It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (12 page)

A few days passed before my next date, and as I sat on the beach I couldn’t get Twenty-Five’s question out of my mind. Despite feeling like a disappointed five-year-old who didn’t get the Barbie Jeep she wanted for her birthday, I knew I had to get over it. Not just because I was an adult and temper tantrums were no longer cool, but because I was an adult who had two more dates this week.

Next up was Number Twenty-Four. We’d had pretty decent chemistry initially, but as the weeks passed, that chemistry plummeted and we’d become more friends than lovers. I think deep down, we both knew it wasn’t going to work out in the long run, but in an environment filled with pressure and drama, comfort seemed to fill the romantic void. I knew, however, that no amount of security was enough for me to bed him. I couldn’t risk impulsively using him for sex, since clearly my urge had not yet been satisfied, and though the feminist in me kind of wanted to “hit it and quit it,” I wasn’t ballsy or bitchy enough to do it. The thought of sending him home weighed heavily on me, since he had been my source of comfort; while I exhaustively overanalyzed the other two men, I could relax and sip bourbon with him. But I knew he wasn’t my future husband, and so he had to go.

Another few days passed, and I sat on the beach again, this time feeling less mortified and disappointed and more anxious for my final date of the week with Number Twenty-Six. By now, I had gone from seeing him daily to not having seen him in almost two weeks (which felt like a month) and I was in withdrawal mode. I missed him. I wanted him. Hell, at this point, I physically needed him. In a seven-week-long two-man race, he was in the lead going into the homestretch. In order to win, pretty much all he needed to do was get it up and not royally fuck it up.

He met me in the city of Santo Domingo. As soon as he kissed me, I felt relief, knowing that if our time apart had done anything, it made me adore him even more. We spent the day walking through town before joining in on a baseball game with some local kids. As I sat in the dugout talking to the young kids, I watched Twenty-Six coach them on the field. And I saw it . . . I saw the future father of my children. Images of him teaching our kids how to play baseball and sitting next to me in the stands at a varsity game as we cheered on our son or daughter played in my head like a movie, making the day one of the greatest dates of my life, and it wasn’t over yet.

After the baseball game was over, we each went our separate ways so we could get ready for the evening portion of the date. I had saved one of my favorite dresses for this special moment, a nude silk gown that conveniently didn’t allow for a bra. It was soft and sexy enough to give the illusion of skin, and just revealing enough to leave him tantalizingly curious as to what lay underneath. I slathered my body with baby oil (my secret weapon) and went for an all-natural rolled-around-in-the-bed hairstyle. I was in a car on my way to meet him for dinner when disaster struck. Chewing gum in preparation for a night of making out, I bit down on something hard. As I spit the gum into the palm of my hand to examine what the hell I was chomping on, I saw what looked like a tooth. I felt around my mouth and discovered a massive gap in the back.

“Holy shit!” I screamed as I turned to my producer.

“What, what is it?” he panicked from the backseat.

“Don’t freak out, but something bad just happened.”

“Oh, my God, did you get your period?”

“No, worse.”

“What? What happened?”

“I just lost a tooth!”

“What do you mean? Like you have baby teeth? What?”

“No, I think it was a crown, but yeah, here’s my tooth.” I opened my palm to reveal my molar.

“No, no, no, this can’t be happening.”

“Well, it is. Great, I am about to go into the fucking fantasy suite missing a tooth.”

“Hey, it could be better for him, if you know what I mean,” another producer joked.

The entire car burst into laughter until tears streamed down our faces. I couldn’t tell if I was crying from laughing or just utter panic, probably a mixture of both. Here I was moments away from spending my first night alone with Number Twenty-Six, and it was all going to go down with me missing a tooth. Would he notice? Should I tell him?

We sat down for dinner—which I clearly would not be eating now—and it took about five minutes for me to blurt out that my tooth had fallen out. I figured he would laugh, which he did, but he then wasted no time sticking his finger right into my mouth and examining the gaping hole! He joked that maybe
he
would be getting lucky after all, and we both burst into laughter. My uneaten meal still sat on my plate when the time came to finally get the hell out of there and get the real party started. We arrived at a beautiful house lit with tiki torches that led to a backyard pool, slipped into our bathing suits (thank goodness I hadn’t eaten), and frolicked in the water. Okay, maybe frolic is putting it lightly; we really indulged in a steamy make-out session. I looked up and noticed the crew packing up, which I should have been ecstatic about, but instead I was terrified. It wasn’t the intimacy that scared me—it was the anticipation of what the next few crucial hours would bring. What would he be like now that the camera was off and it was just the two of us alone? Would our conversations be just as good, or would we find ourselves awkwardly making small talk? The disappointing romp with Number Twenty-Five caused trepidation. Would Number Twenty-Six also let me down by surprising me with some freaky fetish game? He was the only one left with whom I could see myself, and thus this night was make it or break it.

With the crew packed up, I figured in a matter of moments we would be in the bedroom, but instead after our lips couldn’t take any more, he gently picked me up and placed me on the edge of the pool, leaving my feet to dangle in the water. He hopped up next to me and there the two of us lay on our backs side by side as we looked up to the night sky, lit with sheets of unbelievably bright stars, and just talked. We talked about life, about the past few weeks, about family and friends, about the future. It was so natural that I actually forgot we hadn’t had sex yet. It must have been an hour of conversation before I realized how bad my back hurt; all the while I had been glancing between the stars and his face as he spoke. With every word, I kept thinking, “
This is it, he’s the one.
” A therapist would call it a breakthrough, Oprah would call it an “aha” moment—whatever it was, I was having it and there was only one way to describe this realization: it was love.

