Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat?: True Stories and Confessions (16 page)

Rite of Train Passage

By Francesca

My friend invited me to her rental house in the Hamptons for the Fourth of July.

Fireworks went off in my heart.

I've been dying to go to the Hamptons ever since I moved to New York five years ago, and I'm so proud that my friends have now reached a level in their careers where I can mooch off them.

But in order to experience this quintessential New Yorker getaway, one must endure the rite of passage that is getting there.

I left Thursday night via the Montauk line of the Long Island Railroad, or the LIRR. I felt young and fabulous leaving for my classy holiday. I carried a floppy straw hat as unofficial passport.

But the aura of glamour disappeared once I boarded, because I was sharing a train car with some of the most dangerous thugs on earth:

Teenage girls.

Two of them. A pack.

These two girls were talking very loudly, which sounds like a real Grandma complaint, but I'm telling you, they were projecting for the stage—and Shakespeare it was
not.
I believe they were performing the play,
Talking Sh*t About Everyone
.

Based on the swearing, I think it's an early work of Harold Pinter.

While I struggled to read my book, I dug deep to summon goodwill toward these girls. They're young, they're having fun, I'm sure I was like that once.

“What I don't get is like, people who say big is beautiful. Like, fat is not healthy. And you look ugly.”

Never mind. I would've hated these girls when I was their age, too.

When one let out an earsplitting squeal, I glanced back and locked eyes with a curly-haired woman unfortunate enough to be sitting behind them.

The woman made a face like,
Can you believe them?

I returned the sentiment with eyes like,
I know, right?

But then something awful happened. The curly-haired woman gave me a nod, and before I could stop her, she scolded the girls with a loud, librarian-ish,
Shhhh.

The Heathers were silent for a beat before redirecting their laser-snark at the poor woman. They mean-girled her for the rest of the ride.

“Wait,” my friend interrupted as I told him the story. “Did you step in to defend her?”

“I didn't tell her to do it!” I cried.

“But it was your validation that inspired the shush. She thought you had her back.”

“I was two rows away! I was out of the zone of responsibility!”

But he was right. Knowing I had many more stops to go, I was a coward. I had spent enough time hiding in the bathroom in sixth grade.

Mercifully, the woman's stop came soon after, and she was free to leave and call her therapist.

Meanwhile, the girls expanded their abuse to the entire train car.

“BRR!” one girl yelled, turning shivering into an interpretive dance. “THIS TRAIN IS TOO COLD FOR US SKINNIES! ALL THESE FATTIES DON'T UNDERSTAND!”

Charming, no?

And from their endless “Are we there yet?” whining, I ascertained their stop was the very last on the line.

We can only hope they were going to the moon.

So instead of feeling young and fabulous, I spent the rest of the ride feeling both frightened and old.

Once I made it to Sag Harbor, I had a wonderful July Fourth weekend with my friends. We barbecued every food group, pretended to be soccer fans, played stupid drinking games—everything our forefathers would have wanted. But come Sunday, I had to again brave public transit back to the city.

I knew the LIRR would be crowded the Sunday after July Fourth, but this was Xtreme Train Riding. It was as if the entire population of Manhattan had squeezed into eight train cars.

Every seat was taken and the aisles were packed with people, standing room only. Even the short staircase between the upper and lower levels was stacked with squatters. One woman crouched on the stairs shot daggers to anyone who dared try to go up or down, as if
they
were being unreasonable.

This train would make a sardine can look like the Ritz-Carlton.

I snagged a spot to stand near the doors. For the first hour and a half, there wasn't enough room for me to fit both legs on one side of my suitcase, so I was forced to straddle it.

The Hamptons didn't seem so classy anymore.

Clown cars have more leg room.

I'd say there wasn't a spare inch, but when a visibly drunk young man with a hat reading #YOLO squeezed his way to the end of our car and slurred, “Where's the bathroom?” our collective recoil revealed a bit more space.

I bought a ticket for this?

So there was no question the train car was at capacity, but when we hit South Hampton, a mother and her teenage daughter decided they were going to fit on. Believe and you shall achieve, kids, because, somehow they did it. As I was the closest to the door, that meant we stood nearly nose to nose.

I've never been so close to someone I wasn't about to make out with. If the lighting had been better, we just might have.

And this is when I realized the LIRR is the great equalizer of the Hamptons' varied inhabitants. The mother was dripping in diamonds. Diamond-stud earrings so large they pulled at her earlobes. A chain of linked diamonds draped over her tunic as casually as a lanyard. Stacked diamond rings on her fingers, each as big as a signet ring.

Having just helped my best friend's boyfriend choose an engagement ring, I am now a certified amateur gemologist, and by my estimation, her diamond earrings were about a gazillion carats.

I confess I was so curious about these people that when I spotted their name on their luggage tag, I Googled them on my iPhone.

Yes, standing right next to them.

Rude, I know, and risky, but if the mom turned out to be a publishing tycoon, I might try and make out with her after all.

She wasn't.

But they turned out to be very nice. As we were practically chest bumping the entire drive, we struck up a friendly rapport. We commiserated about the slow train, our travel connections, I had an Amtrak to Philly to catch, they had a plane to Paris to board.

I have a hunch it was private.

But for the next two hours, we were all equal in the eyes of the Long Island Railroad. One train car, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

 

Recycled

By Lisa

More misadventures on a bicycle, from your favorite rookie cyclist.

