by Ilyse Mimoun
It’s not long before you find a Buddhist monastery tucked in a wooded region in Southern California. They need help cleaning, washing, gardening, and cooking. Simple tasks to reunite you with simple needs. No television. No Facebook. No microwave chicken nuggets. Artie is welcome there. In the mornings you chant; in the evenings you meditate silently. Daytime is for chores, reading to Artie, studying ancient texts, and hiking through the back trails of the mountain. Sitting on a tree stump under the glimmering sun, it all seems so clear. The way you’ve grasped desperately at a security that simply doesn’t exist in this lifetime. What a relief it would be if you could learn to unclench those hands.
You never dreamed you’d end up a Buddhist monk. But life, as you are learning, is an adventure and an experiment. It’s not about being married or single, living in a house or on a commune. You seek peaceful unity with all living things. It’s a task so mysterious and profound, it could take a lifetime.
THE END
54
You will allow this handsome stranger to drive you home, but you’re not foolish enough to believe he is your soul mate.
For one thing, he’s far too hot. You’re uncomfortable even being in the car with him. His chest is practically ripping through his T-shirt. His golden calves burst forth from his ratty army-cargo shorts. He’s so tall and hulky, you wonder how he fits in his own car. It’s hard to even think of him as a person; instead, you keep thinking of him as “the body.” As in, I’m so close to the body in this car, or What would happen if I touched the body? It’s unfortunate that you are so distracted because he’s actually making great conversation.
When he pulls up to your apartment, you figure it would be stupid to leave without at least hugging the body. Instead, you lean over and do the weird thing you’ve been dying to do the whole ride home: you lick him. You lick his face, his neck, and you yank his shirt up and lick his glorious broad chest.
“Are you a little puppy?” he asks, laughing huskily but not stopping you.
“Arf!” you bark. “Arf! Arf!” Midbark, you kiss him with every bit of passion roiling inside you. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until you can’t breathe.
Then you leap out of his car, purple with embarrassment.
Fine, so you just pretended to be a dog to get some action. Over and done with. Back to your life. But now your life is absolutely unacceptable. Licking a man like a pathological puppy has freed you. It’s time to stop complaining about the land of silicone and agave syrup and get out of here!
You call your favorite magazine editor and demand she let you do a travel tour of European street foods. Normally such a thing would be unheard of, but the gods have suddenly taken a turn in your favor. You set off on an international adventure.
Soon you are traveling around Europe and wrapped up in your other passion: food. You eat during the day and pore over your computer at night. Focusing on your work buoys your confidence again. Who else but you should be commenting on the fluffy intimacy of a Parisian croissant or the casual elegance of a mushroom and truffle focaccia in Barcelona? What if you put together a book about it . . . or a documentary . . . or wrote a song?
Okay, maybe not a song, but the point is your creative juices are flowing. It’s fun not to think about men and to think about your own potential for a change. Plus, you’re stimulated by the gorgeous sound of other languages, the fun of befriending other English speakers, going to ancient ruins and discotheques—you are a true adventurer!
You’re congratulating yourself for being amazing as you gobble up some pastitsio at a charming Greek café. You’ve really turned it around, haven’t you? You’re resilient—like Greece. You feel a connection with this country, which has seen such hard times but manages to retain such warmth and friendliness. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts, you almost don’t notice the waiter who brings you a glass of ouzo. But the hand holding the check is bronze and strong. And when you look up, well, you’d have to be in a coma not to notice that he is a veritable Greek God. The thick brows, the high cheekbones, the sinewy body. The hunk makes tire-guy seem downright homely!
Cool your jets, lusty lady.
Turn to page 83, section 24.
Greece is a paradise—enjoy it!
Turn to page 46, section 15.
55
You can’t kid yourself that you love Greg anymore. The fact is, you love J. P. and you blew it. You tell Greg the timing is wrong and let him slither home. Now you’re alone in the quiet to survey the wreckage.
Everything has been thrown off track. Right now J. P. and you should be moving in together. You would take a trip to Office Depot where you would get bored and bratty and he would know just what to buy, and afterward you’d go eat grilled cheese sandwiches at your favorite diner, and when you got home he’d surprise you with a beautiful teapot for your new place.
You’d settle into living together, and J. P. would Netflix all these important foreign films but you’d always say, “Let’s watch 30 Rock instead,” until one day you’d agree to watch some documentary about Dick Cheney, and when you pulled out the disk, a ring would pop out, and at the wedding you’d have an awesome cover band and marzipan cake, and then you’d have two kids, one natural and one adopted from a Hungarian orphanage, and J. P. would make you go to tiny art galleries with lewd exhibitions but would also chaperone the eighth-grade dance, and when your kids went to college, you’d both write a book together about how to keep the sex alive in a marriage after twenty years, and when you got old he wouldn’t care about all your wrinkles and weird little cysts forming under your eyes, and then when he was a hundred and you were ninety-four, you’d die in your sleep, holding hands, and the last thing he’d ever say was, I love you so much, honey. I’m so glad I never left you just ’cause you kissed my brother.
You dream of this every night. Sure, you knuckle down, concentrate on your work, and manage to eat your vegetables. But mostly you just have this dream of J. P. After all, there’s a chance it could happen. And then, after four difficult months, you get the knock on the door. The special five-knock-plus-one that is J. P.’s signature.
In the movies you’d open the door and rush right into his open arms, where you’d find sweet forgiveness followed by immediate elopement.
But this is real life, so what happens is J. P. is angry and confused but still half in love with you and doesn’t know what to do. There might be some couples counseling with an itchy couch and a sliding scale followed by the rebuilding of trust and a deeper, more mature intimacy.
Or maybe J. P. will fall in love with the therapist, and you’ll be on your own for a decade and eventually meet a devoted divorcee with two mopey kids.
Or maybe you’ll be single forever but at relative peace with that.
At the moment, standing at the doorway with your heart pounding, it’s simply uncertain, which is all life and love ever promised to be. This is a painful fact, and it’s the reason you never could be a girl like Oasis. It’s the reason love can be every bit a dreadful, terrifying chore as much as the gorgeous glowing thing we all ache for until the end.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you…
For love and support: my amazing family and husband.
For endless listening and idea-bouncing: Nick Cain, Lucy (unicorn) Rimalower, Maggie Rowe, Debra Freeman, Chris Dewan, Rob Walz, Andy Gersick, Via Strong, India Donaldson, Natasha Parnell, Matt Price, Leila Gerstein, and Avi Glazer.
For hands-on help: Maggie Rowe, Lisa Medway, and Caryn Greenberg.
For generosity and guidance: Rina Mimoun, Gitti Daneshvari, Matthew Pearl, and Jen Besser.
For rock-star teamwork and expertise: Jason Richman, Allison Hunter, Jordana Tusman, Joshua McDonnell, Jacob Thomas, Carolyn Sobczak, Josephine Mariea, Running Press, and Perseus Books Group.