30 Before 30 Read online

  I hadn’t gotten more than a few steps out of the apartment before Mariam texted me, demanding we get coffee. Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in the corner of Root Hill Cafe where I tearfully told Mariam about my infidelity.

  When I finished, Mariam laughed. Directly chuckled into my face. “Who cares, you weren’t right for each other anyway,” she told me. Why is it that when you break up with someone, all these people come out of the woodwork like clairvoyant gnomes? “I knew this would happen,” they say while filing their toenails.

  After coffee, we stepped out into the street, toward the Union R station, and someone yelled, “HEY!” At this point, I had been in New York for over a year and knew better than to turn around when some guy was yelling at me, but this particular dude was persistent. “Hey!” This time it was closer. I turned around to see a guy running toward us. He had these huge nostrils that looked like they could each fit two slender fingers inside and lollipop curls that bounced as he jogged over. His lips were full, large even, and nestled in a bed of stubble. I was taken with how handsome he was.

  “You kind of ruined everything,” he said. Mariam and I exchanged confused looks. He rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “I was going to come over, introduce myself, and maybe ask for your number and you just … left,” he told us between breaths.

  I don’t know if it was my absolute obliviousness to the male gaze, or because New York is packed with young, horny people who have disproportionate amounts of confidence (due to alcohol and lack of sleep), but I was very good at attracting strange, emotionally unavailable men. “Do you soak your nipples in beer every night?” a friend asked me after a LensCrafters model–looking guy followed us off the bus to ask for my number.

  The embers from my most recent relationship were still hot enough to blow back to life, but I couldn’t pass up a good opportunity to flirt. “I guess you’ll have to be faster next time,” I told him. My snide comment worked, and he handed me a small business card. All it said was “Erez: Expert” with a phone number at the bottom.

  I only waited a week after my breakup before calling Erez; my relationship metabolism was very strong at the time. We made plans to meet for ice cream on a Saturday and then he promptly stood me up. He’d better be in a car accident, I thought as I wriggled out of my roommate’s dress. Two days later Erez texted. He was in a car accident and was so sorry, could he make it up to me? The accident, while only a fender-bender, gave me enough guilt to let him stand me up for the rest of our semi-relationship.

  Once a month for about four months, Erez would delicately fold up my heart and then stomp on it. He’d disappear, come back, and mend my heart so that it’d be in proper shape to stomp on again. When he wasn’t standing me up, he was the most confusing and romantic partner. He introduced me to musicians, artists, and home-cooked meals. He’d hold my hand in convenience stores and proudly kiss me in front of his friends. He would swipe flowers from planters and give them to me.

  “Hey,” he’d softly say as he tucked the dog-urine-soaked flower behind my ear, “I’m not your boyfriend, okay?”

  “Of course,” I told him, my voice rising to an unnatural octave. Maybe if I were as relaxed about our relationship as he was he’d want to give more of himself to me.

  “You’re incredible,” he’d tell me as I blacked out with elation.

  Another thing Erez introduced me to was his red fixed-gear bike. He brought it everywhere with him. I wanted him to love me as much as he did that bicycle.

  At this point, I hadn’t been on a bike since middle school, but maybe if I, too, had a bike, it’d be easier to force a connection with Erez. We could ride across the Brooklyn Bridge, holding hands as we pedaled, kiss in the middle, and he’d fall in love with me because that bridge is magic. Perhaps I’d even let go of the handlebars and let out a scream of jubilation.

  When I told Erez I was thinking of getting a bike, he was nothing but supportive. We began sizing up bikes on the street to see if we could imagine my little body riding on top. He’d position me next to a faded blue commuter and squint his eyes. “Nah.” We’d move on.

  The most dangerous people are those who get wrapped up in your plans, but cannot help you execute them. Their inability to commit slows you down until you’re barely moving … like a broken cruiser. But isn’t that just a part of the endless cycle of dating? Hurt. Love. Love Hurts. Hurt Loves.

