Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  I’m in a different world now. I’m in a different frame of mind from how I was back then. While my experience with the show was amazing, it is over, and I’m good with that. I don’t want to be defined by my reality television stint; I want to be defined by my actions now. But what will that definition be?

  i just spent fourteen hours in vegas

  And that’s not even the worst part. I may not be qualified to have a one-last-fling-before-the-ring kind of party in the city of sin, but I’m definitely entitled to a last-fling-before-the-freezing party.

  Whitney scheduled me to start my injections for the egg retrieval later in the month, so I decide I need one last hurrah. I know, I’m being dramatic. Truth is, I was just looking for any excuse to take a vacation, and I found one in, of all things, the Atlanta Falcons. I hadn’t planned on going to this year’s Super Bowl, but being that my hometown team is in it, and I am likely never going to see that happen again, I have to go. I clamor around New York asking everyone I know, and thanks to Ava and her wicked corporate-advertising connections, I am given two tickets. It’s obvious who I’m bringing along: Kelly. She, meanwhile, has managed to clamor around Atlanta and find us a ride on a private jet and, thanks to her wicked rich-people connections, even got us a hotel.

  Days before I even made it down to Atlanta to catch a ride on the jet, Mr. Exotic texted me asking what I was doing for Super Bowl weekend. I told him I was going to the game, and he told me I should come meet him in Vegas instead, which I coyly rebuffed.

  Cut to Saturday, and Kelly, her husband, their rich friends, and I are all flying to Houston. When we land, I suggest we go to what I remember being the best Mexican restaurant in town. I haven’t been to Houston in years, but that doesn’t stop me from remembering the best fajitas my mouth ever laid taste buds on. As Kelly, her husband, and I devour three orders of fajitas, two orders of cheese dip, and a heap of guacamole, I can’t help but feel pride. I was right. They are the best damn fajitas in the world. Afterward, we go to the hotel to get ready for a party. In all honesty, Super Bowl parties sound fun, but they are kind of lame. They are basically just a mix of random celebrities, former football players, models, and corporate big shots who never get out. They all think they’re partying so hard, but by midnight, they’re all in bed. It’s so very corporate and stiff. But it’s the Super Bowl, and the Falcons are in it, so I’m feeling amazing. We decide to take it relatively easy that night in preparation for tomorrow’s big game.

  On game day, the three of us are on our way to a tailgate being hosted by the people who gave us the tickets. Well, they gave Kelly and me the tickets, at least. Kelly’s husband doesn’t have a ticket but is going to buy one at the game. When we arrive at the tailgate, it’s disappointing, just like the parties. There are no tents, charcoal grills, or people drinking beer while playing cornhole. Instead, it’s an indoor tailgate, with various live music acts, buffet stations catered by different restaurants, and a few bars. It’s fine but not really getting me into the football mood.

  Mr. Exotic and I are still avidly texting. So much so that my cheeks are actually starting to hurt and Kelly is getting curious about him. An hour before the game, we are handed our tickets. We see the number 600 in the box under the word SECTION. We are both a little, well, a little concerned.

  “Maybe it’s like a suite,” I say to Kelly.

  “Hope so. Six hundred is awfully high.”

  “Awfully.”

  We go through security and follow the signs to section 600. With each escalator we have to take up, our worry grows. Finally, after the sixth escalator, we arrive. We look at each other. We don’t have to say a word. With tickets in hand, we make our way to our seats and look down. With only five rows behind us, we are officially in the nosebleeds. Not only can we not see anything except what look like little dots warming up on the field below, but in our Atlanta Falcons hats and shirts, we are in a section of New England Patriots fans. We sit and have that awkward moment of reflection, knowing that on the one hand, we can’t complain, considering we are at the fucking Super Bowl for free. But on the other hand, no free ticket is worth the public humiliation I’m going to feel after I vomit from being this high up. I can’t do it; I physically can’t do it. I look over at Kelly. She can’t do it, either. Then the Patriots fans surrounding us start talking shit about how badly we are going to lose. That’s it.