If you recall, I went bicycle riding with my best friend Franca about a week ago, and I got a lucky flat tire that gave me the opportunity to meet the handsomest man on earth, my Knight on the White Bicycle.

He fixed my tire, and by that I mean he fixed my tire.

Nothing else happened.

Recall that he is married and I am the most middle-aged woman on earth.

Nobody is breaking his vows for my cellulite.

Frankly, that's fine with me. There are lines I won't cross, and that's one of them.

Another one is the third piece of chocolate cake. If I'm on my fourth, I know I'm in trouble.

Also my fifth.

Okay, maybe I'd cross the chocolate-cake line, but I never cheat on my taxes.

Really.

The IRS lacks a sense of humor.

Also, jail time.

Anyway, to return to the story, Franca and I were cycling when we approached the spot where the trail ends at a sharp curve, a traffic light, and the intersection of Route 202, Route 252, and certain death.

This intersection always makes me nervous, and the last time we came to this traffic light, Franca fell off her bike and skinned her knee. So as we approached, I called out to her, “Careful, honey!”

She turned around to ask, “What did you say?”

And in that moment, she crossed into the intersection, crashed her bike, and fell exactly where she had fallen before, skinning the same knee. Not only that but I crashed into her, falling over, and skinning my elbow where I had skinned it before, too.

If you think it's easy to injure yourself in the exact same place twice in a row, you're wrong.

It's a skill that few people possess, namely only Franca and me.

In any event, Franca and I were lying in a crumpled mess in the intersection, our limbs bloodied and our bicycles bent up. Traffic stopped, only because Franca is so hot.

I'm not just saying this because she's my best friend.

She is superhot, and anybody who bicycles will tell you that traffic will not stop for a cyclist even if he is lying dead in the street.

You need to be lying naked in the street.

We picked ourselves up and righted the bikes. My bike was okay, but Franca's was a mess. We got our hands filthy trying to get her chain back on the spiky thing, which has a name I don't care to learn.

We succeeded but then we couldn't get the spiky thing back under the shiny thing, and I would bother to explain the problem but we all have better things to do.

Luckily, two nice men came over and asked us if we needed help. I couldn't say yes fast enough, even though they were totally married and I was rapidly concluding that falling off your bicycle isn't the way to meet single men.

And while the guys are fixing Franca's bike, lo and behold, who do we see racing down the trail but the Knight on the White Bicycle, who fixed my flat last time. I said to our two guys, “That's the guy who helped us last week,” and one of the men laughed, thinking I was kidding.

I wasn't.

I watched my White Knight pedal away. I didn't chase after him or otherwise embarrass myself.

Until now.

Then one of the other men asked me, “Hey, aren't you that author, Lisa Scottoline?”

To which I answered, “No, absolutely not. Nobody as cool as Lisa Scottoline would keep falling off a bicycle. But I read her books and they're awesome. Have you bought one lately? You should.”

So that's what I learned from my latest bicycle misadventure.

That this is America, and good Samaritans abound.

And if you can't sell one thing, sell another.

 

Life Among the Ruins

By Francesca

I would never let a man ruin my life.

But they sure can ruin my favorite places.

For instance, there's a Mexican restaurant near me that has the best fish tacos in the city. The tacos are never soggy, they don't skimp on the guacamole, and there's nothing freaky under the fry batter.

If I could marry those fish tacos, I would.

Unfortunately, the romance of the restaurant has been ruined ever since my last boyfriend and I had the Breakup Talk there.

It's a decision I deeply regret. I should have protected the tacos.

So I made a conscious effort to go back there with a girlfriend a couple weeks later, to reverse the transformation from the Place My Boyfriend and I Broke Up back to Home of the Insane Fish Tacos.

Everything was going to plan, I could feel the bad juju dissolving like salt on a margarita glass, and at the end of dinner, I signed our check with an optimistic flourish.

Until our waiter asked for my phone number.

Flattering, but awkward. And worse? I gave it to him.

What was I thinking? Well, to be honest, he was hot
and
had an accent, so thinking was difficult—but I knew nothing about him, I wasn't going to date him. I was just vulnerable!

Clearly it's still The Place My Boyfriend and I Broke Up, and if you take me there, ply me with tequila, and tell me I'm pretty, I'm either going to cry or make out with you.

The guy did text me and I declined.

So now I definitely can never go back.

Adios, Baja Fish Tacos of my dreams. I'll see you in takeout.

Even the places with good memories of my ex—especially those places—are ruined, like our favorite brunch spot. We spent so many sunny Saturdays sitting outside with Pip, we befriended a waitress, Taylor. I could've given up the lobster egg scramble, but I couldn't give up Taylor, with her excellent service, cool side gig playing rock-cello, and fabulous lipstick colors.

Do you
know
how hard it is to find the right red?

So I decided to rechristen it as a dinner spot. The different lighting and menu worked in my favor as I waited for my friend to arrive, but then Taylor stopped to say hi and asked how my boyfriend was doing.

I told her we broke up, but that “I'm getting custody of you in the divorce.”

Truth be told, I'm lucky to have created enough good memories with someone to leave my surroundings a little altered. Past loves are allowed to ruin restaurants; they've earned that.

And I'm on a diet anyway.

But now a random man is messing with my gym, and that's unacceptable.

As you may recall, I fought for this gym membership. I worked out all summer, lost fifteen pounds, and paid enough each month to break a sweat just looking at my bank account. The perk that makes this gym worthwhile is its rooftop pool. It's my reward, my oasis, my Happy Place.