The Overdue Life of Amy Byler

by Kelly Harms

  “The people have spoken,” he says. “And they want momspringa. You’ve started a conversation. And my job is to keep it going.”

  With that, Matt and I rush to an athletic store near his office. Inside we find miles of high-end spandex and stainless steel and many mirrored surfaces. Matt sits me down in the shoe section and barks, “Shimanos, size seven,” to the attendant and then tells me, “Be right back. What’s your sports-bra situation?”

  I smile at him, feeling assured in my attire for once. “In that department I am well covered,” I say, adding what I hope is a reassuring thumbs-up. In fact, until I came to New York, sports bras were pretty much all I owned.

  Matt comes back about two minutes after I’ve put on a pair of rigid-soled low-profile cycling shoes. He is clutching lots of hangers with stretchy gray and black things on them. “How do they feel?” he asks me about the shoes.

  “Like weird bike shoes. But they fit. Tell me again why I can’t wear regular running shoes?”

  “Well, for one thing, you’ll slip off the pedals. For another, you look cooler in these. You don’t mind that a photographer is meeting us at the cycling studio tonight, do you?”

  I give him a hard look. “I do in fact mind. I haven’t been on a bike seat of any kind since I pushed my son’s enormous head through my tiny birth canal. I will need a few practice sessions to acclimate.”

  He waves a hand as if to say no problem. “Let’s do the shoot next week when you’re in the zone. Tonight, we can just tweet and snap. Now, get those off so we can check out and I can get to work before Talia’s voice mail explodes. On the way, pick out a water bottle.” He gestures to a display of nozzle-top sports bottles in shades of metallic.

  “Am I going to be shooting water into my mouth while I pedal, like a Tour de France rider?”

  Matt smiles. “Hopefully. It’ll make good art.”

  When we get to the register, I offer to pay for the gear, thinking that this is a good use for some of the last semester’s tuition money that John has, miraculously, reimbursed me for over the last week. But Matt shoves me aside. “First of all, the total is going to make your eyes bleed,” he tells me as he pulls out the company credit card. “And second, I still haven’t spent all the momspringa budget.”

  I frown at him. “But—”

  “Before you go through the motions of arguing with me, only to lose, let’s just say we get some great photos of you trying new fitness classes and . . . doing some other new activities.” I narrow my eyes at this last bit, but he ignores me. “The momspringa hashtag is trending, as you may have noticed. This is one of those rare moments when a story might actually help sell copies of the magazine, or at least raise our profile. That is definitely worth a sweat-wicking tank or two.”

  “But—”

  “Did I mention thank you for helping my career?” Matt says. “And shut up and be grateful for this?”

  I laugh and then give up and let him pay. As he’s being rung up I play back the previous conversation. “What other new activities?” I ask him. “Pole dancing?”

  Matt laughs. “Please. No one does that anymore.”

  I shrug. “I am pretty sure strippers do.”

  “Fair enough. But I was thinking dating.”

  I sigh. “Well. I guess I could try a date, if there was someone you thought was really promising.”

  “Good, good.” Matt nods. He takes the bag of gear, and we start for the door. “But what would you say about maybe sampling a little more widely?”

  I look at him curiously. “I guess I’d say, ‘What’s the point?’ If I hit it off with the guy you pick, then I can date him. If not, I’m not exactly in the mood to shop for a stepdad for the kids.”

  Matt steers me down the crowded sidewalk. “There are other reasons to date besides husband hunting.”

  “Oh, not you too.”

  “It’s fun,” he tells me. “And it sells magazines . . .”

  I throw up my hands. And yeah, maybe I give in a little too easily. “Ok, fine. A couple of dates. But you have to do all the picking men and arranging plans, and you have to help me decide what to wear. I just show up. Understand?”

  “I understand completely. A couple dates a week until the magazine goes to press. Thanks, Amy. You’re a real peach.”

  “I did not agree to that,” I tell him. “I said—”

  “And I’ll text you where to meet tonight for spin class. Me and my new gal pal, Amy, hanging at Flywheel,” says Matt. “Your mind is going to be blown.”

