How to Be Single

by Liz Tuccillo

  “I can’t believe I forgot my drugs. I’m such an idiot.”

  Serena looked at me, my face slowly turning white. She put her hand on my arm and whispered to me. “It’s going to be okay, remember? We’re all going to be okay.” The plane was now ascending, climbing into the air quietly. I nodded. “Right. Right. We’re all going to be okay.” I loosened my grip a bit.

  Soon, we were in the air. Serena started reading to me from People magazine, and every once in a while Alice would interject with some gossip she had heard about this or that celebrity. I knew what they were trying to do—they were trying to keep me entertained so I wouldn’t start shrieking. It worked. For five and a half hours, no panic. Not a drop of sweat, not a gasp, nothing. I was just like any other sane passenger on this plane. I have no idea why, but maybe it was being with my friends, not feeling so alone. Or maybe it was because of the ritual we did in Iceland, where I allowed myself to let go of all my expectations about my life—maybe it included my expectation that I was going to plunge to my death. Or maybe I knew deep down that we were all going to be okay. And in the far-off chance that we weren’t, that we were all going to go down in a giant ball of flames—there was nothing I or my panic was going to do to change that. I let go of everything and just flew home.

  But whatever the reason, my panic was gone.

  Back in the States

  Two weeks later, we all got together to hear about Alice’s new job back in Legal Aid. We went to Spice restaurant in Manhattan and sat in a big booth downstairs in the VIP area, thanks to, of course, Alice. She told us all about the first case she was working on, a young kid who was accused of breaking parole but had been set up by one of his friends. She was full of conviction and passion and was excited to tell us all about it. We ordered some wine for the table, but Ruby declined. She was on a new medication, and she wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol with it. And she confessed: it was an antidepressant. We all broke out into applause.

  “Well, thank the frickin’ lord,” Alice said.

  “What took you so long,” Georgia said. “I might be going to take a trip to Mr. Psychiatrist any day myself.”

  “That’s so amazing, Ruby. I know that was a hard decision for you!” Serena said. She had moved out of Ruby’s the week before, having finally found an apartment in Park Slope.

  “How do you feel?” I asked Ruby. She smiled happily.

  “I feel kind of great. I have to say. Not like insanely happy or anything, just not so depressed. It just gives me a shelf. So I never really sink so low.”

  “That’s fantastic,” I added. And then Georgia looked at me and said, “So what are you going to do about your book?”

  I grimaced and said, “I don’t know yet. My publisher doesn’t know I’m home, but she did just email me wondering how it was going. I don’t know what to tell her.”

  All the ladies looked at me, slightly concerned that I was throwing my new career down the toilet.

  “But don’t you think you learned so much? From meeting all those women all over the world?”

  I thought about it, as I took a stab at a piece of duck on my plate.

  “I’m not sure.”

  After that, we went to a bar on an enclosed roof of one of the trendy hotels in the neighborhood. There was a deejay, but it wasn’t crowded yet. We all piled our bags and our coats in a corner and got on the dance floor as fast as we could.

  So there we all were, back in action. This time there would be no brawling, no stomach pumping, no chicken wings, no hogs, no heifers. We were all just out, opening ourselves up yet again, for one more night of adventure and fun and possibility.

  The song “Baby Got Back” came on. Now, this is as fun a song to dance to as there is. We all started dancing our hearts out and shaking our “backs” and trying to sing along to the song and failing miserably at it.

  I looked around at all my beautiful friends, dancing with each other. In these past two weeks I couldn’t help but notice how these women all now called each other on their own, without me having anything to do with it. At dinner they teased each other and got annoyed with each other and knew exactly what was going on in each other’s lives, like old friends. As Serena, Alice, Ruby, and Georgia all were laughing and shimmying and whooping it up on the dance floor, it hit me: I had finally gotten what I always dreamed of. While I was on the far side of the world, a girl posse was being born. And now here it was, fully formed, dancing up a storm in New York City.

  I wondered again how I could sum up what I had learned from the amazing women all over the world. One thought kept creeping into my head—but I kept pushing it away. On the dance floor, with the music going and me feeling just the carefree abandon of being out with a bunch of my girlfriends, I was mortified even to think it. But I did feel it. I’m horrified even to type the words out now. But it hit me, hard—I am so loath to admit it. Shit. Goddamn it.

  I think we are going to have to love ourselves. Fuck.

  I know. I know. But at least let me just say, I don’t mean we have to “love ourselves” in a take-a-bubble-bath-every-night kind of way. Not “love yourself” like “take yourself out to dinner once a week.” I think we have to love ourselves fiercely. Like a lioness protecting her cub. Like we are about to be attacked at any moment by a marauding gang of thugs who are out to make us feel bad about ourselves. I think we have to love ourselves as passionately as the Romans love, with joy and enthusiasm and entitlement. I think we have to love ourselves with the pride and dignity of any French woman. We have to love ourselves as if we are seventy-year-old Brazilian women dressed all in red and white parading around in the middle of a block party. Or as if we just got hit with a can of beer in our face and we have to come to our own rescue. We have to aggressively love ourselves. We practically have to stalk ourselves, that’s how much energy we need to put into this. We really do have to discover our inner Viking and wear our shining armor and love ourselves as bravely as we ever thought possible. So yes, I guess we fucking do have to love ourselves. I’m sorry.

