“Yeah, and Jennifer Lawrence.”
“Mixed with Mila Kunis.”
“Exactly—total MILF, but young!” They look like wolves, salivating at the thought of prime MILF flesh.
“Thank you, boys, that will be enough.”
They turn on their heels just as they start launching into another brotastic tirade. Not wanting to continue the conversation any further, I turn to the bar to gather a new round of drinks. “Two vodka sodas, splash of cran, and um, one rusty nail,” I tell the barman, not sure what makes me do it.
As I wait for the drink order to come up, I think about my friends’ theories. I know the real reason why we each haven’t found our own PH—one who is smart, successful, kind and ready for a commitment. It’s not because we live in a city where there are too many smart, single, professional women to men. Or don’t practice enough “self-love.”
It’s that as we’ve followed our hearts, our passions and career prospects, guys have shrunk back, intimidated, and the power balance has shifted. Ever since the economic recession hit in 2008, all my friends have gotten really serious about their careers. When I look around at all my married friends, the wives have all become the breadwinners. The husbands, many of whom were handed pink slips, are the new lost boys.
Maybe it also has something to do with social media, I think, as Brie and Addison now stare into their phones like the great white light is calling them home. It’s like the new fertile crescent—where all powerful ideas are exchanged—the Mediterranean of the Crusade times. Every woman I know is on it every single day, exchanging information—every single moment really.
“This is how you use apple cider vinegar nine ways.”
“This is how you make Chia pudding in a mason jar.”
“This is why the mommy wars are still raging.”
“This is why we can’t put up with fat shaming any longer.”
“This is what’s happening to young sex slaves in Mumbai.”
“This is the real reason you can’t lose those last ten pounds.”
Thanks to our Pinterest, Twitter, Facebook and Instagram passwords, women now hold the keys to all the information, while men play “Grand Theft Auto.” It’s changed everything, I think, and relationships haven’t caught up. No wonder Brady wanted a twenty-two-year-old—she’s probably his intellectual equal. All of a sudden thirty-six-year-old Amal Alamuddin going for fifty-two-year-old George Clooney adds up.
“Liz, you know what the problem is. It’s you,” Brie says. “You’ve always been holding out until something perfect arrives. Waiting for a unicorn—they don’t exist.”
“That’s not true. JR was no unicorn, trust me. But why should we be putting up with these douche bags with hoofs above their beds, or telling us to our faces that we’re not twenty-two-year-olds, or leaving without reason after a perfectly nice night out? Why do we have to settle for that?
“You can make affirmations or target your prey all you want, but I’m facing facts. There are no more smart, successful, interesting men in this city. Only narcissist-psychopath finance guys who mentally give us their ‘valuation’ based on the sum of our body parts. Or developmentally arrested geeky tech guys who play video games all day, who lunge at you mad-eyed for a kiss on your awkward, conversationally challenged second date. Or, second-wave hipsters with dirty beards and ‘I am a chef and a musician’ tattoos who are looking for twenties twee bar-maidens. That’s it. I’m not looking for a unicorn. There are no unicorns. We need to face it. We’ve missed the boat by being stuck in the wrong long-term relationships in our twenties. All the relatively stable types with short, nonimpulsive alleles have already married off with basic-bitch-type college girlfriends and live in Westport and are on to leading their gapster lives, sipping craft beer and pumpkin spiced lattes while they take pictures of their babies at the apple-picking orchard.
“All that’s left are an emotionally stunted crop of underemployed, scruffy, pasty boy-men who are following the Don Draper path of transactional fucking, or are angrily divorced, or might have plans to commit to their bourbon collections—but not us—ever. The most we can expect is some last-minute, late-night outside-of-the-spoon cuddling. Definitely no PHs.
“If we’re lucky, we’ll meet transient drunken Australians who still have some masculine qualities left. That’s our only hope...” I trail off, hit hard by the rusty nail that has snuck up on me. My friends look around, shell-shocked and hoping no one’s heard.
“Hmm. Thaaaat’s interesting.”
All of a sudden, I twirl around to find this supremely hot, sandy-haired man—who has an Aussie accent. “Hello, I’m Gavin, from Melbourne. And you, my lady with the extremely acid tongue are...”
“Liz. Liz Buckley.”
“Good to meet you, Liz. Love those theories. You’re completely wrong about them, though. I can help you with that. Here’s my number. Give me a call up sometime.” With that, he knocks back what’s left of his red wine, drops it on the bar and takes off toward the door as he gives me a wink.
I stand, red-faced, eating my words, holding his card, which says, “Gavin Bettencourt, executive importer/exporter. Barossa Distribution Co.”
“It’s the vortex. Works every time,” says Addison.
“Every time.” Brie nods.
At that, we’re done for the night. I tell the girls I’ll meet them for brunch that weekend, making sure they get in a cab. I hail one of my own, riding up Eighth Avenue toward midtown, noticing offhandedly all the restaurants lining the blocks, the same ones I’ve seen the past ten years.
I pull out my phone and casually scroll through the addresses, whiskey coursing through my veins in a way that doesn’t make me feel drunk—more like high. I pop Gavin’s number into my contacts—you never know—and then Ryan Murphy pops up at R.
Good 2 c u last night. I had fun. Let’s do it again soon! I type out. For two seconds I question the second part, but part of me thinks we’ve gotten to that place in our friendship; the other part—the sober part—tells me it would be safer not to send this. But what the hell, Addison is right—why am I being so low-self-esteemy these days? I’m not. The old Liz wouldn’t have cared. My finger hovers over the send key. Click.
The next morning at 11:14 a.m., with a dull ache in my left temple, I realize I’m late to my friend’s baby shower in Westchester after the auto-reminder appears on my phone. I can’t tell what I’m most queasy about—last night’s pub outing or texting Ryan at 2:03 a.m. on a Friday night. Total rookie move.
Sitting on the train from Grand Central Station and looking out at the beautiful presummer blossoming of the trees along the Hudson River, my thinking softens toward what the girls were telling me last night. Even if Ryan is in his prime Peter Pan years, still, he’s turning older and could change his agenda if the right girl came along.
When I get to my friend Katie’s house, I have to admit, it’s adorable. My old friend from high school must have gotten some help from her parents on the down payment. The three-bedroom Tudor-style home is on a quiet street in the same town the Clintons live, and orange marigolds are peeking their heads out from the ground in front of perfectly landscaped shrubbery. Taken altogether it feels, unlike me, very grown-up. Then again, my wants are more simple. I’d be really happy if I could find my soul mate and a life that didn’t involve a long daily commute to the Bird Cage. I don’t need West Elm, a grown-up couch or a Vitamix.
As I walk in, all of Katie’s suburban friends are doing the “sit around a circle opening gifts, oohing and ahhing.” I wonder if they know that to a trained baby-specialist like me, they look as though they are just going through the motions, or whether they are actually getting some joy out of staring at the same Baby Boppy they’ve seen at every other baby shower they’ve been to. Even the clothes from Baby