  One night, after disappearing for two weeks, Erez asked me out to dinner. I was so jazzed to hear from him that I ignored the disappearance. I spent a night of babysitting money on a nice bottle of wine.

  By the time we killed the bottle and were done making out, it was eleven p.m. and nearly every restaurant in the neighborhood was done serving food—except for Blue Ribbon. I’d never been because the dim lighting and gaunt servers led me to believe I could not afford a meal there. I was not wrong.

  “Steak or lobster?” Erez asked, glancing through the menu. “Never mind, let’s do both!”

  I quickly opened the menu to peek at how much that would cost: sixty-two dollars. Then calmly closed it. Sixty-two motherfucking dollars. I could buy sixty-five bagels with that kind of cash or take twenty-seven trips on the subway or afford thirteen bottles of shit-wine. I looked over at Erez, and he gave me a roguish smile. His attention span said, “I hate you,” but his actions, well, they also said, “I hate you.” But his lips, that smile, they were killer. Seriously.

  When the food came out, Erez began to tell me a beautiful story about his mother, and I sighed directly after putting a piece of steak in my mouth. I breathed in and that was it. No out. The steak was lodged in my throat. It was 12:47 a.m. on Saturday, March 12. I remember all this because I later wrote it down as the precise time death was at my door.

  Like most young and desperate-to-be classy ladies, I grew embarrassed about the choking. I didn’t want to make a scene, so instead, I watched Erez’s mouth move and thought about what a lovely restaurant we chose for me to die in. I’m not sure if it was because my lips were turning blue, or because I hadn’t spoken in ten seconds, but Erez grew alarmed. “Is everything okay?” he asked, moving his face closer to mine. He had such a nice face.

  The corners of the room began to sparkle and the sound dropped out. Enough. A disappearing-act pseudo-boyfriend was not about to be the last person I saw before kicking it. Not wanting to ruin our sixty-two-dollar-plus-tax spread by Heimliching on it, I directed my attention to the couple next to us. They were splitting cake, or was it ice cream? It was probably ice cream. Who eats cake on a date? Regardless, I decided to use their table to free the steak from my throat. As I stood up, my esophagus widened and the food reluctantly dislodged. No self-Heimlich needed. The steak traveled up my throat into my mouth and then my napkin.

  Erez said something, but he sounded distant. Oxygen was still funneling into my brain and my ears were ringing. It was probably “What happened?” or “Are you okay?” but my head wasn’t taking in words at that moment. I nodded softly and Erez stared at me for a beat before continuing with his story. It happened in a span of twenty seconds, all that was needed to realize this non-relationship–relationship could be the death of me. I folded my napkin and put it next to my thigh.

  “I can’t see you anymore,” I told Erez a few weeks later. “Or be friends with you, because when we’re friends, I still answer your late-night calls.” You know, the flattering ones that result in touching and kissing? Erez’s affection for me was strongest at night. “No more drunk texts. I don’t want to know when you’re near my apartment or if something reminds you of me, unless you want to be in a relationship. If not, please don’t contact me anymore,” I concluded. I felt empowered and exposed waiting for a response.

  “You’re so mature,” Erez sighed. He kissed me on the cheek, gave a little smile, and left. It was over. I no longer had to wrack my brain for the perfect joke, or demeanor, or outfit to trick him into thinking I was an easy breezy lady who was cool with his monthly disapp
earances. I was truthful with what I wanted, and he didn’t want the same thing—it was a relief to know where we stood. No more Erez in my life.

  *   *   *

  He texted me the next day.

  Erez: I have a surprise for you

  Me: I don’t want it.

  Erez: Yes, you do. I promise.

  Me: No.

  Erez: I’ll bring it over and I’ll leave you alone forever. Scout’s honor.

  Men are dense creatures and need women to explain things slowly and thoroughly, multiple times, before they get it straight. Have you seen a rom-com? It’s true. If we were in a rom-com, this exchange would be cute. He’d come over, bring me the surprise (something unique and sentimental), and then kiss me. The camera would pan above us as the credits rolled, implying that we figured our shit out and were in love.

