It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (3 page)

All three would joke about how lucky I was to not have to deal with dirty boxers or joint checking accounts, but ultimately, they were happily in love and wanted me to be too. Cut to me, having been without a boyfriend for the better half of a year, on a random weekday when I found myself in a typical group text with the four of us. Typically, we used these group chats to keep up with one another, talk about the latest Kate Middleton news, make inappropriate jokes, and most important, notify each other of that day’s sales on Gilt, Rue La La, and HauteLook. But on one particular day it wasn’t about the sales or the gossip; it was about me and my “future husband.” Not just “Are you dating?” but loads of questions pertaining to my love life (really, my lack of one). I quickly grew suspicious of a conspiracy, but shrugged off the questions until Sarah “randomly” suggested I go on a reality dating show. Leslie and Caroline wasted no time chiming in with encouragement for this stupid idea, which provoked me to respond with six full lines of “HAHA.” I couldn’t believe they even watched these crappy TV shows, let alone thought I would ever be the type of cray-cray who would go on such a thing. But they had clearly been researching and planning what I swear must have been called Operation Get Our Only Single Friend Married, led by General Sarah and Sergeants Leslie and Caroline.

SARAH:
So, Andi, have you thought about doing a dating show?

ME:
So, Sarah, no. What are you talking about a dating show?

SARAH:
Like on television . . . one of those reality shows where you find love.

ME:
Umm. No, definitely no. Actually, HELL NO!

CAROLINE:
Oh, Sarah, what a great idea!!!

LESLIE:
Kudos to Sarah! Come ooooonnnnnn, Andi, you totally should!

SARAH:
Seriously, you have nothing to lose.

ME:
Ummm . . . except my dignity.

CAROLINE:
Oh lookie here! There is a casting call 2.3 miles from your office on June 20th.

SARAH:
It’s meant to be . . .

ME:
Umm . . . How do you know this?

CAROLINE:
I just happened to be on the Internet and saw it.

ME:
Yeah, okay . . . sure.

LESLIE:
It’s totally meant to be!

CAROLINE:
It’s like as meant to be as a pair of Tory Burch flats in your size on Gilt!

SARAH:
That’s so rare.

LESLIE:
It’s a sign. Wait, Caroline, is Tory Burch on Gilt?

CAROLINE:
Not until Thursday.

LESLIE:
Fuck that noise.

ME:
Girls . . . my love life does not equal Tory Burch sale shoes.

LESLIE:
I’m just saying it’s a sign.

SARAH:
I mean really, what do you have to lose?

ME:
Again, my dignity.

SARAH:
Yah . . . Ummm dignity is overrated.

LESLIE:
Agreed.

CAROLINE:
Ditto.

ME:
You three are crazy. Headed into court. TTYL!

CAROLINE:
Fine, but don’t forget casting call June 20th.

SARAH:
We can talk outfits when it gets closer!

These conversations went on for weeks until finally, the morning of June 20th came along and I found myself in yet another group text. The pressure was on more than ever, and the girls weren’t even attempting to play coy.

SARAH:
So, Andi . . . I’m not pressuring you, but I just got a reminder on my calendar that there is a casting call for your future . . . and it’s today.

LESLIE:
Today is the daaaayyyyyy.

CAROLINE:
Wait, what is Tory Burch on Gilt today, again?

LESLIE:
No, Caroline . . . it’s casting call day.

CAROLINE:
Oh riiight! So the location of the event is exactly 2.3 miles from your office and it starts at 6 p.m.

ME:
Not going. And P.S. you girls are insane.

LESLIE:
and fucking married.

CAROLINE:
engaged.

SARAH:
engaged!

ME:
Haha. Fuck y’all.

SARAH:
Don’t worry, we still love you.

LESLIE:
And by love she means pity . . .

CAROLINE:
Okay, focus everyone! So Andi, from your office, you take a right on Peachtree, then left onto Roswell. Take that 1.4 miles and the bar will be on your right.

SARAH:
Casting goes from 6 to 9 p.m.