  “Matt—”

  “Momspringa!” he hollers. And then he turns and walks into the office, leaving me on the street wondering if what I’ve actually embarked on is a mommageddon.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dear Mom,

  You’ll never believe this, but I went to the library yesterday after my first day at work and checked out A Tale of Two Cities, and you’re right. I loved it! It was totally unputdownable. I was rooting for Los Angeles the whole time, but when Chicago pulled out a win in the end, I was totally satisfied with the result.

  Just kidding. I went to see the new Fast and the Furious movie with Brian and Trinity. Brian has this friend, Mom, who is so cute. His name is a pretend rich-kid name: Dalton. He goes to Catholic school, and he’s apparently very good at sports. Brian and his soccer coach are trying to get him to forfeit a year of games to come play his senior year at Country Day. Dalton took me aside when Brian was talking to the bros and asked me what I really thought about that idea, and I told him the truth: That it’s a great school, and if he wants to work hard, he’ll get an excellent education for two years. But you can get a great education lots of places if you’re interested in working hard. I said, if he wants to play soccer, play soccer—don’t sit out a year just to make some rich guys happy.

  He told me the rich guys are persuasive. He told me they have been inviting him to parties and introducing him to hot private school girls. I told him we hot private school girls are actually total prudes, and all we do is study all the time. I told him if he wanted to have any kind of post–high school athletic career, he’d be wise to skip the parties and focus on school and practice. He asked me if I wanted to be study buddies. Then Brian came back.

  I had the best night. I’m pretty sure Dalton is going to stick with his school, and that’s probably the right decision for him. But still, it is so, so good to be reminded that there are other guys in this world than the guys I already know. Maybe one day I’ll meet a man who knows not to ever take me to a Fast and the Furious movie.

  Dare to dream, right?

  Love,

  Your daughter, who is seriously thinking about playing the field (get it—soccer field? Because Dalton plays soccer?), Cori

  —

  Yes, I have two new friends, and Lena and Talia are a text message away, and there’s the city that never sleeps for company. But staying alone for weeks at Talia’s place is still making me itchy all over. This is not my house. These are not my things. This is not my life.

  For the first lonely week I texted Cori too much, called to check on John every night, and made Lena or Talia video chat me during dinner so I didn’t constantly have to eat alone.

  But Lena told me last night she’d be appearing as teacher rep for a PTA meeting this evening, Talia has dinner with some advertisers, and Joe and John are chauffeuring Cori and Brian to the movies. So tonight I come home from my third Flywheel class sweaty, exhausted, and totally amped up, and I have never, ever felt so alone.

  Before class, Matt’s people fancied up my ponytail into a high bun and did some sweat-resistant makeup, and then a photographer came in and took pictures of me on the stationary bike pretending to be part of a larger class. She stayed and snapped some shots while the class was actually going, and I was the subject of all kinds of interest and speculation from my fellow fliers, and I felt, ever so slightly, like a celebrity. Flywheel may be a “fitness revelation,” but it is also a very New Yorky scene. The obsce
nely toned instructors wear pop-star headsets and play music so cool it won’t reach my hometown for another three years. In the crowded “stadium” where we spin, with the teacher telling us we are superstars and our sweat flying on the jumps, I feel gorgeous, strong, unbeatable. Now, in the empty, Talialess apartment, I feel more like an imposter.

  I pour myself a bowl of cereal and then start spinning my mental wheels. I should take a shower, I think, go down to the cute little Italian restaurant on the corner and eat a big plate of gnocchi at the bar by myself. I can bring a book. If I do it with confidence, no one will think anything of it.

  But instead I pour the milk on my cereal. I’m not the kind of person who can go sit alone in a restaurant on a Friday night with confidence. I’m the kind of person who will probably eat this cereal and then fall asleep on the couch in my sweat-wicking athletic clothes around nine p.m.

  I could be doing that in Pennsylvania, I nag myself. Or Antarctica, for that matter. I need to live! This is my momspringa, right?

