Cue Adele, Hide the Gillettes
Text from Camilla Grant:
It’s your Mum. I saw your Facebook update. You can’t go on a honeymoon with Fanny. It isn’t done Vivia! Besides, you are vulnerable & French men are WICKED creatures who prey on vulnerable women.
Text from Tiffanie Hoffmeister:
OMG! Vivia! Just heard about yr wedding. U must feel soooo hopeless. Keep ur chin up & 4get about the statistics. U cld still totally find a man & get married. Ur not that old yet.
Text from Grace Murphy:
Oh sweetie! I was just about to head to the airport when I got Fanny’s text. I can’t believe Nathan really broke it off. What an ass (Unless you’ve worked it out with him, in which case, he’s a great guy)! Listen to Fanny. Go to France & call me when you can. Love you.
“Get up, Vivian.” Fanny gently shakes my shoulder. “The limo will be here in an hour and you still haven’t packed your carry-on.”
The days since Nathan called off our wedding have passed in a blur, facilitated by liberal amounts of greasy take-out and French wine. Fanny insists French wine can transform any meal into haute cuisine. I politely disagree. A chicken burrito slathered in white cheese product remains a greasy gut-bomb no matter what you pair it with.
Thank God for my best friend. She’s taken charge of my broken-down life and whipped it into shape. Wedding cancelled. Possessions headed to storage. Facebook update posted.
“Vivian!”
“Ooshay,” I mutter, wiping the post drinking binge eye crust from the corners of my eyes. How Fanny can be so freaking perky after last night’s Mexi-French fest is beyond me. “I’m up.”
I stumble into the bathroom, slip out of my clothes, and step beneath the shower. The scalding water revives me to the point of near-human. Thirty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in a fuzzy bath towel. I pulled my hair into a sleek ponytail and applied a full face of make-up. I’ve gone for a glam cat-eye look reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn circa Paris When It Sizzles. Apropos, non?
Fanny is sitting on the floor, sorting stacks of foreign currency. She looks up and whistles.
“Chi-Chi. Look out Europe, here comes Vivia Grant!”
I laugh and Fanny resumes counting her Euros. What’s the antidote for a broken-heart and wounded ego? Spending time with your best friend, of course.
Sticking with the Audrey vibe, I opt for slim black cigarette pants, a crisp white blouse knotted at the waist, and black flats. I throw on my chunky steel Cartier Ballon Bleu watch, which was an extravagant gift from Nathan, and spritz some perfume into the air, stepping into the sweet-scented cloud.
I really don’t care what I look like, but Fanny does. I don’t want to embarrass her. She always looks so chic. Besides, I’m going to Paris freaking France! A modicum of effort is expected.
My bags have been packed for weeks, filled with sheer negligees from Victoria’s Secret and La Perla, bike riding gear, and slinky sundresses. I consider replacing the lingerie and slinky dresses with clothes more appropriate for a Girls Only trip, but repacking seems like too much work.
I throw my cosmetics bag, flat iron, and toiletries in my carryon and start to zip it up when I notice Nathan’s sweats and my Raw tee on the floor. I look over my shoulder to make sure Fanny isn’t watching, grab the outfit, and shove it in my carry-on. Chi-Chi is fine, but sometimes a girl needs comfort clothes…even in Paris freaking France.
The limo ride to the airport and check-in at the Air France La Première ticket counter pass without incident. I keep waiting for the airport police to jack me up for impersonating someone accustomed to riding in limos and flying first class. We do the barefoot shuffle through the TSA line, perform a shelf check in the duty free stores, and sit in the first class lounge until we hear the announcement for the pre-boarding of La Première passengers. We make it all the way down the gangplank and onto the airplane before another wave of grief washes over me. I should be flying to Paris with Nathan.
Once we have taken our seats in our posh first class pods, I check my e-mail/texts/Facebook for messages from Nathan. I appear to have taken up residence in Denial. Maybe I have. Give me a housewarming gift. Don’t judge.
Nothing from Nathan.
Several people have responded to Fanny’s update though:
This is a joke, right?
What happened?
Go Girl!
Super sad for you and Nate.
Should I return your wedding gift?
Forget Nathan, shag a Frenchie.
My travel agent friend Alexis posted:
If by lost ‘the man’ you mean that idiot I told you not to marry, and by ‘the Rock’ you mean Dwayne Johnson, and by honeymoon you mean that bike trip around the French Riviera I spent a month helping Nathan plan…then I say, Go! I'll even meet you there!