LESLIE:
Should she get there early or late? What do we think?

CAROLINE:
Well, early reads desperate, fashionably late reads cool.

SARAH:
But don’t show up at 9 because they might have already found enough good girls.

LESLIE:
So how about 7:30?

CAROLINE:
Agreed. That will give a 10-minute cushion to get there and plenty of time to do a quick outfit change after work.

ME:
WTF? No!
No!
NO!

CAROLINE:
Ok, fine, you don’t have to change your outfit as long as you’re wearing that cute black Theory skirt suit I like . . .

ME:
Haha, not no to the outfit change, no to all of it!

LESLIE:
Seriously, what the hell do you have to lose?

ME:
Again, my dignity.

SARAH:
Andi . . . don’t get me started. I lived with you for three years, don’t make me discuss your dignity . . .

ME:
Sarah, low blow!

LESLIE:
Think of all you have to gain.

ME:
Umm . . . Like what?

CAROLINE:
A husband!

LESLIE:
New friends? Though they won’t be nearly as fucking cool as us.

ME:
Ok, real talk here . . . Ya’ll seriously expect me to go to a casting call for a reality television show?

CAROLINE:
Well, duh! Isn’t that what this whole conversation is about?

SARAH:
The casting call info sheet does say free drinks . . .

ME:
Hmmm . . . free drinks, really?

SARAH:
Bible! You know I would never joke about free drinks.

LESLIE:
I see it on here too!

ME:
What time is the event?

And that’s all it took, really . . . Three of my best friends on my ass and the promise of free drinks.

That afternoon I got off work at the abnormally early time of 6:00 p.m. My plans to meet a girlfriend for dinner had changed due to a scheduling conflict that involved dinner with her boyfriend’s mother or some other I’m-not-single-and-have-more-important-things-to-do bullshit. Plan B was to grudgingly hit the gym. But, the fact that I hadn’t packed gym clothes and would have to drive
past
the gym in order to go home and get dressed
for
the gym was inconvenient enough to nix that idea altogether. I mean, yeah I guess I could have sucked it up and gone the extra mile to my house, at least in the name of single sexiness, but instead, I just began driving north through downtown Atlanta. Ready to fight the grueling rush-hour traffic, I was pleasantly surprised by the steady flow of the cars. With the music cranked up and my foot on the gas more often than the brake, I must have subconsciously taken a right on Peachtree followed by a left on Roswell Road, because next thing I knew I was in the parking lot of none other than the location of
the
casting call. My car had literally steered me to this bar and into this parking space.

I sat staring at myself in the rearview mirror asking my reflection, “What the hell am I doing here?” All the while, scantily clad girls were lining up outside the front doors of the bar. As the line got longer, the heels got higher and the necklines plunged farther down. There was a well-balanced mix of brunettes and blondes, which was surprising considering most Southern girls start bleaching their hair before they hit puberty. Not a surprise: the teased heights of each girl’s mane (another thing Southern girls learn to do before hitting puberty). After all, we were below the Mason-Dixon Line, which meant, “The higher the hair, the closer to God!”

“Fucking shit,” I muttered as I looked down at my modest ensemble of a black Theory pencil skirt and matching blazer, nude pumps, black blouse, pearl necklace, and tan stockings (which I wore to appease conservative judges). In all of this mess, I’d forgotten that I should have gone home and changed out of my prudish knee-length suit before I went to a casting call for a dating show. Caroline would have been mortified to call me her friend (though I do think she said a Theory skirt would suffice). I began frantically rifling through my center console in search of any and all makeup that could salvage this fatal fashion faux pas. Through headphones, business cards, and pens, I managed to find a pink tube of dried-out Maybelline mascara, ChapStick, and a half-empty bottle of embarrassingly old Clinique Happy perfume. I threw off my blazer, removed my strand of pearls, stripped off my panty hose, and reached down my blouse to perk up my boobs. I was as ready as I was going to get. With a deep breath, I opened the door, and took one step toward insanity.

The line had died down enough by this point that I didn’t wait long before being greeted by one of several peppy girls manning the check-in desk.

