Emily's Reasons Why Not (24 page)

“You’re right,” I mumble.

“The good news is, maybe old guy … what’s his name?” Reilly questions.

“Charlie,” I say.

“Maybe Charlie is still cool enough and young enough to give you what you’re looking for. He did give you the …” Reilly pantomimes quotation marks with her fingers “…. flutter, flutter.”

Reason #3
:
Compromise is compromise no matter what season of life you’re in
.

My friends, as gentle and amusing as they can be … are telling me to go for it. I hear it. But I believe it is their silent fear that I may never try again after becoming a crash dummy and being dragged for fifty miles on open asphalt behind
Reese’s Range Rover of faux love that is making them so encouraging. I hear their not-so-silent excuse for why I should just go ahead and try.

Date number one with Charlie, aka Magnum, sitting on the beach, under my umbrella, slathered in sunscreen. We are in Maui, yes, Maui. I sip a rum-and-pineapple drink with a colorful umbrella in it, as I watch him snorkel in the clear blue water. It’s funny that our first date would be a weekend in Maui at his house on a private cove at the north end of the island. I just couldn’t resist. Why say no? How many chances does a woman get to be dropped off on a tropical island for her first date. I have my own room. Own life. Ability to fly home. What is the worst that can happen? Nothing. I will drink enough champagne and eat enough caviar to make even Robin Leach jealous.

Okay, reasons I told Dr. D. I was going: (1) I have never flown on a private corporate jet. Very cool. (2) I have never stayed in a house with servants. (3) I have never had anyone be this nice and generous. (4) I certainly haven’t had the full treatment. (5) He is old enough not to reopen my wounds. Am I a bad person for soooo loving this pampering? Don’t we all really deserve it—all of us? As my Magnum gets out of the blue water and walks toward me I notice something strange on his body … skin, weird skin that appears to be loose.

Look away. Now it’s not fat, because he’s in shape, it’s just the skin isn’t staying where it should—above his knees and a little on the under part of his arms. He has a body that looks
like Clint Eastwood now … not Clint Eastwood in
Dirty Harry
. Oh, shit. I am so judgmental. Stop. Stop judging. Start enjoying. Keep drinking.

I pour the entire rum drink down my throat in one gulp. He sits next to me on a lounge chair and readjusts the umbrella a little to cover his face. Hey! I need that protection myself. “How ya doin’, beautiful?” he asks with that yummy accent as he looks at me, all the while toweling off his big muscles and old skin.

Ah, beautiful, I like that. I like a man who thinks I am beautiful, tells me I am beautiful. “It’s hard not to be good in paradise.”

“I’m happy you came with me. Hope you don’t feel too awkward. Did you get settled into your room okay?”

He pulls out a vial of ginseng and downs it with a champagne chaser.

“Yeah, it’s really lovely and I appreciate that you let me stay in my own, well, room and all.” I look away.

“What did you think, that I was going to take you to my place in Hawaii and lavish luxury upon luxury on you just so you’d shag me?” he laughs.

I shrug. Funny. He’s amusing. I love that. I don’t mind the skin. A servant brings me a fresh cocktail.

“I brought you here because it’s beautiful and I like to share it. I brought you here because you’re smart and gorgeous and it’s away from the crowds and bars of L.A. It’s the right place to get to know someone, and if you have the money, why not do it?”

He did have a point. A good point. But how was I supposed to be rational when his personal masseur was coming to give me an hour-and-a-half deep-tissue rub before dinner?

He holds up his ginseng vial and taps my glass, “Cheers.”

Reason #4
:
If you like his life more than you like him, it makes it hard to be objective
.

Three days in Hawaii.

What I have learned: Magnum is a passionate, sweet kisser. He likes candlelight, beach bonfires, and the warm ocean water. He likes excellent champagne, old rock and roll, ginseng, and making me feel good. No sex. Not that after the third day in the Garden of Eden I don’t want to. I am just taking it slow. Dr. D. would be proud.

Back in L.A. and back on the couch, I tell Dr. D. about my new Magnum. “He owns a record label,” I say as I play with the new Palm IV that Magnum gave me.

“And you own a PR company. How’s that going? Must be hard holding down the fort when you’re running off to Hawaii.” Dr. D. studies me, knowing I have NO intention of looking him in the face.

