Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  When I’m not busy being bored, I’m busy being erratic. One day, I cried because I dropped and shattered a coffee mug. Dead serious. It wasn’t even a sentimental mug that someone bought me in a different country or that I made as a child. It was a fucking coffee mug I’d bought at T.J. Maxx that said GOOD MORNING SUNSHINE.

  Then today, I snapped at my mom over the phone, not once but twice. The first time, it was because she was annoying the hell out of me and wouldn’t stop asking questions. I told her I was just in a bad mood and asked if we could talk later in the day. The second time was no less than two minutes later, when she called back and told me that she thinks my cranky mood could be due to the hormones in the birth control I’m taking. At which point, I snapped, “It’s not the damn hormones, Mom,” before hanging up.

  Within five minutes, the word “hormone” had consumed my brain. Maybe she was right. Maybe this birth control I’m on is the reason I’m, well, such a bitch. I quickly text Whitney and ask her if it’s possible I’m experiencing hormonal bitchiness due to the birth control. She tells me absolutely and explains that because I’ve never been on birth control, it’s perfectly normal to react this way. I feel better already and text my mom to tell her I’m sorry for snapping at her and that I love her. Followed by a kiss and a wine emoji, of course.

  I never realized what effect such a small little pill could have on my psyche. I literally go from high on life to wanting to kill everyone in sight in a matter of seconds. There’s no reason, no warning, and certainly no stopping me. Thank God I only have to be on the birth control for another few weeks. I can’t wait to burn the remainder of the pack, along with the stupid yellow Polly Pocket case. In the meantime, every time I find myself lying in bed and crying, I tell myself over and over, “It’s just the hormones.” Each night, between the hours of seven and nine, Whitney calls to tell me what dosage of each medicine I’ll have to inject. I’ve managed to successfully inject myself each time, even though it takes me about forty-five minutes to push hard enough to get the tiny needle in.

  Everything was going great, until last night, when I had a total breakdown. I was standing naked in my kitchen, hunched over, trying to get the needle out of my stomach, when I started bawling. Tears were literally dripping down my face and onto my stomach. I finally got the needle out.

  Sometimes, I think I’m done. I don’t think I want to do this anymore. Why am I putting myself through all this? The needles aren’t painful, but the tears are. What is the point of it all? I’m probably going to end up alone forever anyway, so why go through this?

  But then I wake up the next morning and feel differently. I leave for Chicago in two days. I’ll be there for a week until my procedure, and luckily Whitney will be there to give me my injections. In the meantime, I’m just twiddling my thumbs. I’m starting to get cabin fever. It’s freezing outside, but the thought of fresh air entices me enough to throw on a few thermal layers underneath some workout pants and my puffer coat. I trot lightly down the West Side Highway. It’s barren, just like the trees. I take my usual route, just a little slower. And I find myself at my spot on the Holland Tunnel. Thinking. I’m thinking about life, about my injections that I don’t want to have to administer later, about how many eggs may or may not be in my body right now. It’s not until I get a text that I start thinking about what I’m really doing with my life. It’s from Mr. Exotic and it simply says, “Hey.” I glance at it and put the phone back in my jacket pocket.

  Even though I just had fun, I know that Mr. Exotic is not Mr. Forever. There’s nothing wrong with him, he’s a perfectly good time, but I just don’t see myself intellectually or emotionally into him.

  The way I see it, I have two options. First, I can continue to talk to him on occasion and indulge in these little flings we have. This will satisfy me to a certain extent. Or I can be honest with myself and call this what it was, one last hurrah. Not long ago, had I found myself in the same situation (which I obviously have on several occasions), I would have justified the pointless chatter, because, to be honest, I loved the attention. I loved the thrill, the chase, the game, the excitement of unread texts. I loved it all. But this time, it feels different.

