I shot him a what-the-fuck look.

  “She’s in town visiting our family, helping me decorate the house. I didn’t think she’d be here today, sorry,” he whispered.

  “No problem.” I bit my top lip.

  I must say, I’ve seen a lot in my days of dating, but the mother at the house on the first day was new.

  Within seconds, she emerged into the kitchen. She looked quite young, but then again, he was young, so that made sense. She introduced herself, and we started talking. She was actually really great—very outspoken and very outgoing. The kind of woman you can tell likes to kick back with a few bottles of wine and have a good time. She was the kind of woman I like. And now she was the kind of woman who was on her way out.

  “Okay, you kids have fun! If it’s okay, I was going to stop by in a few days because the tile people are coming. But if you want some privacy, I can totally cancel them.”

  “No, no, no. It’s not a problem at all. Please don’t let me intrude,” I said.

  “No, I would be the one intruding. Okay, so I’ll keep the appointment, but I’ll call before I come, I promise.” She hugged both of us and told me how nice it was to meet me, and then out the door she went.

  Mr. Seattle wheeled my suitcase into a massive bedroom, which couldn’t possibly have been the guest bedroom. But then again, I could never be sure. I asked him to take me on a tour of the house to confirm. We walked upstairs, where he showed me a small office, a laundry room, and another bedroom.

  “And . . . well, yeah, this is the guest bedroom.” He said it in a way that was like Why am I telling you where the guest bedroom is? Little did he know how relieved I felt.

  We hung out a little bit before we decided we were hungry again and ordered Thai food. We cracked open a bottle of wine and sat on the terrace listening to music. We were both getting buzzed, not off the wine but off each other as I eventually found myself sitting on his lap. He was the same man in the flesh that he was on the phone but better. There was a comfort about him that was almost paralyzing. Silent pauses felt peaceful instead of awkward. There was a chemistry with him that wasn’t off-the-charts intense, but steady and calm. It was the type of chemistry that doesn’t fizzle after a few weeks. It was the type of chemistry that I think is the type that lasts forever.

  The sun had set, and we decided to lie in bed and watch a movie, where I ended up falling asleep. I awoke the next morning still wrapped in his arms and thought to myself how nice it feels to wake up next to a man. It wasn’t until the second night I was there that we finally had sex. I wanted to try to hold out until the third or fourth night, like I usually do, but I couldn’t resist. I usually don’t get intimate this early with someone I like, but I didn’t feel like it was early with him. Sure, I’d only ever really met him over the phone before this, but in those six weeks of phone dates, I felt like I really met him. They were quality weeks, not weeks occupied by grandiose dates or fabulous vacations. That’s the thing that I think gets taken for granted when it comes to long-distance relationships. Everyone complains about how hard it is to not be able to see each other every day. But I think it’s a blessing in disguise. You don’t realize how much you can get to know somebody when the physical factor isn’t involved. I’m not saying I’m going celibate (clearly), but it’s true. Distance makes you actually talk. And in doing so you get to know a man, who he really is. You get to know beyond the annoying things about him, like how little he brushes his teeth and washes his hands or how messy he is, but instead for his jokes, his opinions, his communication habits. Yes, long-distance courting is like dating without the pressure of intimacy. And let me tell you something, intimacy has a way of blinding you to someone’s personality.

  Speaking of intimacy, the sex was pretty good. Nothing unreal like it was with the Canadian, but then again, being that he was an asshole, his magic fingers were useless the other twenty-three hours of the day. It was good enough with Mr. Seattle for me to remain smitten as the week went on. One day we played golf, another day we went on a hike. Both were pretty uneventful, but it didn’t matter. Neither of us cared what we were doing, we were both content just being together. We were lost in a world that consisted of nobody but the two of us.

  Later that week, he invited his friends to come over, and we cooked for them. We played house like a little married couple; me inside making sides and drinking wine, he manning the grill with a beer in his hand. Everyone was getting along and having a great time, until the evening escalated into one of those nights where everyone had drunk too much, too quickly. The case of wine we’d bought was gone and with it most of my memory. I do remember a few key moments, though.

  First, I remember having a full bottle of expensive wine in one hand and a full bottle of cheap wine in the other as I stood on the patio asking Mr. Seattle which one I should open. Before he could even respond, I dropped the expensive one and it completely shattered. Then one of his friends stepped on the glass with his bare feet and tracked red footprints through the house. I examined them and determined they were not blood, but rather wine. Everyone else examined them and decided I was wrong. Granted, I’d just dropped a hundred-dollar bottle of Cabernet while saving the twel
ve-dollar bottle, so I was hardly in a condition to play CSI. I admitted defeat. We all laughed about it. The time had come though for everyone to leave. I was happy to make my way to bed.

  Then I remember washing my face and brushing my teeth and talking and laughing with Mr. Seattle, who was laying in bed, about the shitshow that had just occurred. I climbed into bed and was just about to give him a kiss good night when I saw a weird look in his eyes.

  “What’s wrong? ” I asked.

  He paused for what felt like a decade before shaking his head and saying, “I just can’t do this.”

  “Do what? Go to sleep? ”

  “No, I can’t do this.”

  “Huh? ”

  “This. Me and you. I can’t get feelings like this.”

  What the fuck? I sobered up instantly and started asking him why. All he could say was that he was scared and he just couldn’t do it. At first, I was trying to talk him off the ledge, because he was being ridiculous and probably had just had too much to drink. As I attempted to calm him down, I realized what strange behavior I was exhibiting. Usually, if a man told me he couldn’t “do this” with me, I’d say fuck it and walk out the door. But with him, I was unusually composed. Until fifteen minutes of him repeating that he couldn’t do this began to wear on me. The fighter in me had no choice but to surrender. I said “Fine” and walked into the closet and began packing my bags. I didn’t think I was actually going to leave, but then again, I didn’t think we’d be having this conversation after such a great night, either. He came into the closet, and at the sight of me sitting on the floor packing, dropped to his knees beside me. He gently grabbed my hand and tried to pull me up from the floor.