How to Be Single (13 page)

“In Rome, it just might be,” Cecily said, smiling.

Lena added, “At least you should try and be open to it. Be open to losing yourself in love.”

“Losing myself? I thought that was a bad thing.”

Lena shook her head. “No. That's where you American women have it wrong. Trying to be so independent. You have to be willing to lose yourself, to risk everything. Otherwise, it's not really love.”

Finally, these shy women had something they wanted to teach me.

Later, when I went to meet Thomas for dinner, I was still rattled. Those women—those timid, passionate, jealous, temperamental women—made me feel so dry inside, so emotionally limited. How does one start believing in love? How do you turn off your brain and everything you've seen and heard in the past twenty years? How do I all of a sudden believe that these crazy large emotions are not just a bunch of hormones and illusions? How do I suddenly believe romantic love is a real, concrete thing and that I'm entitled to it? I was worried that I was starting to think like a self-help book as I walked into a small restaurant on the Piazza di Pietro. Thomas was already there at the bar, a glass of wine in his hand.

The last few days spent with Thomas had been so simple, yet so extraordinary. Innocent, unbroken happiness. There had been dinners and drinks with his friends, and we'd seen a lot of Lorenzo, whose girlfriend had not returned any of his calls, and who was insisting he was ready to be hospitalized. There had been walks and talks and heated debates and lots and lots of laughter. There were more motorcycle rides, and late-night glasses of Prosecco. It's funny how fast you can feel like you're in a couple. It only takes a matter of days before you're thinking “we” instead of “I.”

And through all this, he had not made a pass at me once. Not once. For the past four nights, he politely kissed me good night on my cheeks and then went to bed. Not that I wanted him to make a pass. I mean. Not that I would have done anything. I mean. Not that…whatever.

As I sat down, I asked him right out, “Have you dated an Italian woman, and did she ever slap you?”

He laughed. “This is what I love about you, Julie—you're not very good with the small talk, either. We share this trait.”

All I heard was that he said he loved something about me.

“I have been with a few Italian women, but they never slapped me. I think they know that a French man might slap them back.”

“It seems like the Italian men take it in stride.”

“I don't know about that. I don't think they like it. But I do hear of it happening quite often.”

I shook my head. “Fascinating.” I was already getting a little tipsy off my one glass of red wine.

Thomas's cell phone rang. As he listened he began to look concerned.

“Now please, calm down. You will do no such thing. Now stop it. I am coming right over. Yes.” I thought it might be his wife, wondering when he was getting his ass back to Paris. Thomas put down the phone.

“It's Lorenzo. He is threatening to throw himself off the balcony of his apartment.”

I grabbed my jacket and purse and we were off.

When we got to his apartment, Lorenzo was distraught. He was crying, and it looked like he hadn't slept all night. There were a few broken dishes on the floor.

“She called me today, Thomas. She wasn't angry, she didn't meet anyone else, she just doesn't want to be with me anymore. She told me to stop calling her! It's over! It's really over!”

He grabbed his long floppy brown hair, sat in a chair, and sobbed. Thomas sat on the chair's armrest and tenderly put his hand on Lorenzo's back. Then Lorenzo jumped up and ripped his shirt off, buttons flying, and threw it in a ball on the floor, leaving him in a white t-shirt.

“I'm going to kill myself. Just to show her.”

Why he needed to do it in just his t-shirt, I'm not sure, but it got our attention. He ran to the balcony and opened the doors. Thomas ran over to him and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him backward. Lorenzo broke free and went for the window again; Thomas caught him. They both fell to the floor and Lorenzo crawled toward the window while Thomas held on to his leg. Lorenzo tried to kick Thomas with his other leg, around his head and shoulders.

“
Basta,
Lorenzo!”

“Leave me alone, leave me alone!”

“What should I do? Should I call for help?!” I chimed in.

Thomas managed to get on top of Lorenzo. It was a ridiculous sight. Lorenzo was now lying on his back, thrashing around as Thomas sat on his stomach, scolding him loudly. “Please, Lorenzo, this is too much. I won't get up until you calm down. And I mean really calm down. Please.”

After a few minutes, Lorenzo's breathing slowed.