  I open up my laptop. After he tweeted my first gussied-up “after” shoot, Matt fielded a small passel of probably crazy men asking for my contact information so they could date me. He asked them to send a recent photo or link to their online dating profile, and then he’d pass it along to me. He also heard from loyal magazine readers who wanted to set me up with their single guy friends. He followed the same MO with them. Now he has shared a small private Pinterest portfolio of fellows that I can either thumbs-up or thumbs-down on. Like my own personal Bumble app, he tells me.

  I reply, “What’s Bumble?”

  Matt sighs.

  I haven’t looked at the Pinterest board since that quick viewing at the teahouse. I’ve been afraid just looking over these guys would upset me. The truth is, since John left, the idea of dating widely has been almost poisonous to me. The hot librarian aside, there hasn’t been anyone—not one single man—who has made me want to get back out there again. The first time Lena brought up dating after John left, I raced to the bathroom, locked the door behind me, and had a big cry before I came back out again. At the time I blamed the reaction on PMS and fear. On reflection, I suppose the very thought of dating outside my marriage made John’s and my separation all too real to bear.

  Well, now things are different. Now I need to make that separation feel as real as possible if I’m ever to get on with my life. So I open Pinterest, navigate to the secret board Matt shared with me, and take a look.

  What I see is amazing. At home I have gone three years without ever bumping into a tempting dating proposition. Here in New York the talent is unmissable. Here are twenty men, all vetted by Matt, all looking imminently eligible. He’s provided links to Facebook stalk them, and I see doctors and lawyers, artists and poets, and several Wall Street types, in a variety of cultural backgrounds, body types, and racial makeups. In their pictures they are hiking up mountains, scuba diving, and cuddling adorable children.

  The easy part is the first elimination. I rule out a man with four young kids—probably great, but contrary to the ethos of momspringa—and a man whose politics on Facebook are just way too incompatible with mine. I rule out a guy riding a Harley with no helmet—if I wanted to be a young widow, I’d just smother John in his sleep. I rule out a guy who seems to have spray-painted himself orange. Now I am left with sixteen truly good-looking employed dudes who want to take me on a date. I feel like The Bachelorette, Special Middle-Aged Edition.

  “There are too many delicious choices,” I text Matt completely out of nowhere.

  He must still be at the office. He immediately writes back, “Get three dips then. Life is short!”

  I laugh to myself. “I’m talking about men, not ice cream,” I shoot back.

  He responds, “Maybe I am too.”

  I send him a smiley and then ask how to choose.

  Matt:

  Give the guys a ranking of either 1, 2, or 3. Then try to set up dates with all the 1s. Scheduling will determine who you meet first.

  Amy:

  Oh wow. You had a pretty quick answer for that.

  Matt:

  I’ve done this before.

  Amy:

  Are you some kind of mom pimp?

  Matt:

  I could be. Next career.

  Amy:

  I’ll be sure to write you a testimonial.

  Then I pause for a second and text him again.

  Should the 1s be the people who are the best-sounding humans or the guys who are the cutest?

  Matt:

  Up to you. But if it were me, I’d pick the cute ones. You can date nice guys back in PA. New York is just for fun.

  Amy:

  #momspringa!

  Matt:

  #momspringa!

  I turn back to my screen. The man who is a successful pianist is a definite one. I have always wanted to date a musician. Think of his fingers . . . and the very good-looking Wall Street suit is a one because, wow, he is very good looking. And the younger guy with the gorgeous eyes who says his favorite book is Love in the Time of Cholera. And the silver fox who looks like what you’d get if you crossed Harry Bosch and Walt Longmire. And definitely the archeologist because Indiana Jones. And so on and so forth: I rate and rate and rate.

  By the end I have seven ones. I open up a beer to pair with my cold cereal, pour it in a glass like a classy person, and start tapping out quick messages. I thank each guy for contacting Matt and tell them I am going to try some first dates as part of the #momspringa article; I think that clearly sends the message that this isn’t a serious endeavor. Then I ask them if they might be free in the next couple of weeks and if they’d be comfortable going on the record for the magazine. By the bottom of the beer I have contacted all seven guys. I am genuinely excited. I am incredibly hopeful. I am downright giddy.

