All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [71]
But what did Sandra say on my last birthday? Nothing expires until you do. I may not have succeeded in my campaign to find a husband and cozy stability, but I have succeeded in realizing that at least this version of that goal isn’t really what I wanted. The year and the campaign have hardly been a total waste. If I learned anything from tango, it’s to be alert and receptive and not jump to any conclusions. And if I’ve understood anything from meditating, it’s that all we have is the present and all we can do is appreciate the moment, not live with an eye to the future, full of attachment and desire, or regret about the past.
So I make some wishes to be safe, to be happy, to be healthy, to love and be loved. Then I take a few moments to offer those wishes to many people I’m grateful for in my life. Even Evan.
And then I take a big bite of rich, warm, intense, slightly bitter chocolate cake.
I CHECK MY e-mail before going to bed. “Candle,” is the subject line, an e-mail from France, from the Professor, wishing that la bella vita continues this year, sending me “kisses and so and so.” And that is a sweet birthday present.
Despite my efforts to be cheerful, or at least full of Buddhist equanimity, things are a bit bleak after I break up with Evan. I can’t help feeling blue about the unfortunate timing, as if the universe were pointing out that he was my last-ditch hope for a partner and family, comfort and stability, before my youth expired. It makes sense that we split up, but it doesn’t make sense that I am single, with zero prospects. Even though I feel a distinct sense of relief after he’s gone, it still bothers me that I didn’t manage to be patient and receptive enough to attract a man who would travel the world with me, holding my hand and watching out for pickpockets. Each time I break up with someone, I have to admit that he wasn’t right for me, but the disappointment is that once again he was the wrong guy. And even though men seem to arrive in my life like trains pulling into a station with no schedule, unpredictably, yet eventually, when I’m standing there alone on the tracks with the last one disappearing out of sight, I never believe I’ll see another.
The Monday after that miserable forty-fifth-birthday breakup I go to my office, a writers’ collective that I share with a group of freelance writers and filmmakers. I hole up in a black mood, not interested in seeing my colleagues, even though they are invariably full of lively lunch conversation about writing and politics and can be counted on to compliment my haircut or shoes. In the middle of the afternoon the doorbell rings, and I drag myself to answer it.
It is Gustavo. I haven’t seen or heard from him since the last time I left his bed. I am shocked; he is the last person I want to see in my present state. He wasn’t expecting to see me, either, since he is there to meet a filmmaker. I look like hell, my heart is sore from my recent breakup, and I’ve just gotten an extremely short haircut as a sort of Fuck Men reaction to events. It isn’t what I need, to run into this beefy, dark-haired Brazilian with his sly smile, reminding me that things never work out and that I will probably never have sex that good again in my life, if I ever manage to have sex again at all.
Gustavo hugs me and politely asks how I am doing. “I just turned forty-five and broke up with my boyfriend,” I blurt, giving him too much information, especially since he might not otherwise have guessed precisely how much older than he I am. I try to recover with a lame laugh. “Good thing it’s a new week.” I hold it together and we chat briefly; he’s just been in Brazil to see his girlfriend, the dark-haired beauty whose photo I conveniently ignored when I spent the night at his apartment, and they are finally moving in together. I am glad at least that all that talent isn