I am considering deleting the last two comments before my mother reads them, when Fanny reaches into my pod and grabs my iPhone.
“What are you doing?”
Fanny’s head appears over the top of my pod. She’s already slipped the complimentary Air France eye mask onto her forehead.
“I am confiscating your iPhone. You can have it back when we reach the south of France.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re obsessing, Vivian.”
A new text message alert flashes on my iPhone screen and I peek through her fingers to see if it is from Nathan. Fanny flips the phone over and reads the text.
“It’s not from Nathan,” she says, powering off my phone and slipping it into her carry-on. “Your mother said Father Escobar is available if you need to talk to him. And that she loves you no matter what, even if you end up a spinster, like your Aunt Winnie.”
“Fab! Even my mother thinks my love life is a lost cause.”
Fanny releases her breath in one long exhalation.
“If you’re a lost cause, what does that say about me? No man has ever asked me to marry him or given me a sparkler from Tiffany’s.” Fanny snaps her fingers. “The ring! We haven’t taken the Travelocity photo yet.”
She reaches back into her carry-on, pulls out my iPhone, and jabs the power button.
“I’ll be right back,” she says and heads up the aisle.
She says something to a pretty flight attendant. The stewardess looks down the aisle at me, her lacquered lips pulling down in a tragic pout. Then she looks back at Fanny and giggles. She disappears behind the galley curtain and emerges again carrying a crystal flute of champagne.
Fanny returns, followed by the lacquered lipped stewardess carrying the champagne flute. She holds up my iPhone and squints at the screen as if she were Steven Spielberg shooting his 63rd Academy Award winning flick.
“Okay, Vivian,” Fanny directs. “Reach out as if you are about to take the glass of champagne from—” She looks at the stewardess.
“Morgan. Morgan Tyler.”
“Reach out as if you are about to take the champagne from Mademoiselle Tyler, but close your fingers a little because you’re giving me scary jazz hands.”
I comply. Who wants scary jazz hands on Instagram? I imagine the hashtags: #MistakesGIRLSmake #Desperate4Love #HideousSelfie.
“Good, now turn the ring toward the camera a little more.” Fanny snaps the picture. “Voila!”
I look up at Morgan Tyler, sympathetic stewardess, and she fixes her face with a big beaming smile.
“You are sooooo brave,” she says. “To be out, traveling, so soon after your tragedy.”
She makes it sound as if I am a pitiable creature, like someone who’s emerged from plastic surgery after a brutal pit-bull mauling or one of Taylor Swift’s lamentable exes. Jeez. I was left at the altar.
“Thanks,” I say.
Morgan Tyler squats down, looking me in the eye.
“That came out wrong,” she says, lowering her voice. “It’s just… My boyfriend dumped me last year and it practically gutted me. I was completely useless for, like, three months.”
I blink at the bubbly California blonde and wonder how any man could have jilted such a beauty.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
Morgan waves her hand. “No worries. I’m so over it. Your Travelocity ring thing is brilliant. Maybe if I had thought to do something fun like that after Dominic dumped me, I wouldn’t have gained ten pounds, emotionally eating my way through the entire Entenmann’s pastry line” She’s all wistful, staring off and then snapping her magnetic smile back on. “Anyway, I’d love to follow your adventure. Maybe I could look you up on Facebook?”
I like this girl. Her combination of sweetness and candor are kind of cool.
“Absolutely!”
I reach into my purse and pull out one of my San Francisco Magazine business cards and hand it to her. Morgan takes my card and reads it. Her eyes widen.
“You’re a reporter?”
“Yes. No. I was a reporter for San Francisco Magazine until my fiancé broke up with me. His family owns the magazine, so…”
“You were fired?”
I nod.
“Shut up!”
“Serious.”
Morgan whistles low. “That’s just harsh.”
“It’s no big deal,” I lie, slapping a big bright smile on my face. “I’ll get another job soon.”
“Of course you will.” Morgan Tyler places the champagne flute on my armrest table, slips my business card in her apron pocket, and winks. “If you need anything else, just let me know, ’kay?”
“You see, Vivian?” Fanny waves her hand at Morgan. “You are not the only woman to have been dumped at the altar.”
“Fab! Maybe I should start a Facebook page. Click Like if you’re Dumped and Lonely.”