“Um, can I get either of you a glass of water?” I asked, with clearly nothing else better to say. They both surprisingly nodded yes. I ran to the kitchen and got two glasses of tap water. Thomas drank his while still on top of Lorenzo, and Lorenzo managed to drink his while still lying on the floor.

Lorenzo tried, or pretended to try, to throw himself out a window over a woman. Was that crazy? Wars have been started, empires jeopardized, over love. Songs are sung, poems are written, all because of love. Historically speaking, it seems to be very real, this feeling. And in this moment, seeing Thomas sitting on Lorenzo, coming to his rescue, it was hard not to think Thomas was perfect. It was hard not to project all my hopes and desires and assumptions right onto him. He was dashing, he was interesting, he was able to comfort a male friend who was crying his heart out without batting an eye. But he was also able to tackle him to the ground like a linebacker. He was a great friend and a fully realized man.

It's so funny, but when it happens, it really does feel like you're physically falling. And I wanted to feel every moment of it, to get lost in it. Why not? Before I knew what I was doing, before I could talk myself out of it, I ran toward Thomas, knelt on the ground next to him, wrapped my arms around him, and gave him a big kiss on the lips. Lorenzo, looking up at us from the ground, started clapping.

“
Brava Americana.
You are beginning to understand a few things.”

I stood up quickly. Thomas looked up at me; he was beaming, almost proud.

“I was just trying to, you know, break the tension,” I said, backing away from them.

“No! Don't ruin it with excuses. No,” Lorenzo said, still on the floor. “It was
bellissima. Si.
”

It might have been bellissima, but I was now embarrassed. Did Lorenzo know Thomas's wife? How many women had he seen throw themselves at Thomas? Did he even want me to kiss him? There was no way to lose myself in love when I had this kind of mind as my compass. I walked to the kitchen and got a glass of water for myself.

I glanced over and saw Thomas look at Lorenzo and speak sternly in Italian. Lorenzo seemed to say something that reassured him. Thomas slowly stood up. Lorenzo slowly got up and sat calmly on his sofa.

Not to take any chances, Thomas gave Lorenzo a dose of the magic Lexomil and after about twenty minutes, Lorenzo was asleep.

We walked back to the hotel, unusually quiet. Finally, Thomas broke the silence.

“So. My dear Julie. I'm very sorry to say this, but I believe I should be getting back. I think Lorenzo will be fine, and I'm finished with my work here.”

So that was the response to my dramatic display. He needed to leave town. It served me right. Shame on me for humiliating myself like that. I had made a fool of myself. I knew it—getting carried away did not suit me at all.

“Oh, of course. Yes. That makes sense. Well, thanks! Thanks for everything.”

I hoped to sound cheerful, trying to be like a French woman and keep my dignity. Of course this had to end, of course it was going to be over soon. There was no need to get all weepy about it. We were walking by the Colosseum again. It's just crazy, Rome. You'll be walking and chatting and feeling this and that about whatever the hell, and then you'll just turn your head and be like,
Oh hi, two thousand years ago
.

“How long will you stay here?” Thomas asked.

“I'm not sure. I have to decide where to go next.” I really had to get better about planning this trip.

We stopped and took a long look at the Colosseum, ancient and glowing.

Thomas turned to look at me. “So tell me, Miss New York. What is going through that busy mind of yours right now?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh really? Somehow I have a hard time believing that.”

“I just, you know, feel a little stupid, that's all. I mean I kissed you because I thought I should try to get carried away, like everyone is telling me. But it felt dumb. You're married, first of all, and so handsome and charming, you must have…I just don't want to look like a silly…”

“But tell me, Julie, how did this week feel to you? Tell me that.”

I thought for a moment. I didn't really want to tell the truth. I had had a perfect time and I felt like I was falling in love with him. I don't even know what that means, but it's how I felt.

“Stop thinking, Julie, just tell me.”

You really shouldn't stand in front of one of the great wonders of the world and lie. Even I could sense that. So I told the truth. What did I have to lose? “It felt fantastic. Like…like a miracle. Like hours flew by in seconds and I never ever wanted to leave your side. Everything you said seemed so interesting, so funny. And I just loved looking at you, your face. I loved just being near you. Sitting near you, standing near you. And then when I saw you wrestling Lorenzo, it just made me completely adore you.”

Thomas walked up closer to me. “And can you believe that during this week, I felt the exact same way?”