  And when one of the guys, a financial analyst, pings me back an hour later, asking for a date tomorrow night if it’s not too short of notice, I am pretty damn pleased with myself to boot.

  —

  Lena:

  So . . . how was the date with the money guy?

  Amy:

  It was fine.

  Talia:

  But was he fine?

  Amy:

  Um. Ok, yes. Tall. Extremely good looking. Like, maybe he is an underwear model? Wearing what I imagine a thousand-dollar suit would look like, not that I would know. And he took me to this place where only good-looking people in thousand-dollar suits go. Like, I felt afraid someone was going to ask me to wear a paper bag on my head to keep the standards up.

  Lena:

  Ha! “Ma’am, I apologize, but would you mind hiding your hideousness from us for a few hours? We need to think of our guests’ needs.”

  Amy:

  “Our very good-looking guests.” And then my date would say, “She doesn’t mind. She’s one of those with the ‘inner beauty.’”

  Talia:

  You’d damn well better still have the outer beauty too. I spent a lot of my August feature budget on that outer beauty. Are you keeping up with your eyebrows? Did he like your hair?

  Amy:

  Yes. He said my hair is what drew him to me. Which is, like, not really the best thing to say on a first date. I didn’t tell him the reason I decided to message him is because of his nice teeth, did I?

  Lena:

  Does he have nice teeth? Because that is not nothing.

  Amy:

  His teeth are like a toothpaste commercial. Little rows of mother-of-pearl shells, gleaming white for as far as the eye can see.

  Lena:

  So he has good oral-hygiene habits.

  Amy:

  I would say it’s beyond good habits. It’s probably closer to a life pursuit than a habit.

  Lena:

  Like a calling from God?

  Talia:

  What’s his name?

  Amy:

  Dylan

  Talia:

  “DYLAN, THIS IS GOD. GO GET YOUR TEETH BLEACHED.�
�

  Amy:

  That’s probably exactly what happened. Anyway, it was pretty hypnotizing to look at. I think that’s why I ordered that second martini.

  Lena:

  Talia SHE GOT THE SECOND MARTINI

  Talia:

  Stop shouting. Only the Voice of God gets to use all caps.

  Lena:

  Talia she got the second martini

  Talia:

  I KNOW RIGHT?

  Did you get laid, Amy Byler?

  Amy:

  I did not. But it was hard to resist him.

  Lena:

  She’s doing it wrong. She’s trying to resist him.

  Talia:

  I know. Believe me, I know.

  Amy:

  He looked gorgeous, and the restaurant was amazing, and he was kind of fascinating in his own right with his stories about traveling all over the world giving out IMF loans. But . . .

  Lena:

  Yes?

  Amy:

  Deep down, he was a tool. Do we still say tool?

  Talia:

  We do, in the privacy of text convos with other people our age.

  Lena:

  I never said “tool.”

  Amy:

  That’s because you never dated a tool. You were married to God.

  Lena:

  There were days when God felt like a real tool to me.

  Talia:

  Wow. You’ll have to let us know how many other nuns you meet in hell, Lena.

  Lena:

  Oh, like you won’t get there long before me.

  Talia:

  I’m in hell now. Hell is summer in Florida.

  Amy:

  Hell is realizing your gorgeous tooth-model date is a tool only after the second martini. I spent the entire period from the serving of the main course till the escaping to a cab trying not to tell him how patronizing he was being. He acted like he invented microloans. Also, he asked me if I had read the new Malcolm Gladwell, which, yes, I have, and then even after I said yes, he described the entire book basically verbatim to me. Like, maybe I read it, but did I read it with the Dylan-level insight he could share with me?

  Talia:

  Uch. Malcolm Gladwell.

  Amy:

  Right? I’m a librarian. Dig deeper, jerk.