“Aaaah!” I wake up with a gasp. Is this really happening to me? Is today really my very last day of being 29? My very last day of being in my twenties at all, period? Yes. Tonight at midnight I’m going to turn 30 whether I’m ready for it or not. What am I doing with my life?!

Ok, let’s see. I have a good career. I love what I do. My boss is a little weird, but despite the fact that he’s been known to fire people for very unpredictable reasons, he’s let me stay with the company for almost six years already. I think it’s because he knows I can fix anything. Then again, I’m a publicist, so that’s kinda my job. Ok, so I’m good at my job, that’s something to be happy about. But if I can fix anything, how did I allow myself to get all the way to 29 years and 364 days without having met the love of my life? I thought for sure I’d have taken care of that by 30. And, yeah, sure, we don’t have to be married yet, but I gave myself a hard personal deadline to at least have met him by now. I’ve never missed a deadline before. So, what happened here?

Well, looking back on my dating history, I guess I kissed some boys, I lost my virginity, I dated some guys, I got my heart broken, I dated some men, they weren’t right for me, I buried myself in my work, got ahead in my career, had fun being casual and not worrying about the future, worked hard, played hard, made money, enjoyed being young and free, and then I woke up today, on the day I turn 30, with not a single prospect in sight.

I guess it just snuck up on me. Still, this is the first time I have ever allowed myself to fail at accomplishing a self-imposed goal to meet an arbitrary deadline. This is a terrible precedent to set. Next thing you know, I’ll miss all my deadlines. I mean, why shouldn’t I miss them after this? If you miss one, the pressure of keeping a perfect record sort of disappears. Your record is already tarnished.

Wait a minute. I’m a publicist; I’m supposed to be able to fix any problem… I
can
fix any problem—that’s my fundamental expertise! This isn’t over. I’m not 30 yet. I’ve got 17 hours left, and I’m going to fix this!

First of all, I am going to look hot today! It’s the least I can do for myself on this, my last day of official youthfulness. Okay, if we’re honest, when I say “hot” I don’t mean “6-foot tall runway model wearing Gucci’s latest line” hot, I mean, “me” hot, which in reality is quite a bit more subdued than any of that. Looks-wise I’m only 5 foot 4, and sort of more of a girl-next-door type. I’m pretty, I guess, but I wouldn’t call myself a head-turner. I’m more “pretty because you can tell I have a good personality” pretty. Which I realize isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a girl. Plus, I think my vaguely innocent features have helped in my career because people trust me more than they would some va-va-voom type of beauty, like my best friend, Lacey.

Lacey is so gorgeous it’s practically caused her to have a complex. I used to wonder how a girl that pretty could be so insecure, but it turns out it’s actually her good looks that brought it on. Most guys just want to sleep with her or show her off to their friends, and she seems to have to work about twice as hard as I do to get anyone to take her the least bit seriously or give her the benefit of the doubt about pretty much anything. Hanging out with Lacey has really helped me realize that it’s true; it’s not easy being beautiful.

To be fair, though, she does bring some of it on herself with her very particular “in your face” point of view.

Like here’s an example of a typical Lacey-ism, “I’ve decided that from now on, I’m only dating men with money, because it’s a fact of nature that all men cheat. But at least if he has money, when that inevitable betrayal comes, I’ll know that I got more out of it than just a broken heart.”

Personally, I enjoy her viewpoints, mostly because they’re hysterically funny, and also because they’re not entirely wrong. I mean, who can blame her for wanting a few gifts in exchange for her broken heart? Not me, that’s for sure. Anyway, she’s just trying to figure out how to win at life, like the rest of us.

Either way, I guess I should be happy that I look so non-threatening. Except when I wear this one suit. My power suit. It’s the one I’m wearing today. The navy one with the little pin stripes, that I reserve for days when I want to close new client deals. I don’t have any new client meetings today, but I put it on anyway because I can use all the extra confidence I can get to make it through this challenging last day of ever being twenty-anything.

I also use a subtle dab of glitter on my eyelids because I don’t know yet if glitter will still be acceptable once I cross the 30 threshold. It might end up being one of those things that makes you look old because you’re trying so hard to look young. Whatever. It’s just one more thing I am not looking forward to finding out the answer to. I purposely don’t put on extra foundation or blush because I’m pretty sure those are things that I will soon be forced to do (as of tomorrow), to cover up my starter wrinkles and newly graying skin, as I desperately try to convince those people who aren’t already familiar with my biological age that I am still a wide-eyed and naïve young woman, unscathed by the years of disappointment that most people encounter on their uphill climb toward death.

So anyway, the plan. I am going to call, text, email, and maybe even fax every single person I know who knows or may know an eligible bachelor, and I am going to have them send those men to my party tonight. Now, I wasn’t planning to have a party until this moment, because the last thing I need to do is announce to the world and everyone I know that I’m old now, so it’s a good thing Lacey is a party planner. I call her first, on my way to work.

She picks up, “What’s up, babe?”

“Finally someone who gets how incredibly young I am.”

“Oh, I get it. Warning: tomorrow will seriously be the worst day of your life so far.”

“Great. Can’t wait!”

“I just mean that I’ve been there, and it’s going to hit you hard because you are not getting any younger.”

“Keep helping, you’re making me feel so good.”