“Well, I never wrestled Lorenzo, so…”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “You know what I mean.”

I looked at him, and wanted to say, “No, actually, I can't. Because things like this don't ever happen to me. And I don't think that I'm so great that I can really understand what you would find so captivating about me, so, no, I don't believe it one goddamn bit.” But instead, I thought about the hours we'd spent together, the meals and the talks and thoughts shared. It felt very real. And mutual. I thought about the Italian women and their telling me to lose myself in love. I guess people do meet and fall in love or in infatuation without much reason why. It just happens. And all you can rely on is how you feel, because it might not make any sense. You just have to trust the feeling and the moment.

“It's hard for me to believe that, but I guess I can try” is what I ended up saying. And then Thomas put his arms around me and kissed me. In front of the Colosseum with its history and decay and majesty, we kissed. Like two teenagers. Like two people who believed in the wonder of love.

I woke up in Thomas's bed the next morning. I looked over and saw him sleeping soundly. I thought about the night before. How we came back to the hotel and went into his room. How I let myself get carried away. I scanned my mind. How did I feel? Guilty? Yes. Yes, I felt guilty. Even if it was okay with the both of them, he
was
someone else's husband. So, I felt guilty. But did I regret it? No, I did not. Then I felt guilty for not regretting it. How else did I feel? Happy? Yes. Definitely. I felt happy. I had allowed myself to enjoy a moment. I looked over at Thomas and knew that I had felt something, something like falling in love, and it felt real and I hadn't hurt anyone. And that was enough for now. I was ready to leave Rome. I had learned all I needed to learn here.

(Just Make Sure You Have It Every Once in a While; Just My Opinion)

I
t seemed like a good idea at the time. Georgia and I were in Rio de Janeiro trying on expensive bikinis at a boutique in Ipanema.

Georgia came out of the dressing room to show me hers: a little orange number with white piping and little silver hoops on the hips and right in the middle of her cleavage, holding all the fabric together. Very sixties, very Bond girl. I forgot what an amazing body Georgia has—so had Georgia, it seems, because she was very excited about it.

“Look at me. Look how hot I am. Like she's the only one who's hot? Please. Look how hot I am!” She twirled around and looked at her tight little butt in the mirror and said to the salesgirl, “I'll take it.” Then she turned to me, still dressed and clutching a modest two-piece, trembling slightly.

“Now it's your turn.”

I believe I told you. I hate my body. And just when I've convinced myself that it's all in my mind, I turn around at the mirror and realize—no, it's all in my butt. Acres and acres of cellulite. In that bikini store, clutching my little two-piece, I felt so debilitated by my cellulite that I should have been given a wheelchair.

Georgia was on a mission. She had called me in Rome to tell me all about her fight with Dale. She was upset and said she needed to get away from it all. That wasn't so surprising, but when she suggested going to the home country of the Other Woman, I was confused. That didn't seem so much like getting away from it all as diving right into it. But I agreed. Her parents had been dying to take care of the kids, so they flew in and she took off.

I used my round-the-world pass to go back to Miami, where I met Georgia, and we flew to Brazil together panic-free. I had heard so much about Rio, about its sexiness, its fun, its danger, I was excited to see it all for myself.

But Georgia had something to prove. It was clear the minute I met her in Miami and we shared a plate of deep-fried stuffed mushrooms at one of those classy airport restaurants.

“What's so great about her? Oooh, she's Brazilian. Oooh, that's so exotic. Well, guess what? I'm a sexy American. That's hot, too.” She shoved a forkful of the cheesy mushroom situation in her mouth. “Damn, that's good.”

So now Georgia was prancing around in the store like a happy little Creamsicle trying to prove whatever she needed to prove in as little clothing as possible.

So, first off, let me tell you my thing about two-piece bathing suits: they're underwear. Why don't we just admit that? For some reason, when you put sand and water and sun together, you're allowed, even pressured, to go out in public in your underwear. You're expected to expose yourself to friends and family members, sometimes even colleagues, in a way you would never do in any other given moment in time. If Georgia were walking around
this very same store
in her underwear, I would say, “Hey Georgia, put on some clothes. You're walking around in your underwear, that's weird.” But because the underwear is orange nylon, it's okay.

I don't want to wear my underwear in public.