  Instead, Erez brought me a bike. The very same bike that couldn’t make it across my beloved Brooklyn Bridge. It was a white beach cruiser with a lock around the body. A lock that didn’t have a key—it became the most symbolic gift anyone has ever given me.

  Erez handed the bike off and stood there waiting for a reaction. I didn’t know what to say. “Maybe we can ride together sometime,” he suggested. I surveyed his dreamy face. His nose looked like it was shaped out of clay. His lips were the color of raspberries. I wanted to bite them off so that he’d never kiss another person again. But I didn’t. Instead, I thanked him for the bike and awkwardly carried it inside, tripping over the heavy body.

  Like most hobbies, mine was sparked as an attempt to impress someone I was attracted to, but eventually it morphed into its own thing. My fantasies of first kisses and magical moments faded away and my focus shifted to riding across the bridge. Every morning for six months, I’d ride to work in DUMBO,3 lock my bike up, and shout, “I’m gonna ride you!” at the bridge.

  But by the time I moved on to a different job in the further-away borough of Manhattan, my free bike had grown heavier and even more unwieldy. I’d pack the basket with all my things, get on the seat, and ride to the first hill, where I’d promptly get off and walk the bike the rest of the way. Eventually, that bike was banished to the corner of my living room, repurposed as a bra-drying rack.

  *   *   *

  Four years passed and my thirtieth birthday began to peek out over the horizon. As the rays of aging began to tickle my toes, I revisited my 30 before 30 list, desperate to accomplish the goals I’d set for myself as a young lady. Riding a bike seemed like the easiest one to complete, even though the Brooklyn Bridge was now 2,801 miles from my apartment in Hollywood. I bought a flight out, determined to whittle down my list.

  DUMBO was nearly unrecognizable. The streets were the same, but everything else was different. It’s surreal to know where you’re going while simultaneously not recognizing anything around you. What used to be a semi-abandoned startup mecca had turned into a bustling scene, equipped with Starbucks and a Shake Shack.

  I made it to Henry Street, where a militant line of blue Citi bikes sat waiting. The year I left New York, the city launched the largest bicycle share program in America; everyone was given the opportunity to ride a heavy, bright blue bike in exchange for their balls. So, I folded up my balls, put them in the credit card slot, and was handed a bike in return.

  The bike made me look like a dingus, but it didn’t matter. I’d been through so much at that point—most of it described in the following chapters—that I didn’t care what I was projecting out into the world.

  It was a crisp, unremarkable August day which provided a nice breeze for the first athletic activity I’d done in months. As I pedaled down the pathway designated for bikers, I cautiously watched out for tourist-toes. I rode through families in matching shirts and dumbfounded gawkers. An Italian dad gave me a high-five and yelled “Ciao!” when I crossed over to the Manhattan side. The ride felt sluggish and relaxing, a feeling I’d never attributed to New York City before, but LA had softened me … possibly for the better.

  I wasn’t a fearless bicyclist tearing a path through her city, but an awkward tourist in everyone’s way. The thing is, there was nothing I could do; New York eats Midwestern girls for breakfast. It digests us, the acid working away at our sunny predispositions, hardening our souls and soles. Some girls become barnacles who feed off the art and culture, absorbing it into their porous brains, growing bigger in ego, until they’ve taken everything, contributed nothing, and disappeared from the city. Other girls stick it out. They shed their Midwestern skin only to reluctantly put it back on during holiday visits and whenever they get a little drunk. They become women, call themselves New Yorkers, and vow to never love another city. (The city will never love you back, but that’s okay.) I thought that riding my bike across the Brooklyn Bridge would mean I’d developed the sort of agility needed to be a true and courageous New Yorker, but here I was, on a bike that didn’t belong to me in a city I’d moved away from.