“Trust me Vivian,” she says, moving back to her pod, “you are not going to be single for long.”
Fanny reclines her chair, slips her mask over her eyes, and releases a deep, contented sigh.
I wish I shared Morgan and Fanny’s optimism about my future, but right now I am scared I will spend the rest of eternity on welfare, eating Healthy Choice meals for one. Maybe this awful turn is just the fulfillment of a tragic personal prophecy. When I was in first grade, my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I answered, “A bag lady.”
I am not sure what possessed me to say such a thing. Maybe it was petulance, or maybe I was genuinely enamored with the idea of living an unfettered life, only burdened by the pretty bags I carried. Twenty years later, I am without a man, a job, and home of my own. My possessions have been boxed up and carted off to a storage facility, and I am about to spend the next two weeks living out of a suitcase. Now, how’s that for a self-fulfilling prophecy?
I reach into my purse, pull out my ear buds, and am just about to pop them into my ears when I remember Fanny has confiscated my iPhone. Which means ten hours and thirty-two minutes sans music/podcasts/my guided imagery audio course.
“Pssst, Fanny,” I whisper.
Fanny lifts her mask enough to expose just one eye.
“Can I please have my iPhone? Just to listen to my music?”
Fanny sighs but reaches into her bag and pulls out the most remarkable invention since Victoria’s Secret Hello Bombshell! Bra.
“No checking e-mails or Facebook,” she says as she hands me my cherished cellular device. “And don’t you dare cue up that sad suicidal music.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, quickly choosing a new playlist.
“Puhleez,” Fanny rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen your ‘For When I Am Blue’ playlist. If you listen to that, you might as well skip the champagne and call for the razor blades.”
“Hey, don’t judge. It’s my process.”
“No Adele.” Fanny glares at me like a fierce, protective Cyclops. “You need a Girl Power playlist. Listen to P!nk.”
Before I can respond, she slips the mask back over her eyes, resuming her reclined position.
I pop my ear buds in my ears and opt for my Classic Rock playlist. Maybe all I need is a little Aerosmith, Poison, Def Leppard, and Mötley Crüe to empower me. As the first strains of “Pour Some Sugar on Me” begin screaming out of my buds, I close my eyes and let my mind flow in a stream of consciousness.
I read somewhere the inspiration for this Def Leppard mega-hit came when the songwriter was brainstorming lyrics and took a tea break. Someone asked him if he wanted one or two lumps of sugar and he said, “I don’t care man, just pour some sugar on me.” I like this song, but it doesn’t make sense. Sugar is gritty, like sandpaper. That’s not sexy. It’s painful. Now, why didn’t they say, “Pour some syrup on me”? Syrup is sexy. I don’t eat pancakes very often, but I like syrup. Nathan and I went to the sweetest little B&B in Asheville, North Carolina and had the most delicious homemade triple berry syrup. I remember how we—
Great! Now I am thinking of Nathan and sexy times.
I try to push the thought of Nathan out of my mind, try to press pause on the thousands of images now flickering in my brain, but I can’t.
This is how it starts…the slow slide into insanity.
Take a deep breath, Vivia. Get ahold of yourself. You are not going insane. Your brain is just stuck in an awful loop.
I wrote this article once about taming obsessive thoughts. My editor hated the idea when I pitched it to her, but I explained that the more cerebral piece might help shopaholics stop obsessing about buying an expensive pair of leather Stuart Weitzman biker boots or blinged out Juicy Couture sunglasses. I interviewed a physics professor who said the cure to obsessive thoughts was to reprogram the brain by replacing a positive image with a negative one. In other words, when I start to think about Nathan’s great smile, I should replace it with the memory of him flossing his teeth with my business card.
I conjure up a few more positive memories of Nathan—like the time he stood in the rain holding a bouquet of flowers outside my office, the time he serenaded me over my birthday cake, and when he proposed on bended knee—and replace them with negative ones—like Nathan sitting on a donut shaped inflatable pillow because of a nasty attack of hemorrhoids, Nathan being rude to a waitress after she accidentally spilled a glass of wine, and Nathan stalking out of Snob, leaving me in tears.
I am feeling more empowered already.
I can do this! I will reprogram my brain to stop thinking about Nathan. I will open new neural pathways, form new habits. Au revoir, Nathan Edwards! I am purging you from my mind, banishing you from my brain. I will think of you no more.