Reason #5
:
When your therapist knows, you know … he’s probably the wrong guy
.

He did have a point. I was neglecting my work, but living my life. The MTV clients were happy. ESPN was happy. I
had been asked to speak on a communications panel at the NCTA cable convention. JJ was handling the business nicely in L.A. When I was traveling I had the Blackberry, e-mail, and cell phone. Jesus, Magnum’s jet even had video conferencing!

Three weeks. Three trips. I could get used to this. Although I didn’t feel the way I felt about Reese. I felt good, though. I felt, I don’t know, safe. Somewhat taken care of, which was something new, and it didn’t feel bad.

My entire life I may have just needed an older man. But was that man Magnum or my Dad?

Reason #6
:
There is no substitute for the real thing
.

At Two Bunch Palms, a health spa in the heart of Palm Springs, it is eighty-five degrees and sunny. Sting’s new CD echoes from our private bungalow and I float in our private pool topless. Magnum strolls out, holding a glass of Crystal Rose champagne. I paddle over to him, never getting off the raft. He sits on the edge of the pool and hands me my champagne flute. It’s kind of pink and tastes a little smoky. It’s heavenly. This life is heavenly. Magnum pulls a little joint from his platinum forties cigarette case and sparks it. He sits there in swim trunks and a Lenny Kravitz T-shirt wearing shades and a ball cap, smoking a joint and sipping champagne, and I wonder—Is this what my life is destined to be?

He may be old, but he is 100 percent the coolest person I have ever met. And to top it all off, the sex was brilliant! He
did everything I wanted, and as a bonus, he could go for hours. I mean hours! Two hours! It was wild!

“Want to go sit in some mud?” he says while trying to hold the smoke in.

“What kind of mud?” I take a hit off his joint, which makes me a little lightheaded. My exhale is followed by extreme coughing, eye-watering, and falling off the raft into the pool. Should have known better.

“Special mud imported from India, meant to rid your body of toxins.”

Maybe that is why this guy looks forty-five instead of fifty-seven—except for that skin thing, which, I might add, gives “beauty is only skin deep” a whole new meaning.

I stand, looking at two huge tubs filled with mud on the balcony of the spa.

“Did I mention that I am allergic to many strange elements when they are applied to my naked body? I get … I’d rather not get into it, trust me, it isn’t pretty.” I look from him to the tub of mud. Okay, this stuff seriously smells like poop. Crap, shit. Like someone took a huge dumparooney in that tub and now I am supposed to get in. Maybe this is cool to people with lots of money, but to me it is simply gross, and somewhat scary.

I take a step backward. The only smell that is worse was when I was a kid and my older brother, Ben, polluted our bathroom every morning. And this runs a close second. What’s worse? It’s steaming. A hot, steaming tub of turds.

I scrunch my face and clinch my hands. “I can’t.”

“You can. Just take a chance. It’s good for you.”

“No. Really, last time someone put mush on me, I had some sort of itching thing.”

“Yes.”

“No.” I back away.

“Yes,” he reaches for my hand. “You can do it.”

Okay, his tone just changed. It went from sexy, British, Magnum guy to fatherly and authoritative.

Reason #7
:
You’re not my dad, so don’t tell me what to do
.

If I don’t want to sit from head to toe, naked, in a hot, steamy tub of crap, I shouldn’t have to. Wow, I just felt like I was about to have a tantrum. But maybe he was right. He had been right about everything else. I mean, the guy is Mr. Cool, Mr. Jet, Mr. Success. Maybe he did know more than me. I reluctantly climb into the tub, thinking that he must know something I don’t. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Just do it.

Gag. I am physically gagging.

“You’re being immature,” he says, almost disapproving. I try to breathe through my mouth, but now I am eating what tastes like Sam’s gas after a steak bone. Ahhhh, I miss Sam. But not enough to stay in this!

“How can you possibly enjoy this?” I say in one breath. “It’s an acquired taste,” he says as the lady places cucumbers over his eyes.