  I take my phone back out. I don’t go to my text messages; instead I go to my contacts and delete Mr. Exotic. And just like that, I’ve put an end to something before it ever really began. I guess I’ve just gotten to a point where pointless communication is no longer fun. It’s no longer feeding my ego with attention but rather just a distraction. A distraction from life as I know it as a single woman. That life now has me freezing my eggs because I haven’t found a man I want to impregnate me. I’ve had so much fun that time has started to physically pass me and my ovaries by. I know I’m still young, but the fact that I’m heading into my thirties still single has me feeling a little terrified. I’m scared, because I know that the time has come for me to start growing up a little bit. I’m not going to call the fun police on myself, but I think I’m ready to be serious with the men I see and what it is I’m really looking for. I’ve had my run, I’ve had my fun, but I’m ready for more. Oh, my God, wait a second. Does this mean what I think it means? Am I—gasp—ready for a relationship?

  Wow, these hormones are really fucking with me, aren’t they?

  It isn’t until two days later when I arrive in Chicago for the real thing that I start to actually grasp everything that is happening. I’ve been alone for a week, giving myself injections, but now I’m not feeling so alone anymore. Whitney is here, and they’ve just opened up their new Ova office, which is fucking fabulous. It’s basically like walking into a Kate Spade showroom but with a machine that has a big rod that goes into your uterus.

  It’s here that I finally meet the famous Dr. Kaplan, whom I’ve only spoken with on the phone until this point. He’s a middle-aged man with a thick South African accent. He’s different from most doctors; he’s much more charismatic. I feel an immediate warmth and comfort with him. He’s nurturing. He’s fatherly. He’s also funny. We start joking about how many eggs I have.

  “People would pay good money for your eggs, you know.”

  “Wait, is that a thing? ”

  “Egg donation? Oh, yes.”

  “Really . . . how much are we talking about here? ” I laugh. “We could split the profits.”

  He laughs back.

  We’ve got a banter that doesn’t exist in most doctor-patient relationships. It makes me feel more at ease.

  Everything is going well, although yes, the needles still suck, as does having to get blood work done each day, but now that Whitney is doing all of that for me, I just close my eyes and count to ten and it’s done. It’s also been interesting to see how the follicles in my ovaries are growing as a result of the hormones. I try to ask Whitney a bunch of questions, and she gives me answers that include words like “estrogen” and “embryo,” which I hardly understand. All I know is that the shit seems to be working, because she seems happy, and I have a baby bump only without the baby inside.

  On the other hand, mentally, I’ve been a total mind fuck. The girls who work with Whitney have been saying all week that I will feel empowered, but I don’t. I want to, but I just don’t. Instead, I feel embarrassed and ashamed. I feel like I am at a point in my life where I don’t want to be doing this. I don’t want to have to be doing this. Talk about a fucked-up timeline.

  When I was a young girl, I dreamed of being married and having kids and the whole white-picket-fence shit. I dreamed of it all. Except for freezing my eggs. So I’m not going to lie and say that doing what I’m doing feels like the proudest moment of my life. I’m not going to say I’m over-the-moon excited about the fact that I am freezing my eggs. Instead, I’ll just keep it real and say I think I am making the smartest decision I’ve ever made in my life by doing it. I’m pushing aside internal pressure, social norms, and, most of all, my ego and facing my own reality. The reality is that I still want all of those things I dreamed of when I was young
er. I still want the husband, the children, maybe more of a penthouse in the city than a picket fence, but I still want a life like that. I’m just not there yet. I want to be, but I’m not.

  I guess the empowerment sort of hit me yesterday, moments before I was about to go under for my retrieval. It hit me in a somewhat disheartening way, though. Whitney had admitted me into a small room, where another nurse came and took my blood pressure and other vitals. An anesthesiologist came in to tell me what kind of drugs he’d be giving me before having me sign a consent form. Then Dr. Kaplan gave me yet another rundown on what he’d be doing. Whitney followed him out and told me she’d be back in a few minutes.

