Sexy Jerk(73)

It's how I hope to find myself.

My friends squeeze my shoulders, and we continue to sing the lyrics. Unexpectedly, they alter the words, and instead of talking about making it in New York, they tell the story of making it anywhere-in my case, California.

More than moved by this kind gesture, I gulp down the sorrow and move with them in a way that doesn't match the tempo at all. It doesn't matter, though, because they're right: "If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere."

God, I hope that's true.

There's a pause in the chorus and the piano melody quiets us all down. We're now standing in a straight line onstage and swaying back and forth. 

Breathing for the first time in three months, regret isn't a word I am going to allow myself to say . . . out loud, anyway.

Yes, I admit it-I have a type A personality, which makes me hard to get to know and even harder to be friends with. Crossing my t's and dotting my i's will always be important to me. As is staying on a schedule. Making lists. And being organized. But none of that means I'm boring.

The sting of the word still hurts.

Sebastian was wrong. Is wrong-I am not boring, and even though he is out of my life I am going to prove him wrong. No, scratch that-I am going to prove to myself that I can live my life wild and free, because truth be told, I may not be boring, but I am bored.

I need a change.

To find myself.

The chorus starts up again and although we sing about coming to New York, we all do so knowing that I'm leaving.

I still can't believe I'm doing it.

When my best friend, Maggie, suggested on the phone, "Why don't you quit your job and move out here with me?" I nearly broke out in hives.

I thought, why would I do that?

My life was settled. I had a good job, an apartment, and a fiancé. Then I remembered that my boss was an ass, my apartment was a sublet, and my fiancé, well, he wasn't mine anymore.

Once I let the idea of moving sink in, I thought, why not make a new start? At twenty-four and a half, I can afford to make a change. I'll get a new job. Give myself a year. Who knows, maybe even find myself.

I have nothing to lose.

If Laguna Beach isn't the place for me, then I'll come back to New York. And if I have to, I'll grovel to get back my old job at the fashion house. My soon-to-be-former boss might be an ass, but he knows my value to the company as a designer.

Completely oblivious to how this song ends, I mumble through it, laughing the entire time. When it's over, I'm the first to stumble off the stage. Soon after, my friends follow, and we all huddle together. The group of boys our mothers warned us about have reoccupied their seats, leaving us homeless.

"Let's sing another one," India suggests, practically jumping at the idea. India is-no, as of today, was-my coworker at Kate von Frantzenberg. We've been friends since we both started there right out of college. She's married to a great guy named Elvis-yes, Elvis. And she, like Sandra, saw me through the dark times following my breakup with Sebastian.

Another song does seem like fun. Karaoke is addicting. However, my bladder is about to burst. "You guys go for it," I tell her. "I'm going to use the bathroom and I'll hop in when I'm done."

"Stay out of trouble," she calls to me.

"Don't worry, I'll be good," I tell her and weave my way through the crowd toward the restrooms.

Trouble.

That's a laugh.

Even if I went looking for it, it would never find me.

Boring.

My life is that boring.

Wonder of wonders, there is only a very short line. Gleeful and relieved when I finally push through the bathroom door, I hurry to find an empty stall. The hard part comes next. My dress is tight, too tight to shimmy over my hips. With its large silver zipper running up the entire back, I have to use both hands to get it down. Getting it back up is just as much of a bother.

An episode of Sex and the City comes to mind. One in which Carrie Bradshaw finally accepts being alone and figures out how to zip her own dress.

If she could do it, so can I.

Channeling my inner Carrie, it still takes me a few minutes. And when I come out of the stall, the bathroom is jam-packed. I wait my turn for a sink behind two women whispering loudly about the tragedy of it all and how they don't blame him for leaving the city. Him. I don't know who they are talking about, but by the time the two women leave, even I feel sorry for this him.



       
         
       
        

After I wash my hands and dry them, I follow the surge of people down the dimly lit hallway. There are rooms reserved for private parties and with my feet killing me, I slip into an empty one to check my messages.