We spent the evening swapping stories, laughing until our stomachs hurt. We talked about our future, our beliefs, and our goals in life. We talked about almost everything except for the other men, and the previous overnight dates I had partaken in. I guess because it was ten days since I had last seen him, there was this unspoken truth that I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew he wasn’t the first overnight date, and most likely not the stealer of my V-card. It was the night I had wanted, but never got from Number One or Twenty-Five. We drank wine and gorged on the dessert spread that had been left for us in between trips beneath the sheets (obviously). Let’s just say, yes, he got it up, yes it was great, and yes he was undoubtedly in the number-one slot.

We were still in midconversation when the sun came up, beaming through the sheer window panels of our bungalow.

“Did we even sleep?” I asked him with my head pressed against his chest.

“I don’t think so,” he responded as he kissed my forehead.

As producers came to whisk us away separately, I begged and pleaded for more time. But with our tight schedule—which now included my having to go into town to get my tooth glued back on—our time was up. It was the best night of my life. And unlike the other fantasy evenings, I dreaded getting out of there and having to miss him again. All I wanted was to be back in bed, wrapped tightly in his arms. All I wanted was for the fantasy to last forever.

You know how people ask you what the best night of your life is, and you usually respond with something like your twenty-first birthday, or your first concert, or your senior prom, or even the night you got engaged? Well, mine wasn’t any of those. It wasn’t when my parents surprised me at college and threw me a helluvah twenty-first birthday party, or that TLC concert I went to in fifth grade where my girlfriends and I all wore matching outfits and blue bandannas tied around our heads (really showing my age and poor style choices there), or even my engagement. No, the best night of my life was that night. The night I lost a tooth, found myself in complete fear of being alone with him, and ultimately, I realized I loved him.

It’s difficult reminiscing about what I considered the best night of my life. So instead, I’ll just blame it on good ole tunnel vision. I had gone on this journey with one goal: to find love and come hell or high water, that’s exactly what I was going to do. I didn’t feel external pressure to get engaged, I felt it internally. I think I wanted so badly to be successful and meet my husband on the show, that I put Twenty-Six and our relationship on this extraordinarily high pedestal.

I think every single person involved in a relationship experiences this delusional and debilitating disease. It happens when the fairytale ending is your only focus. And as you intently envision it, you neglect your peripheral view, which contains the unpleasant picture of what your relationship truly looks like.

But, if we look beyond the narrow tunnel that we found ourselves in, would it still be the best relationship we’ve ever been in? No, it wouldn’t. Because if it were, it wouldn’t have ended. That’s the thing about tunnel vision, you can’t live in it forever. Sooner or later, you get out and everything that was outside comes into view. And that’s when you realize, the fantasy was just that,
a fantasy.
And we ain’t got no time to be living in fantasyland.

So get your head out of the clouds, take your ex off the high horse he rode in on, and take comfort knowing the best hasn’t happened yet.

Lesson learned:
It’s called a fantasy for a reason.

N
othing new. Still wearing my usual ensemble of V-necks and leggings because I haven’t had the courage to go get my stuff, which remains at Number Twenty-Six’s apartment. Word of advice: When you know it’s over, make sure you pack a suitcase before you drop the breakup bomb. I’ll have you know, however, that I have at least added some pieces to my breakup uniform, thanks to speedy free shipping and tissue tees from
Jcrew.com
. Still, my clothes are begging me to bite the bullet and go get my belongings, but I can’t muster up the courage yet. Instead, I find myself still loafing around Kelly’s house, something I’ve surprisingly become quite familiar and bored with. There are only so many days I can take being pathetic, but I’m not sure what to do instead. What was supposed to be a temporary period of depression has now gone on for over two weeks. I just can’t seem to get out of this funk. I’m surviving versus living. I may not be trapped on a deserted island fighting for my life in the wilderness, but I am fighting for my sanity.

Instead of doing anything productive, I wander into the kitchen and do a wine inventory. Bad news—only three bottles left. I open the freezer and take out a box of Thin Mints that Kelly brought home yesterday. As I open the green box and dig into the plastic wrapper, I am saddened to find only one cookie left. Poor thing, all alone in the clear sleeve it once shared with so many of its friends (who are now in my belly). The lonely cookie is just like me. After I devour it, I go to the pantry, where I’ve hidden a reserve box, only to find that it’s empty as well. How the hell have I gone through two boxes of Thin Mints in one day? Not that it’s entirely my fault; they shouldn’t make them so tasty. As I hold the two empty green boxes in my hand, I can’t help wondering if
this
is my rock bottom.

I toss the boxes into the recycling bin and make my way to the living room, where I plop down on the couch, turn on the television, and channel-surf until
Judge Judy
graces the screen. I’ve taken a keen liking to this show because not only is Judge Judy one badass bitch, but also because seeing that other people are bigger shitshows than I am makes me feel slightly better about my pathetic self—until, that is, I reach down to scratch an itch on my leg and discover just how tragic my life has become.
When was the last time I shaved my legs?
I wonder as I examine the forest that has grown on my shin. The hair is so long I could probably braid it into a fishtail, if I actually knew how to braid or fishtail for that matter. I don’t even want to raise my hand for fear the forest is even thicker under my armpit. I realize I have let myself go emotionally over the past few weeks, but while I have good reason to, letting myself go physically is completely unacceptable.

My motto’s always been: Look good, feel good. Feel good, play good. It’s why I splurge on lululemon and matching Nikes for my gym ensembles and why I never leave the house without concealer and blush. Same goes for a Friday night out. My mood for the entire evening can be dictated solely by my outfit. Bad outfit equals bad mood. Good outfit equals party time! There is a direct correlation between the way I look and my attitude. Simple, yes. Shallow, maybe. True, hell yeah.