  “Plan B? ” I say to Kelly.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  We don’t actually have a plan B, but we decide to make our way to the bar and hatch one. We start looking on StubHub to see how much ticket prices are. Three grand. I can’t. Fuck!

  “What if we just go sit in those seats down there on the first level? I mean, obviously, no one has bought them, so they should be empty, right? ”

  Kelly agrees, and we sprint down the escalators to section 119. There’s only one seat. Shit. Kelly’s husband is in section 118, just a few rows below it, so she decides to try to squeeze in with him. Meanwhile, I decide to take that one seat.

  There’s a man standing awfully close to it, and he looks worried as I walk down the row. “Is this your seat? ” he asks me.

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “Dang, did you just buy it? ”

  “I did!”

  He leaves, and I feel terrible, because he totally had my idea, he just didn’t have the lack of morality I did. I text Kelly, who is still with her husband but is apparently being complained about by some chick behind her, so she is going to move to a seat a few sections over. The game officially starts, and the three of us find ourselves alone in different sections, her husband—the one who came to the Super Bowl with no ticket—the only one with an actual valid seat. Go figure.

  I decide to make friends with the people around me. There’s a nice guy with a British accent sitting next to me who strikes up a conversation. He tells me he’s not really into the game, but his company had a ticket, blah, blah, blah. I want to kill him over this, but his accent and genuinely nice demeanor stop me from doing so. He asks me why I’m alone, and I tell him that my husband is sitting a few rows over because we couldn’t get seats together. He totally buys it. Enough to start buying me drinks. He’s not creepy, though. In fact, he’s showing me pictures of his two daughters during time-outs. And he even cheers with me every time the Falcons score, which is surprisingly quite often.

  The second quarter begins, and the Falcons are dominating the Patriots, and I’m feeling pretty buzzed when a security guard makes her way to our row. She’s looking directly at me. We make eye contact. I look away. I can see her motioning for me to come over to her. But the Brit next to me thinks she’s talking to him, so he gets up and makes his way over to her. I can see her check his ticket before sending him back on his way and then motioning me over again. I’m caught. I’m totally caught. I calmly and confidently walk over to her.

  “Ma’am, what seat are you? ”

  I pull out my phone, which, thank God, has a privacy screen on it. “Section one-eighteen, row T, seat nineteen.”

  “Ohhhh, honey, this is section one-nineteen. One-eighteen is over to the left.”

  “No way!”

  She chuckles. “Come here, let me help you.”

  She takes my hand, and we walk up the stairs between the sections together. I make sure it looks like she’s protecting me versus ejecting me. The last thing I need is to be the girl getting kicked out of a seat. Thank God she’s sweet and buys my bullshit, and thus, not only do I avoid complete public embarrassment, but I also avoid getting kicked out in handcuffs.

  I eventually make my way over to Kelly, who is now standing at the top of a nearby section in the handicapped area. There’s no one in a wheelchair; instead, it’s filled with a group of thirty-ish guys and girls. They’re having fun, with drinks in their hands, including Kelly. Meanwhile, Mr. Exotic and I are still texting, and he’s begging me to get on a flight and come meet him in Vegas. I’m so drunk that I’m actuall
y entertaining this idea, or at least making him think that I’m entertaining this idea. I might have not been willing to do the deed with him in the Yankee’s apartment, but last I checked, the Yankee didn’t own Vegas. One vodka later . . .

  Me: “What times are the flights? ”

  Mr. Exotic: “One at 7 and one at 9:30.”

  Me: “It’s 6 now. I won’t make the 7. What about 9:30? ”

  Mr. Exotic: “Do it!”

  Me: “Book it!”

  Mr. Exotic: “What is your birthdate? ”

  Me: “4/3/1987.”

  Oh, God, this text sending my birthdate feels like the Kentucky Derby all over again. The next text I receive is a screen shot of my confirmed one-way ticket, departing Houston at nine thirty p.m. and arriving in Las Vegas at eleven p.m. Oh, shit, what have I done?

