1

Step 1: Admit the problem.

ONCE UPON A TIME, in a land far, far away…

I, Sylvie Hanson, awake to find myself in a grand canopy bed in the midst of a pop star music video. The room is ignited by sunshine, as are the roses and glitter that shower down around me, and exotic birds sing from the great oak tree just outside the bay window. The reason for this lavish celebration?

My birthday.

The birthday that I have deemed the most momentous of all the ones that have come before… because I am thirty. In the thick of the sparkles and rainbows, my super sexy, devoted boyfriend presents to me a warm platter of cinnamon rolls, a giant heirloom diamond ring and the promise of forever. He tells me I’m gorgeous and smart and that the only thing he’ll ever need to make him happy is for me to say yes. Obviously, I say, “Hell, yes!”

With that, he informs me that he has transferred money from his trust fund so as to whisk me off to an island where we will consume tropical drinks, swim in the ocean, and have lots and lots of unprotected sex, which will ideally lead to pregnancy.

With a sigh of complete and utter content, I stretch my arms and roll over in bed.

“Wanna go again?” the deep voice of a man asks groggily as his hand clumsily feels around for my breasts. I open my eyes one at a time. No, no, no, no, I think to myself, because rather than a rich, sexy boyfriend, beside me lies Bert—my large, dumb, albeit very hot booty call. I slap my hand over the nightstand until I feel the smooth, flat rectangle of reverence—my phone.

A Happy Birthday text message from my mom confirms it, my dreamy thirtieth birthday is just that: a goddamn dream. I remember now that, thanks to his two premature ejaculations, Bert gave me the most mediocre birthday sex of my life, which means I have relapsed.

Bert is beautiful, strong, and, since college, has been bringing me sexual solace in times of desperation. He even obliges when I fantasize he’s a lumberjack and make him lick maple syrup off the most tantalizing parts of my body.

So, one may wonder, why are you so disappointed to see Bert lying next to you? He’s handsome, he’s reliable, and he licks syrup off your nipples. What’s the problem? The thing is, I’m breaking my recently instated rules by being here in his bed. Which, if one is as nosy as I am, leads to the next question: What rules?

Let’s start with the fact that I love Love. Capital L, Love. I am here for it. I’m here for all of it—romantic comedies, star-crossed lovers, the Twilight saga, and on, and on… That all-encompassing magic of storybook love is a fixation I have held for the better part of my life.

It first manifested in the form of acting out love triangles and sex scenes with my Barbies and drawing indecent pictures in my diary. Later, novels and nearly anything on early 2000’s The Learning Channel (more commonly known as TLC)—basic cable channel 22 where I grew up —appeased me.

I spent many nights up late reading books like The Time Traveler’s Wife and listening to the dialogue of My Best Friend’s Wedding and TLC’s series, A Wedding Story, as I slipped into sleep.

Frankly, I’ve never been head-over-heels for the classics, as I’m partial to neo-coming-of-age and contemporary romance, but I’m not so obtuse as to lack appreciation for how much the classics have revolutionized romance and feminism. It was during my first year of college, however, that I simultaneously discovered erotic chick lit and masturbating, making for — how should I put it? — a formative time.

Like all my favorite fictional love stories, I wanted a grand, beautiful, perfect (maybe even sort of demented) love! I wanted a Big. Epic. Love. I needed it. As with any good love story, there would be minor complications, of course, but they would never amount to anything more than what my soulmate and I could handle because we would be armored by our love.

The full reality of how unrealistic and platitudinous this wee dream of mine is, as well as the fact that feminist icon Gloria Steinem would gag at such a notion, hit me full force as I approached this momentous thirtieth birthday.

I began to realize that my vivid imagination and appetite for romance have been lying to me. Indeed, my great aspirations of living out a fairytale love story have left me seeking perfection, and caused a series of relational misfortunes.

The great epiphany of turning thirty (at least I’d hoped) is that life is full of ambiguity, and that love in its truest form doesn’t always resemble the stories that inhabit my bookshelf. As it is, I’m tired of ending up broken-hearted. Thus, I’m currently “in recovery” from years spent as a hopeless romantic, and I’m trying to do things differently these days.

So it’s not that I have anything against Bert. I could even appreciate premature ejaculations (the enthusiasm) and mediocre sex (it’s still sex). It’s simply that, as much as I’ve hoped he could be it, he’s not the aforementioned Big. Epic. Love.