“Name?” one of them asked.

“Andi Dorfman,” I replied as she began to write it onto a dry-erase board only to stop after AN before looking up confused and asking, “Angie or Annie?”

“No, it’s Andi, A-N-D-I,” I replied.

“Oh, got it, and what was that last name, dear?”

“Dorfman.”

Seeing the puzzled look on her face, I decided to spare her any extra brainwork. “D-O-R-F-M-A-N.”

“Age?” as she continued to scribe.

“Twenty-six.”

“Hometown?”

“Here.”

Again, puzzled look. Maybe
I’m
the idiot here?

“Atlanta.”

“Do you have a job?”

“Yes, I’m an attorney.” What, did she think I normally dressed in a knee length, all-black ensemble? I guess maybe I had pulled off the impossible feat of “making it work.” Kudos to me!

“Atny” she abbreviated to complete my nametag.

Though she’d abbreviated my profession incorrectly, I decided to let it slide, since I was, after all, there to make a good impression.

“All right, dear, step over here and we are going to take some pictures. Can you hold the sign under your chin?”

Flash after flash, I stood stoically as I posed for my “mug shot” before finally I was allowed to pass Go, collect $200, and enter the bar. Okay fine, I didn’t get $200, but I did get access to the open bar, which became the setting of the most insane scene I’d ever laid eyes on. Hmmm . . . where do I even start? Close your eyes and imagine an entire store filled with Herve Leger knockoffs, each of them accompanied by a pair of matching glittery platform peep toe pumps. Now, breathe in and get you a good whiff of that Elnett hairspray stench. Do you smell that hint of cucumber? Why, yes you do! That would be the Bath & Body Works Cucumber Melon lotion permeating the air (the kind with a hint of shimmer, of course). Look to your right—those girls slamming shots are the “party” girls and are already sloshed. To your left is the group of “pretty prissy girls” conversing with each other (though I doubt any of them are actually listening to one another). And then there’s me. The girl in work clothes who’s found herself in bandage-dress HELL!

I made my way to the bar to order a glass of Chardonnay, keeping it classy, of course, but before the bartender even poured the wine, I was whisked away by a brunette woman wearing leather leggings and a black V-neck with the sleeves rolled up far enough to see her tattooed wrists. She introduced herself as a casting producer and asked me to follow her into a back room before directing me to take a seat on a stool, where a bright light blinded me and a camera with a blinking red light stared me down, scaring the living shit out of me.

She began by asking me various biographical questions like where I grew up and what I did for a living. The more I responded, the more the bright light made the room sweltering hot and me on the verge of sweating like a skank in church.
Please don’t sweat, please don’t sweat
, I thought to myself. Finally, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Shit, is it hot in here or is it just me?” I said as I wiped the moisture off my forehead. As I said “shit,” I covered my mouth like a five-year-old and stared into the camera and then back into the eyes of a very unfazed producer.

“Fuck, I just cursed on camera, didn’t I?”

I covered my mouth again.

“Shit, I’ve just said ‘shit’ and ‘fuck,’ and we just met. Sorry.”

“Oh, please, it’s fine . . . not a big fucking deal at all.” She chuckled.

I had liked this tatted-up chick from the beginning, and now, hearing the way the word “fucking” rolled off her tongue so effortlessly, I liked her even more. We continued to “shoot the shit” for a few more minutes, and even figured out that we were from the same hometown. There we were; just two gals chitchatting away in the back of a bar, forgetting we were at a casting call, before another producer politely popped in to remind us that there were more girls waiting to be seen. We hugged goodbye before she handed me off to yet another producer who took me into yet another back room.

“Don’t show anyone else this envelope,” she instructed as she handed me a thick manila envelope.

“Okay . . .”

“We really like you! Now we need you to fill out this packet exactly how it says and make sure to send it back within seventy-two hours!”

“Umm . . . okay, sure,” I naïvely responded, unaware of what covert operation they were running here.

“Also, if you don’t mind, can you go out the back door so none of the other girls see you have an envelope?”