My solution has been to wear a cute little bathing suit top with men's surfing trunks. All problem areas covered, even when swimming. The only problem is that I can get away with this for maybe another two years before I overhear some kid at the beach saying, “Who's that weird old lady dressed like a boy?”

As Georgia changed, I explained my philosophy on the bathing suit situation until she cut me off.

“We're in Rio. You're going to wear a bikini on the beach. Go try it on. Seriously. Enough.”

Her tone was so perfectly “I'm the mother, do as you're told,” I had no choice but to do so. As I was changing behind a curtain, I heard Georgia speaking to the saleswoman, trying her best to cheer me on.

“Women in Rio love their bodies, right? They are proud of their bodies and like showing them off, right?”

“Oh yes,” I heard the young saleswoman say. “In Rio we worship our bodies.”

I looked at myself in the mirror. I didn't think I would be hanging this sight up on an altar and praying to it any time soon. And then I got really sad. I'm simply too young to hate my body. I'm going to be old in like two minutes, and my body really will be difficult to love. But now, well, it's fine. Why shouldn't I admire it? It's mine and it keeps me healthy and I should accept it, just the way it is. There are people who are sick or disabled and would kill to have a strong, healthy body, and the last thing they're worrying about is their fucking cellulite. It's a show of ungratefulness to my health and mobility and youth to hate my body so much.

And then I turned around. There was so much cellulite on my ass and thighs it made me want to throw up on myself.

“Goddamn it!” I said. “The lighting in here is just as bad as it is in the States. Why do they do that with the overhead lighting? To make us want to kill ourselves instead of buy clothing? I don't get it!”

“Julie, just come out, you're exaggerating.”

“No. No way. I'm putting my clothes back on.”

“Julie, for Pete's sake, come out. Now,” Georgia said in that tone, and by God, it worked again. I walked out and they looked me over.

“You're crazy. You look fantastic. Look at your abs. They're insane.”

“Ooh, very nice, miss, very nice,” said the saleswoman.

“Oh yeah?” I said, angrily—my need to prove my point overshadowing any vanity I had left. I turned around and showed them the rear view. “Now what do you think?”

Here's the bummer about women: it's so easy to tell when we're lying. Not about the big things; when we're prepared to lie we can be masters. But about small things, like this? God, we're transparent. Georgia's voice immediately went up two octaves.

“Oh please, what are you talking about?”

“Oh, I think you know what I'm talking about.”

“You're insane.”

“Really, I'm insane? You mean I don't have cellulite from the back of my knees up to the top of my thighs? You mean that's just some crazy ‘cellulite hallucination' I've been having for the past five years?”

“It's not as bad as you think. Really.”

“See!? I just went from ‘fantastic' to ‘not as bad as you think.'”

I noticed the salesgirl suddenly went mute. “So, what do you think? I look terrible, right?”

She was silent for a moment. Torn, I realize now, between her job as a bikini saleswoman and her civic duty. She took a deep breath and said, “Maybe you don't need to go on the beach. There are other things to do in Rio.”

Georgia gasped loudly. I stood there with my mouth and eyes wide open, speechless. Finally, I got out, “Wha…?”

Georgia jumped right in. “How could you say that?! I thought you said the women in Rio all loved their bodies, worshipped their bodies.”

The saleswoman remained calm. “Yes, but these women all work out, they diet, they do liposuction.”

“So you can only love your body if you've had liposuction?!” Georgia screamed.

I was seeing stars. I managed to mumble, “So I shouldn't go to the beach because of my cellulite?”

“Or wear a wrap if you do.”

“So, you're telling me that my cellulite shouldn't be let out in public.”

The young, thin, surely undimpled salesgirl shrugged. “This is just my opinion.”

“Oh my God, I think I'm going to faint,” I said, seriously.

Georgia was fit to be tied. “That's a horrible thing to say to someone. You should be ashamed of yourself for talking to her that way. You're a BIKINI SALESWOMAN, for God's sake. Where's your boss? I want to talk to her.”

“I am my boss,” she said quietly. “I own this store.”

Georgia clenched her fists while I watched the room spin in my own cellulite shame spiral.

“Well, fine. We're out of here. We're not going to buy anything in your store. We're not going to give you a dime.” Georgia pushed me back in the dressing room.