  Me: “Is this for real? ”

  Mr. Exotic: “For real. Now, get your butt ready to have some fun.”

  Part of me is scared Kelly is going to scold me, though I don’t know why; she’s never scolded me before. But I feel like I’m ditching her for a guy, and I hate when women do that. I show her the screen.

  “Holy shit!”

  “I know. What do I do? ”

  “You fucking go.”

  “Really? ”

  “Umm, look at the scoreboard. Yes, really.”

  “Is it bad, though? ”

  “Is what bad? The fact that you’re single and a hot guy who is also single just bought you a flight to Vegas? ”

  I’ve got nothing in response. She’s right. This is the shit I should be doing. Especially since I’m about to go into hibernation mode while I fertilize the crap out of my ovaries. I mean, if I’m going to have one last fling before the egg freezing, I should do it right. I should do it in Vegas.

  But first, I have to watch Lady Gaga perform for halftime. I know I’m cutting it close, but the feminist inside me refuses to choose a dude over Gaga. And she delivers a killer performance in return. It’s now seven fifteen, and I kiss Kelly on the cheek and tell her to say goodbye to her husband for me. I run outside and order an Uber. I’m supposed to go to the maroon lot. Frantic, I ask someone in an event shirt where the maroon lot is, and he tells me it’s all the way on the other side of the stadium. I start running. I stop only to ask another event worker how much farther it is.

  “Keeeeeep going,” he says.

  Fuck. Then I see a security guard driving a golf cart with a handicapped sticker on it. He has one man holding crutches in the front and a woman, who appears to be the man’s wife, in the back.

  “Hey! Can I get a ride? ” I yell.

  “Sorry, ma’am, I can only take handicapped people.”

  “What about pregnant women? ”

  He looks at me suspiciously as I cradle my stomach. “I guess so.”

  I hop in the backseat next to the wife and tell him I need to get to the maroon lot stat. Meanwhile, I’m sticking my stomach out as far as I can without losing my breath as I rest my right hand on top of my belly. The wife is sweetly making conversation, asking me in a thick Southern accent how I’m feeling and how far along I am. Fearful that I’ll get kicked out of the cart if I tell the truth, I lie and tell her I’m much better now that I’m past the first trimester. I’m so going to hell for this, and I know it.

  As the cart pulls up to the maroon lot, I get out, thanking the security guard and thanking the wife, who is now wishing me good luck on the pregnancy. As soon as the cart pulls off, I start running through the yards of winding barricades with tarps and Uber logos on them. Luckily, the line is completely empty, because who the fuck leaves the Super Bowl at halftime? I am able to get into the first car and plug in the address to the hotel. It only takes about fifteen minutes to get there. I show the driver a hundred-dollar bill, saying I’ll give it to her if she’ll wait for me to pack and bring me to the airport. She agrees without a second of hesitation. Damn. I should have offered forty. I’m drunk, and I have about forty-five minutes to pack and make it to the airport, through security, and onto a plane.

  I frantically scrounge up my belongings and shove them into my carry-on bag. Luckily, I packed light, so not only do I not have to debate over what outfit to wear (since I have none), but it only takes me a few minutes to throw everything in. I rush down the elevator, praying the driver is still there. She is, thank God.

  “To the airport!” I tell her.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m rushing through security and to my gate. It’s nine thirteen.

  “What time are you closing the gate? ” I ask the agent.

  “In about five minutes.”

  “Okay. I’m just going over there to watch the rest of the game. Don’t leave me!”

  I walk to the nearest television, where a crowd has gathered. There’s one minute left in the game, and the Patriots score a touchdown and a two-point conversion, tying it. Meaning all of those touchdowns I watched the Falcons score in the first half have officially been blown. The game is officially heading to overtime, and the gate agent is officially closing the doors. Fuck it, they’re gonna lose anyway, I think to myself as I board the plane.

  It’s not until I get to my seat and sit down that I realize what I’ve just done. I’ve just left the Super Bowl and am headed to Vegas. All to see a boy. What am I thinking? Who am I? Oh, that’s right, I’m a single woman. And I’m having the kind of fun that only single women can really have. I kind of like this new spontaneous chick. Scratch that, I really like her.