  I looked around the room. It felt so empty. I was so alone with everyone gone, I wish I had thought to have my mom come with me or a friend, maybe Kelly. But it was too late. I was going under, alone. And that wasn’t even what saddened me the most. What saddened me was the realization that I am doing this alone now, and there is a possibility that I will be doing it alone in the future. It dawned on me that love is not guaranteed. That finding a husband is not inevitable. That shit doesn’t always work out the way you think it will.

  But it also dawned on me that if I can do this part myself, then maybe I can also do the rest of it. It wouldn’t be my choice to have a child alone, but I don’t know, a part of me feels a sense of peace at having gone through all of this alone, even the surgery. Because I know that if I have to, I can. It’s taken me two years, two weeks of hormone injections, and a hospital gown to have one moment of total honesty with myself.

  As I was wheeled into the operating room, I was wheeled in alone. But alone and oddly content.

  The anesthesiologist came in. “I’m going to administer the drugs now. You can start by counting back from ten, and we will see you when you wake up.”

  “Ten, nine, eight . . .”

  And just like that, I went to sleep. Dreaming fertile thoughts.

  to be continued . . .

  I find myself aboard yet another plane. I’m headed back to New York City, my home. Every time I fly home, I feel different. Sometimes I’m mortified at whatever trouble I’ve gotten myself into. Sometimes I feel sad and lonely because I know I’ll be returning to an empty apartment. Other times I feel ecstatic knowing that I get to call the Big Apple my home.

  Today, I feel nostalgic. What I thought was just freezing my eggs and buying time turns out to have been something with the potential to change my future. And that makes me think back to once upon a time, not so long ago, when I was doing something else that had the potential to change my future: leaving Atlanta and the security of my friends and family.

  I remember that day I left, my parents drove me to the airport, where I handed my two oversized suitcases to the curbside check-in attendant before saying my goodbyes. I can remember hugging each of them and thinking to myself that the next time they saw me, I’d probably be different. I wiped my mother’s tears away and walked through the sliding double doors before taking one last look back, all the while fighting back my own tears. They were tears of sadness and anxiety. They were tears of shame and embarrassment. And most of all, they were tears of fear. And then I remember the plane taking off and looking out the window down at the place I called home for so many years. I watched as it vanished underneath a sheet of clouds.

  I think about everything that’s happened in between that flight and now—from finding an apartment, to the many disastrous dates I endured, to meeting new friends and changing my career. From losing faith, to making mistakes, my life has been filled with ups and downs. And as I suspected, I’m different than I was that day I hugged my parents goodbye.

  I’m no longer that same terrified, weak, scared little girl anymore. But strangely, I’m glad that I once was. For so long I thought of my past as a barrier. That no matter what I did or where I moved, I would always be known as the lawyer who went on a reality television show and got engaged only to have it not work out. I wanted so badly to shed that past. I wanted to erase it from my life and pretend it had never happened. I hated it. I resented it. I was ashamed of the girl I thought it made me.

  But that was then. Not now. I’m no longer ashamed or afraid or resentful of my past. In fact, I’m grateful for it. My past didn’t just give me a label, heartbreak, and a never-ending supply of tears. My past gave me New York City. It gave me a chance to start a new chapter on blank pages; a chance to create my own life.

  I’ll admit creating my own life here certainly hasn’t come easy or cheap or without more tears. In fact, if anything the life I have created as a single woman has come with more scars than stars. I am far from pristine and I’ve got a handful of failed relationships and plenty of regrettable moments to prove it.

  While the naked eye may not see it, my body is filled with dozens of invisible scars, most of them from men. I used to think these scars were ugly wounds that marked me damaged; reminders of those who I thought had wronged me. But I know now that my scars are not wounds at all but rather a collective badge signifying a truth I hold dearly. My scars are my reminders that I am still . . . a believer in love. I use to wonder if I’d ever find love again. And if so, would I even recognize it? I have, and I can. And I know that as a believer in love, I will endure rejections and letdowns and disappointment. But I also know that I’ll be strong enough to have a good cry and pull myself together again.