  As I neared the end of the bridge, I lifted my feet off the pedals and rested them on the body of the bike. The gentle decline carried me down the concrete pathway and into Manhattan. I passed the brightly colored umbrella clump of vendors and smiled for floating smartphones. Brooklyn sat behind me and endless opportunities lay ahead. I got to City Hall Park, clicked my bike back into a Citi station, and walked off in search of some coffee and dumplings.

  Symbolic gestures will very rarely satisfy your desires. Pathways will change, people will flake, and sometimes you move out of the city you so love. But the beauty of accomplishing a goal you set for yourself is that it doesn’t matter how or why you accomplish it—the process feels good regardless. I wanted you to know that. Well, that and also not to trust a guy who only has “Expert” written on his business card.

  3

  BECOME A MUSE

  Freshly out of college, without the first clue about how to pursue a creative career, I turned to creative dudes; men who unabashedly called themselves artists. Maybe if I was their muse, the one who inspired them to make art, then that would be good enough—I’d contribute to the world in my own bass-ackward way.

  The desire to be a muse is not unique to me; it’s the narrative of many angsty, unremarkable kids who want to be seen instead of simply noticed. As much as it goes against my hard-won sense of self, there is value in letting someone else define you. It’s definitely easier than trying to define yourself.

  I was unexceptional as a young person. It wasn’t until my junior year that I was seen, and that’s largely due to the fact that I got my first boyfriend—Otto, a kid from the rival high school. We met in the summer, when the Chicago suburbs become sticky atriums filled with boredom and boners. My friends and I got kicked out of our hang-out park by restless suburban police, so we headed to the park on the other side of the Interstate, where the rival high schoolers hung out. The two groups united through mutual connections, and we sat in a circle talking, picking grass, and toying with hypotheticals. People slowly retired one by one, until Otto and I were the only ones left. We were destined to be together by process of elimination. Otto was weird in a hot kinda way; I was weird in a raised-by-bears kinda way.

  Shortly after that night in the park, Otto burned me a copy of Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, deeming us “official.” It was the first time a boy gave me a tangible thing, and I treasured it with all of my delicate girl-heart. I would’ve worn that CD around my neck if I weren’t so worried about it getting scratched.

  Otto was a dweeb’s dream. The summer we met, the sun had turned his skin the color of a UPS truck, and his thick chestnut curls had flecks of blond. He was good-looking, yet slightly socially strange, which threw his confidence in my favor. He also seemed so calm. Not many sixteen-year-olds are relaxed. I was an anxiety-filled capsule, ready to burst at any moment, but not Otto. Unlike most teenagers, he knew what he wanted to do with the rest of his life: music.

  Teenagers who know which direction to face have this untouchable nature. The light hits them
in all the right ways. I wanted, so badly, to have the same sense of purpose and depth that Otto did, but I was a sixteen-year-old who wasn’t very good at anything. I watched as my friends and peers slowly started finding little morsels of passion lying around classrooms and summer jobs. I found nothing. I was good at fighting with my parents and making myself invisible to classmates—neither of which could be turned into a professional career. I wanted to be more creative, or passionate, or unique, but I didn’t know how. My solution? Outsource my narrative to a guitar-slinging boyfriend. I was convinced that if Otto used me as his inspiration, my existence would have more meaning than it currently had.

  Our relationship was your typical inexperienced teen romance in that we spent most of the time trying to figure out what to do with our angular, greasy bodies. At that point, my sexual résumé was pithy at best.

  My first erotic experience was with Ben, a pale noodle, who had watery, puppy-dog eyes. We were walking through our high school hallway—Ben a little ahead of me—when he reached behind to grab my hand, but miscalculated and brushed against my vagina instead. I immediately tried to figure out what base that was. Bunting and tripping my way to first, baby.

  Next up: an attempted first kiss with my best friend Kevin. When we were done, I had to wipe saliva from the bridge of my nose—it was gross and I wanted to do it again immediately. Shortly after that sloppy kiss, Kevin told me he had secured his very first girlfriend, a girl who was cute, bubbly, and most importantly: not me. “That’s so great!” I told him as my vaginal muscles slammed shut.