  Just as I was thinking all this, a cute guy with hair down to his shoulders walked up on the dance floor and started dancing/talking to Serena. He was wearing weird red baggy pants.

  As they danced with each other, I heard Serena ask him, “Excuse me, but are your pants hemp?”

  He nodded and leaned over and said to her, “As much as I can, I try not to wear anything that hurts the planet.”

  Serena nodded, intrigued. “What’s a guy like you doing in a club like this?”

  The guy smiled at her. “Hey, I may wear hemp but I still love to dance!” And just like that, he put his arm about Serena’s back and swirled her around the room. She was laughing and blushing. For a moment as she passed by me, she gave me a look as if to say, “What are the odds of this?”

  After dancing a bit, Alice, Georgia, Ruby, and I eventually sat down at a little table. We had a 180-degree view of the New York skyline, with the Empire State Building lit up in white and blue. Serena was now at another table, talking to the hemp lad. He seemed to be fully smitten by her, and they were laughing and chatting like two old friends.

  “So…do you think we’re witnessing a small miracle right in front of our eyes?” Alice teased.

  I smiled at the thought. “You never know.”

  I looked around the club at all the beautiful women that were dancing, flirting, talking to men, talking to their friends. They were all out, trying to or having a good time, looking their stylish, unique, sassy best. I thought again about my travels. It could have gotten me discouraged meeting all those single women all over the world, all with their own struggles, their own needs and hopes and expectations. Instead, it comforted me. Because the one thing that I can keep with me, hold it like a tiny love note in one of my pockets, is that no matter what I’ve learned, or how I might feel about my single status on any given day, there is one thing I am clear about now. I am definitely not alone in this.

  I am definitely not alone.<
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  And you know what else? Miracles happen every day.

  Acknowledgments

  There are many, many people who helped me research this book, particularly the women and men I interviewed all over the world, and all my “hosts” who got me access to those people. The list of all of them by name might be as long as the book itself. But I am deeply indebted to all those people, particularly all those women, who took time out of their busy lives to talk to me about love and dating, with great honesty and great humor. It truly was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and I am humbled, grateful, and in awe of all of them. I thank them all from the bottom of my heart.

  Specifically, I would like to mention a few people in each country who were invaluable to my research.

  In Iceland, I need to thank Dröfn and Rakel for organizing the amazing meeting of the women of Reykjavík; as well as Brynja, Rakel, and Palli for their friendship, always.

  In Brazil, my hero Bianca Costa, along with Tekka and Caroline of Copacabana films. Thank you to Matt Hanover from Yahoo. And Cindy Chupack for her brilliant mind that I wish I could have as my own.

  In Europe, my camera crew Aaron, Tony, and James for making us laugh all the way through Paris and Rome. In Paris, my two fixers, Laure Watrin and Charlotte Sector. In Rome, Veronica Aneris and Monica De Berardinis (and John Melfi for always being there to help, in any country he can). For Dana Segal, for a friendly face during a chaotic time. To Gabriele and Domenico for inspiring me always, not just in Rome. In Denmark, Thomas Sonne Johansen and Per Dissing, thank you for being there for me on the last, coldest leg of my Europe trip.

  In Mumbai, India—Hamida Parker, Aparna Pujar, Jim Cunningham, Monica Gupta, thank you all for helping us navigate a very difficult-to-navigate city. You were generous hosts to us.

  In Sydney, Australia—Karen Lawson, thank you for your endless enthusiasm, humor, and boundless energy. Thank you, George Moskos, for your additional help with the blokes, and your good humor about it all, and a thank-you to Bernard Salt, for giving me so much of his time for a long, hilariously depressing interview. And a special thanks to Genevieve Read, now Genevieve Morton, whom I’ve never met, but inspired me so.

  In Beijing, I must thank two ladies, Chen Chang and Stephanie Giambruno, for all their help making Beijing one of the most memorable trips of my life. And for Chang, for her bravely honest insights. I’d like to thank Han Bing for his additional help and Nicole Wachs for being the best companion an aunt could ever ask for.

  And overall, my research and this book would not have been possible if it wasn’t for Margie Gilmore and her relentless, tireless persistence, and Deanna Brown for her faith in us both. Margie, thank you again for giving me the world.

  In the U.S., I need to thank the people who were there when this was just a germ of an idea and were ready to help. Mark Van Wye, Andrea Ciannavei, Shakti Warwick—and Garo Yellin, for that night when he figured it all out for me.

  During the writing of this book, thank you Craig Carlisle, Kathleen Dennehy, and my savior Kate Brown.

  And then to those without whom I would be nothing: Andy Barzvi for being the pushiest, most delightful agent a girl could ever ask for, it’s all her fault, every last bit of it; my editor Greer Hendricks—I’m still trying to figure out what great thing I did to deserve her; and to my publisher Judith M. Curr, I’m still learning how lucky I am that she’s in charge.

  Thank you to my sushi and story ladies for being ready and willing to go way beyond the call of duty. Thank you to Marc Korman and Julien Thuan on whom I rely for everything. Thank you to John Carhart for all his hard work and good humor, even when he hates me. A special big international thank-you to Nadia Dajani, for taking this journey with me and being a witness to it all—and I mean all of it. The world would not have been so much fun without you. A special thank-you to Michael Patrick King, because he started it all, and will get a special thank-you always. And to all my friends and family, whose encouragement irritated me so, thank you for your patience with me. I am nothing without you.