She’s married now, according to social media.
After Caitlin, I became a serial dater, thanks to spending a little too much time with Billy and Bobby from high school. We met girls whereverwe could find them: bars, clubs, even restaurants (I dated three different waitresses, all of whom responded favorably to the whole “phone number on the receipt” pickup line). My relationships lasted anywhere from a few weeks to a few months, but nothing serious.
Once I got older, I got my own place in the city, which made me a hot commodity on the dating circuit. Billy was still living at home and Bobby was renting a basement apartment in a sketchy area of Queens, and every single weekend, they’d hit me up to go out. But I was tired of the scene.
I was twenty-eight by the time I met Elle. We met at the Strand (which is to bookstores what Urban Outfitters is to clothing stores, in my opinion). I was there in search of a birthday gift for my mother. Elle was there for a book launch for some author whose name I can’t remember. I noticed her browsing the tote bags. I went over and asked her if she could help me choose a nice one for my mom, and she did. I think she thought it was cute that I gave a shit about my mother’s birthday. She asked if I wanted to stay for the reading. I had no interest, but I told her I’d stick around if she’d have a drink with me after. I was fresh off a breakup with Heather, the receptionist at the accounting firm my father used for our annual audit, and I guess my game was pretty on point because she smiled and said yes.
Elle explained that she was an assistant at a swanky literary agency and that the author was represented by one of the agents she worked under. Part of her job involved making sure the big-name authors were “taken care of” at events like this. She sat up front, and I hung back because I understood about not mixing work and personal stuff (especially now that we had to find a new accounting firm to do our tax returns).
Afterwards, we went to a bar nearby. I ordered a Jack and Coke and she got a Sex on the Beach, which basically was like a green light to take her back to my place. Little did I know, she was down for whatever—like,surprisingly. The girl wasn’t even drunk and it was a Tuesday night, but somehow I was able to get her between the sheets before ten o’clock. I think it was the apartment, if I’m being honest. She told me she was sharing a place with two other girls in the West Village and was happy for a night away from them, even if it meant doing a train ride of shame the following morning.
We started dating. She loved my place and, without much warning, began hanging out there all the time. She said the quiet was perfect for reading manuscripts. I’d grab takeout on the way home from work, and she would meet me there. We didn’t have much in common, but the sex was good, she didn’t make me watch a bunch of girly television shows, and she was meticulous about cleaning. I’m a pretty clean guy, but she meantbusiness. I never saw countertops sparkle like that.
Wife material, right? That’s what I thought. After eighteen months, I proposed. Saved up some money, gave her a fancy wedding, and bought her a house in the burbs. She could scrub to her heart’s content.
Six months later, I was at the law offices of D’Aleo and Strauss seeking representation for my divorce case. Courtney had just been hired as Dom’s paralegal. I made the mistake of joining Dom and his team for happy hourone time,and now the girl can’t look me in the eye without becoming an emotional train wreck.
So, yeah. I’ve learned my lesson about mixing business with pleasure. Won’t be making that mistake again, thank you very much.
Gracie’s a safe bet though. She’s from myhigh school, for God’s sake.
What could go wrong?
Gracie
I hang up the phone and check the time again, like a neuroticperson. It’s 3:35 now. All of a sudden, the meaning of time has completely shifted. Like how on Christmas morning, when you’re a kid, if you have to wait until 6:00 a.m. to open the gifts and it’s 5:30, those minutes just drag by so slowly—but, if you’re a grown person hitting snooze on the alarm clock on a Monday morning, thirty minutes can go by in a snap.
Panic ensues as I realize I only have three hours and twenty-five minutes to get ready for a monumental, once-in-a-lifetime, dream-come-true kind of event. I look in the bathroom mirror.Oh, man. This is going to take some serious strategizing.
My hair hasn’t been colored in well over a month, and there’s no way I can pull off all that root growth looking trendy, or even intentional. Thank God for L’oreal Excellence. A two-pack of 6G—Light Golden Brown—which, in reality, always comes out like chestnut brown with dark blond highlights, is living under my bathroom sink. Another win for procrastination; I meant to color my hair two weekends ago but instead decided it was more important to YouTube how to make a red velvet cake from scratch. (Which, side note, came out sinfully delicious.) And we all know what happened to melastweekend.