But this isn’t getting any better for me. I look around at my
naked body covered in dark brown, stinking goop, twigs, and small things that appear to either be rocks or … oh God, I am starting to itch. I am having a flashback to the spa with the dirty scrubs. Really itch! The more I dig at my leg, arm, and boobs, the more nauseous I feel. The more dirt and ooze that slips under my nails, the more lightheaded I feel. Itching, scratching, barely breathing, my stomach begins to turn and I reach for the side of the tub, getting up, but I slip, fall, and go under. My face and head in the crap … I struggle to get out, scramble for the side, my hands, arms slippery, itchy, I try to get up but before I can get out, I lean over the side of the tub with only the whites of my eyes showing and throw up all over the Indonesian rug.

Reason #8
:
No matter how old someone is, no one knows you better than you know yourself
.

“How was I to know that you were allergic to it?” Magnum says as some spa guy hoses me off.

“BECAUSE I TRIED TO TELL YOU! I KNEW!” I stand clawing at my calves, sides, and back. “Where’s the cool dip?” I stomp off like an allergy veteran and walk down into the small, cool dip pool of ice cubes. “Holy shit!” I gasp as mud dissolves into the cold dip.

“The water will stop the itching and reduce the swelling of the hives,” Magnum responds.

“Thanks, I know, ‘cause it’s going to kill me from fucking hypothermia.” I bounce from one foot to the other.

We drove home that night from Two Bunch and I felt like a scolded child.

I call Dr. D. on my cell while Magnum fills up the car with gas and Dr. D. tells me what I’ve known the whole time. “This is not healthy. Isn’t it more fun to experience something with a man for the first time than having someone show you something they’ve already experienced?”

I look back at Magnum in his cute Lucky Jeans and sweater. “I guess, but …”

Dr. D. cuts me off. “Did you say ‘but’? You’re not done with him. Call me when you break up. No bill for this one.”

Two nights later, I look at the new black Armani dress that was hand-delivered from Saks in a large white box with an oversized red bow: a surprise from Magnum as an apology for the whole mud thing. He wants me to wear it to a black-tie fund-raiser on Saturday night. After spending the last three days covered in calamine lotion, I want nothing more than to put on that dress and feel beautiful, so I agreed, and somehow, for the first time, realized how Lance must have felt when I took him shopping.

Ok, good, bad, right, wrong, presents, gifts, champagne, wrinkly skin, hives, I am seeing the reasons on my list. But they are written on Tiffany letterhead and they don’t seem so bad.

Saturday night, 8:15
P.M
. I am standing next to Magnum. He is showing me off to his record industry friends. My dress is a little too tight, and my boobs are a little too pushed up and smooched at the top. I stand there in a group of fiftyish
guys with their eyes darting from my boobs to my hand, which is wrapped in Magnum’s.

We walk away, and one guy says, “Nice meeting you, Amy.” I open my mouth to correct him and notice the smirking and looking at each other … like who cares anyway. I realize that it really doesn’t matter what my name is.

I was fucking arm candy! I thought at thirty-two you couldn’t be arm candy anymore! I own a home. I have my own money. I have clients and a company. I thought that at a certain age you just outgrew the bimbo status. But as it turns out, you don’t.

Reason #9
:
Don’t be a float at the old folks’ parade
.

As the night went on I realized no one really even cared that I was a fairly successful, somewhat witty woman! And even if I had worn a pantsuit it would never have made the point. Don’t date a man twenty-five years your senior or you will most definitely be his … booby prize. I woke up in Magnum’s oversized king bed with down pillows and the comforter wrapped gently around my naked body.

Ow, my head, what is that pounding? Wow, that’s my breathing. I roll over and look at the nightstand where Magnum has left me two Advil and a large glass of orange juice. Ah, he knows. See, this is something older men do. But he is nowhere to be found. I get up to open the long, heavy tapestry drapes and the sunlight pierces my skull like pins in a voodoo doll. Maybe a shower will help.

Standing in the middle of the marble shower with two huge showerheads pouring down on me, I start to remember the Citron martinis, the dancing, the champagne, maybe the karaoke. I can’t remember exactly when I accepted my bimbo status and just went with it … I remember more Citron martinisand then … being dragged home as if I was a naughty schoolgirl after getting caught drinking beer and making out with my boyfriend sophomore year in high school.

After toweling off and slipping into his fluffy robe from the Four Seasons, I look for lotion, any lotion, to apply to my very dehydrated skin. I open the medicine cabinet and there, staring me in the face, is the bottle! And not of lotion.

Okay, it’s a medical revolution. It’s a damn miracle in some cases, but … I reach for the phone on the bathroom wall and dial.