  And through it all, I have laughed, I have loved, and I have learned.

  I’ve watched as my friends have gotten married and had babies. And instead of feeling bitterness like I once did, I feel happiness for them. Because though at times I think I’ll be alone forever, deep down I know that sooner or later that will be me too. And when it is, I’ll probably be like all of my friends and try to find some single girl living in Manhattan to live vicariously through. Yes, one day I will find myself putting the key into my door knowing someone is waiting for me inside.

  But in the meantime, I’ve come to not only accept but appreciate the fact that I’ll be here . . . living my life the way I want to, in the moment, with a single state of mind. Because my life doesn’t have to mirror anyone else’s for me to be content. None of ours do. We each have our own unique story line. Our lives don’t come with a map marked with predetermined destinations. There is no set itinerary, no instructions, no signage showing us the way. There’s just us, choosing our own route, not looking back too often at where we’ve been, not looking ahead too much at where we might end up. But rather, just looking around. I look at the people and things around me and think, wow I built this life. And though it’s far from perfect, when I look at it, I smile. I smile because I feel free. Because I feel alive. I smile because for the first time in a really long time, I feel happy. And I am responsible for that happiness.

  I won’t lie and say that I’m where I thought I’d be two years after I bought that one-way ticket. I’m still single and time isn’t on my side. But I also didn’t think I’d get the chance to experience life the way I have either. I’m pretty damn lucky. I mean, I live in New York fucking City. I actually live here! Sorry, sometimes I just have to remind myself of that. That’s the thing this city has taught me: there is a difference between living and existing. Those who merely exist stand idly by as those who live move about. You can wait for someone to tell you what to write, or you can just write your own damn pages. I’ve done both, and let me say, it’s a lot more fun to write your own. My story right now is that of a single woman who remembers landing in New York City and feeling the frigid air hit my face for the very first time. I wondered if I’d actually make it here. If I’d be able to do it on my own. I did.

  Now as I turn the page, I find a blank page staring in front of me yet again. I wonder what will happen next. Where will I go, who will I meet, what will I do? What will come of me? And I can’t help but reminisce about the last time I felt this exact same way.

  It was that day I moved to New York, seeking shelter from my own storm. I thought perhaps a change
of scenery, a new man, and a new career would give me the safety I so desperately needed. I was bound for an adventure I knew nothing about. I was so lost that I thought maybe, just maybe, in a city of eight million people, somehow, someway, someone would find me.

  It never occurred to me that the person who would find me would be . . . myself.

  acknowledgments

  Once again, I find myself wanting to thank everyone who helped me with this book along with everyone who has helped me with this newfound chapter of my life.

  First and foremost, I have to thank you, New York City. Thank you for being the most magnificent backdrop a lost girl from the South could possibly walk into. You are forever engrained in my heart as the greatest city in the world, the city where I learned how to become independent, the city where I learned that shit happens but life goes on. You are quite literally the apple of my eye.

  Thank you to my family for continuing to be my rock. Mom, Dad, Rachel, and Elie, your unconditional love and support are beyond anything I deserve. I only hope to repay you one day by not being the fifth wheel anymore. I love you all beyond words.

  Thank you to my girlfriends, both old and new, who make being single eternally amazing. I cherish every story, secret, and bottle of wine we share. I hope the day never comes where we have to bury a body, but if we do, know you can count on me, and I hope I can count on you.

  Thank you to the badass women who make up “Team Single State of Mind,” especially Kirsten Neuhaus for believing in me not once but twice now. You are the greatest literary agent in the business. A special thank-you to everyone at Simon & Schuster and Gallery Books, including Jen Bergstrom, Meagan Harris, Liz Psaltis, Lisa Litwack, and Alysha Bullock. Abby Zidle, you continue to be the most unbelievable editor in the world. Thank you for being the godmother to not one but two of my babies now.