I roll on the cheap plastic gloves, unscrew the caps, and mix up abottle of the dye. “Alexa, continue!” I yell, knowing I’ll need some good get-in-the-mood-for-a-hot-date music to pump me up. It takes about ten minutes of careful application to cover my roots. I gather all of my hair up in a big plastic clip on top of my head and crack the bathroom window to let out some of the toxic fumes.
Then, while that sets, I run a bath. I take off my sweats and slide my hands along my legs.Damn.It’s been a minute since I broke out my razor. I begin to entertain the internal tug of war.If I shave, I’m assuming there’s a chance he might be getting me out of my pants tonight. If I don’t shave, there’s no chance at all because I won’t let his first encounter with my skin be reminiscent of aPlanet of the Apesmovie.
So, yes. Definitely need to shave.
I haven’t bought actual shaving cream since I was a teenager, but a healthy palmful of conditioner seems to do the trick once I glide down into the bathtub. I’m not a hairy girl—my body hair is thin and light in color—but still. When we were in high school, Colin Yarmouth dated some of the best-looking teenage girls on the planet. I’m sure their skin was smooth like rose petals or menthol cigarettes, not all sprouted like some science experiment where you track what happens to an old potato with toothpicks stuck in it.Dammit. This is what I get for not shaving all winter.
I am slow, methodical, and careful with the razor because I notice there’s a bit of rust along the edge, which means this will only end badly if I rush. I get through both legs and then find myself face-to-face with a grave decision.
What to do about the fuzzy butterfly in between?
I have never been waxed. Like I said, I’m grateful for my body hair situation. And something about the idea of having some undoubtedly gorgeous, Scandinavian-looking bombshell come anywhere near my undercarriage with a bowl full of candle drippings just terrifies me. Like, for real. It’s the stuff of nightmares and horror films.
To be fair, my downstairs isn’t completely terrible. When Scott and I first dated, I used to use a pair of nail scissors to keep things trim. Once we were basically living together, I upgraded to his haircutting kit, using the same electric razor that I used for his biweekly fades to keep my own hedges tight. Every few weeks or so, I’d mow the lawn using a number one cutting attachment. By the time we were cohabitating for about a year and a half, I got the sense that he really didn’t care, so after swimsuit season, I gave up on that and grew it out. Scott never complained, but then, of course, Ilana came along, and she probably never sprouted a pubic hair in her life. I’m sure I looked like a woolly mammoth by comparison, and he left me for her, so yeah, it’s probably best I handle this situation lest I remain single for all eternity.
Since he no longer lives here, I don’t have access to his electric razor anymore, but I know I can’t go at this mess straight on without a solid trim first. So, I stand up, drain the bathtub, dry off my hands, and fumble through my makeup case for the old nail scissors. I move onto the toilet and begin to snip away at the jungle, Ariana’s encouraging “Thank U, Next” permeating my airspace.
Once I can see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, I check my phone and turn the shower back on to heat up for my impending rinse. Now, I have a real choice. I have to guess if Colin prefers a total smoothie or just a well-groomed patch. I reach for the Gold Bond ultimate super-healing hand lotion that I use only in the dead of winter when my thumb skin cracks open like fault lines during an earthquake. I squeeze a hefty drop of it onto my forefinger and rub it in. I work the razor around the edges.God is a woman, like the song says.Let’s leave a little something down there to remind him of that.I opt for a wide landing strip.
The way I was taught, when shaving a sensitive area, always work top down, in the general direction of the hair growth. Well, I’m doing that,and things are looking good. I finish up the most visible area and grab my compact mirror from my makeup case to check out my artwork.
I am a vagenius, I tell myself, smiling.
But how does that saying go? Never mistake arrogance for intellect? That’s what Ishouldbe thinking when I decide to take the haircut to the next level and shave underneath.
Bad idea. Very bad.