  A few glasses of red wine later, I’m in Las Vegas, where a driver holding a sign with my name is standing at the baggage claim. After he wheels my carry-on through the parking lot, he opens the door, not of a Suburban like usual but of a fucking Rolls-Royce Phantom. I take my shoes off and rub my feet around on the plush carpet and think now, this is how you arrive in Vegas. Well, minus the fact that I’m still wearing the outfit I wore to the game, complete with an Atlanta Falcons baseball hat, and yes, I’m still wearing my pregame tailgate pass, which is attached to a Super Bowl LI lanyard hanging around my neck. Coming in hot!

  I get to the hotel, and Mr. Exotic is there to greet me. I’m not sure who’s drunker at this point, him or me. We go to his room and order room service. Before the food can even arrive, we start making out. I can tell he’s curious to see how far I’m willing to go with him.

  I start taking off his pants.

  “Are you sure? ” he asks.

  “Yup.”

  I mean, let’s just be honest here for a second. I didn’t leave the fucking Super Bowl and fly to Vegas to make out and have room service. I never do eat the food he ordered. In fact, I don’t do much of anything that night, except him.

  The next morning, I wake up without even the slightest ounce of regret but feeling an overwhelming sense of anxiety. I have the Monday version of the Sunday Scaries.

  What the hell have I done? I have to leave. I have to leave right now.

  “Hey babe, did you book me a flight to New York? ” I ask Mr. Exotic. “I have to get back to the city or I’ll have an anxiety attack.”

  He offers to book me a flight, and I play to his ego.

  “Are you sure? It’s so expensive.”

  “No worries, I got you.”

  Men, so fucking easy.

  frozen in time

  I have to say, this week has been a tough one, and it’s not just because I’m still recovering from my Super Bowl turned Vegas rendezvous. This week has been filled with three things: tears, thoughts, and needles.

  It started out with two of the most terrifying doctor appointments of my life. The first was on Valentine’s Day, when I wasn’t getting a dozen roses or a box of chocolates from anyone but rather an STD test. Not even joking. As part of this egg-freezing process, I have to get a Pap smear and be tested for every STD under the sun. The second was the ultrasound. I woke up the morning of my appointment and couldn’t help thinking that this one appointment could change my life forever. What if
I was about to find out I couldn’t have children? Was I ready to hear those words? I was terrified as the maternal instinct in me kicked in. I feel like being a woman comes with so many perks, but one of the most incredible ones is the ability to do something no man can ever do: create life. I mean, yes, we need sperm, but I’m sure we could somehow manufacture it if no men were around. Knowing we have the ability to create life, I think, brings a sense of inherent purpose. Don’t get me wrong, there are many other purposes a woman has in life besides bearing children, but I’ve always found it the biggest privilege of being a woman. I don’t know, maybe that’s the birth control talking, but I feel more maternal and womanly than ever.

  I made my way uptown to have my ultrasound. I took my clothes off, switching them out for a paper gown, and lay down on the bed before placing my feet in the stirrups. The doctor came in, stuck something up me, and pointed at the screen to my right. He started showing me my ovaries, my uterus, and my follicles. It was weird. I felt like I was having a baby. And then I realized, oh, my God, I kind of am.

  I’m thankful that all my tests came back good. Physically, I don’t feel bad. I’m even starting to get a little baby bump already, which I kind of like. But I’m dying that I can’t work out. Whitney says my ovaries are being stimulated and running could cause them to tear. I want to work out anyway, but she makes it sound too terrifying. So instead, I just have been kind of moseying around my apartment doing a lot of DIY projects. The other day, I made a belt out of old earrings. It actually turned out pretty fabulous, if you ask me. I’d seen this Chanel embellished belt online that I loved, but it was six thousand dollars. It really did look like a bunch of brooches or earrings had just been glued together. So I decided to re-create it. I really do like it, even though I have nowhere to wear it yet.