I can tell in her voice that she feels bad for rubbing it in, but she goes on because this is actually her way of trying to uplift me.

“Sorry, I just thought you’d like a warning. I mean, because it really does feel as old as you think it’s gonna feel. Maybe even a little older. I mean, look at us, we used to be the prettiest girls in the room. But now every year we get older, while younger versions of us crop up everywhere, like a termite infestation. I mean, okay, we still look good, I think, but those little termite people have skin like babies, who will never have to find out what Proactive is a cure for, while we’re pulling our sagging skin back in the mirror, and wondering if it's already time for that first mini face lift! I don’t know, I’m only telling you all this because I personally find it helpful to know what I’m in for, so I can prepare myself. You know, mentally and stuff.”

“Wow. You know how I don’t like to fail at things? I just realized that if I’m ever considering suicide, and I’m worried about not going through with it, I can just call you for convincing.”

“Whatever, I’m just trying to be a thoughtful friend. Anyway, what are we doing after work to celebrate the fact that you are almost catching up to me in decrepitness.”

“I’m never going to catch up to you, unless you become a vampire before I do, but that is what I was calling you about. I wanna throw a party.”

“Tonight? But there’s no time to plan it.”

“You don’t have to plan anything, I just need some ideas for a venue. I wanna do something simple. My only objective is to meet the man of my dreams before midnight, so I can say I met him before I turned 30.”

“That’s right, that was your plan!” she exclaims, clearly as shocked as I am that I’ve failed. “You never mess up your plans. What happened?”

“No matter what happened, the point is we’re fixing it now. I’m going to contact everyone I know, and have them send eligible guys to wherever we do this, so I can make this happen. I want you to do the same.”

“We should have a theme party. I know! Funeral themed—because we’re burying your youth. Get it?” I don’t respond. She continues, “Better yet, we should cremate it. It’s easier to be symbolic with fire, and then we wouldn’t have to try to lock down a graveyard on such short notice.” I couldn’t fault her on that point. Fire is pretty cool, and graveyards are really hard to lock down for parties that aren’t specifically about the loss of a loved one. But do you see yet how she’s kinda hilarious in that “I have no idea I’m joking” way?
“No, Lacey. My goal isn’t to tell everyone how old I am. It’s just to gather all the eligible guys in San Francisco, so I can accomplish my actual goal, as stated earlier. Nobody has to know this is a birthday party of any kind. I was thinking we could just send everyone to a fun, hip bar.”

“Oh, that’s good. Nothing screams, ‘I’m young and stupid’ like being at a fun, hip bar.”

“Right.”

“Ooh, we should have it at The Manhood.”

“Isn’t that a gay bar?”

“Exactly.” I sit silently for a moment, as I wait for her to explain exactly what she means by “exactly”. Finally I find myself gifted with another beautiful Lacey-ism, “If you’re trying to find a straight guy who likes you, you don’t want to invite him to a place that has competingly beautiful women.”

“Okay, while that’s brilliant in its own twisted way, I’m gonna veto it on the grounds that I’d have more chance of getting straight guys to meet me at a graveyard than a gay club.”

“So we’re doing the graveyard after all?”

“Never mind, Lacey. I just thought of the perfect place. We’re going to K-Bar. Meet me at my house at eight, and we can head over together.”

“Is that the place with the women dressed as mermaids dancing in giant fish tanks?”

“Of course not, Lacey. You’re the one who just pointed out that we want to go somewhere where these guys will stay focused on us.”

“Right. Yeah. I was totally not suggesting that place.” Then unable to conceal her desire to go there, she adds, “But they do have five dollar colada specials on Friday nights.” And now I know why she likes it so much. In fact, I think I may have just gotten to the bottom of why any woman in her right mind would go there at all, ever. Which isn’t to say that Lacey is in her right mind, but rather that, like most women, she enjoys discounted coladas.

I thank Lacey for her help despite the fact that she did nothing, and then I remind her to get every good guy she knows to show up. She thinks about who she can invite, and as if I haven’t laughed enough in this conversation, she asks, “Does your guy have to be good in bed?”

“Yes, but don’t send me anyone you know that about.”

Chapter 2

Next is work. As soon as I get there, I go to my office and close the door. It’s always best to start with married friends because they’re rooting for everyone to cross over to their side of the great singles/coupled divide. Even better is married people who are more on the level of acquaintance. Two reasons: 1. There’s a higher likelihood that you haven’t met all their single friends already, and 2. They don’t know you well enough to offer caveats about the quirks your potential love-interest might not like about you. The worst they can say is, “I don’t know her that well, but she’s always seemed like a cool girl to me.” It’s times like this when I’m grateful for all those random people who’ve friended me on Facebook after only one brief encounter.

I open up Facebook and start going through my “friends”. I message some, call others.

“Send any eligible single guys you know to K-Bar tonight. Tell them that they have to find Samantha, if they want to get the password for happy hour pricing on their first drink. I’ll be wearing a purple dress.”

Tim, one of my old college friends, calls me up to ask about the dress, “The sexy one with the décolleté?”

“Shut up, Tim, you’re married.”

“So I’m not allowed to think you’re sexy?”

“That, and you’re also not allowed to know what a décolleté is. What would your wife say if she knew you had intimate knowledge of female necklines?”

BOOK: How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel

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