“Come on, Julie, let's get dressed and go.” I got my clothes on quickly and we walked to the door, Georgia still furious. Just as we got to the street, she turned around and went back inside.

“On second thought. No. You can't tell us who's allowed to wear a bikini on the beach and who's not. No one hired you to be Rio's Cellulite Police. Fuck that. I'm going to buy that bikini she was wearing. And she's going to wear it at the beach and she's going to be hot.” I tried to protest, because Rio would have to freeze over before I put a bikini on my body. In fact, I wasn't sure if I would ever let anyone see me naked ever again.

Again, the saleswoman just shrugged. “That is fine with me.” Georgia looked at me with a that'll-show-her look. “Don't worry, it's my treat.” She then looked over at the salesgirl, who was wrapping up my bikini, and said a little more sheepishly, “And I'll take the orange one, too, while you're at it.”

Four hundred and eighty-five dollars later—two hundred and forty-two dollars and fifty cents of which will never see the light of day, nor sand nor water—we walked out of the store.

Yep, we really showed her.

So there we were on the beach, right across the road from our hotel in Ipanema. Georgia was in her James Bond swimsuit, and I was in my men's surfing trunks, bikini top, ski pants, and parka. Just kidding. I was still recovering from this morning's shooting, I mean
shopping
spree. As we lay in silence, I could hear the sounds of three women laughing and talking in Portuguese. With my eyes closed, I could pick out the different voices. One was deep-throated and immediately drew me to it. Another was smooth, light, and feminine, and the third was more girlish. The deep-throated one was telling a story and the other women were laughing and chiming in. I opened my eyes, rolled to my side, and looked at them. The woman telling the story was tall and tan, young and lovely…Actually, she was tall and black, really black, her skin the color of onyx—she was gorgeous. Her two friends were equally beautiful. One had red curly hair that flowed way past her shoulders, and the other had short jet-black hair in a cute little bob. They looked to be in their late twenties and were all wearing tiny string bikinis. Georgia sat up and saw me watching them.

“I wonder if they like stealing husbands, too.”

“Georgia…”

“I'm just curious. Why don't you ask them? For your research. Ask them if they like stealing women's husbands.”

“Stop it.”

The women saw us looking at them. The tall, deep-throated one looked at us a little suspiciously. I decided to be outgoing and introduce myself.

“Hi. We're from New York, and were just listening to you speak Portuguese. It's a beautiful language.”

“Oh, New York, I love New York,” said the woman with the short black hair.

“It's a wonderful city,” I said.

“Yes, I go all the time for work, it's fantastic,” said the deep-voiced one.

“Are you here on vacation?” asked the redhead.

“Sort of,” I said.

But Georgia, being the good, pushy friend that she is, said, “Actually, my friend Julie is here trying to talk to single women. You all seem so sexy and free-spirited. We wanted to know your secret.” She was smiling. I didn't think the ladies noticed any sarcasm in her voice, but I knew it was dripping all over.

They all smiled. The redhead said, “It's not us, it's Rio. It's a very sexy city.”

They all agreed.

“Yeah, blame it on Rio,” Georgia said. Then she added under her breath, “Or maybe you're just all whores.”

“Georgia!” I whispered, glaring at her.

The deep-voiced one said, “We were just talking about that. Last night I was out and this boy came up to me and said, ‘Oh, you are so beautiful, I need to kiss you right now!' And then he did!”

“Now this is not the unusual part. This happens all the time in Rio,” said the redhead.

“It does?” I asked.

“Yes. All the time,” said the black-haired woman.

“Really?” Georgia said. Now she was interested.

“The funny thing is,” continued the deep-voiced one, “that I decided to try it out on this boy Marco, who was so cute. I went up to him and told him that he was so sexy and I had to kiss him right now. He then grabbed me and kissed me for ten minutes!” The other girls started laughing.

“And then she had a
fica,
” said the black-haired girl, giggling.

Then the deep-voiced girl said something in Portuguese, seeming to admonish her friend.

“Please, they're from New York.”

“What's a fica?” I asked.

The deep-voiced woman sort of pursed her lips to the side and shrugged. “A one-night stand.”

“Oh! Great,” I said, not knowing what my response should be. But I was trying to bond. “Was it fun?”