Hence, I made a resolution. Though I can’t bring myself to entirely give up on my own romantic endeavors, I’ve promised to practice more pragmatism when it comes to my love life. I must admit, however, I’m still unsure of how a pragmatic love life should look, and more importantly, feel. What I do know is that it shouldn’t look and feel like the last few years of my love life. But more on that later.

At any rate, the resolution involves: 1) refraining from casual sex; 2) going on responsible dates; and 3) avoiding love. All in all being a little less, well, hopeless. With that resolution solidly in place, my trusty granny-panty collection made her comeback, living life in the spotlight right at the front of my underwear drawer.

Obviously granny-panties didn’t stop me from this particular sexual escapade with Bert, but no effort is wasted.

I fell hard and fast off the Casual Sex-Free Resolution Wagon when I called him last night in a drunken moment of weakness and requested his very naked company.

“So?” He awaits an answer.

I really should exercise some commitment and refrain, but seeing as I am already naked in Bert’s bed and that it is my birthday, I’ll resume my casual sex diet tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow will be the day. I’m getting back on that wagon and strapping myself in tight.

“Sure, why not,” I reply as I wrap my hand around his shaft. He grunts with pleasure as he hardens and clumsily unfurls a prophylactic over his penis. He makes no move to take the lead, so I push myself on top and squeeze his gorgeous pecs.

“You’re so hot,” Bert says.

“So are you.” I rock lazily a few times, as one does.

“Wait! Oh, oh!” he says as his body clenches. “Er, sorry.”

“Um, that’s— that’s ok,” I say as I flop back on the bed and stare at the dirty ceiling fan. Like I said, starting tomorrow, I will resume overhauling my love life. “Today is my birthday.”

“I know. You told me last night. Happy birthday, bud. Wanna go to IHOP? My treat.”

This is thirty, I think. This… is… thirty.

My middle finger is outstretched at the tinted window of the pickup truck—assumedly driven by a male—that just honked at me. Growing up, my brothers always teased me for inarticulate comebacks, so now I don’t bother with anything more than a hand gesture.

I find it imperious, the action of honking a car horn at a pedestrian. Furthermore, I am a lady and inclined to think feminism and chivalry can coexist. The adrenaline pumping from my core slows, and I continue down the Denver sidewalk toward work.

The driver rolls down the window and flips me off in return. Huh, a woman. An anomaly, to be sure.

I wipe the sweat from my upper lip, as a passerby lights a joint. The aroma is comforting, reminding me of a simpler time when I could smoke weed while lounging in a bean bag in my friend’s dorm between classes.

The sun beams high in the sky despite the afternoon hour, the time of year currently nestled in that sweet spot between spring and summer when people and plants alike bloom to life and wedding season is in full swing. This is of particular appeal to me as I am currently employed as a wedding coordinator.

As such, I take a painstakingly planned wedding—carefully assembled vendors, a meticulously edited timeline, the overall aesthetic of the event—and execute every detail with near-perfection at the city’s most beloved venue: Galileo’s Garden.

The Garden, as it is lovingly referred to by locals, occupies a historic house on Capitol Hill. A brick mansion built in the late nineteenth century with white trim and a dreamy wrap-around porch, the structure was originally the home of a family who became exorbitantly wealthy during the Colorado Gold Rush and, because of its location downtown, was later renovated into a commercial space.

The building has had a variety of tenants over the decades, including a Bed & Breakfast and a sex toy shop, but The Garden has lasted the longest. (Sidenote: one time I found a long forgotten box of unopened vibrators on the top shelf of a closet. They made for excellent Christmas presents.)

Its true claim to fame, however, is the landscaping that has been impeccably maintained by the same gardener for almost twenty years. Long grasses and marbled boulders line the property. Plots of blood orange poppies, pink rose bushes, multi-colored dahlias, and white peonies make up the bulk of the garden’s flora, and a rainbow of Colorado wildflowers surrounds each plot.

The grass winds like a river throughout and remains the perfect shade of Kelly green all year round. Galileo’s Garden was even once featured in one of those rich people magazines displaying expensive houses and fancy gardens.

I grew up in a suburb a couple hours away and moved to Denver for college twelve years ago. There are things I have grown accustomed to about the city—the ever-growing skyline and extensive park space, for two—but the many tales of love and happiness surrounding Galileo’s Garden have captivated me since I moved here.

I was drawn to this mansion for its beauty and rich history; working here all these years later is kismet.

I greet my sweet Italian boyfriend setting up his flower cart on the pavement outside. The fragrance is fresh and sweet, bringing instantaneous joy.

“Ciao, Guillermo, the flowers look bellissimo today!” I don’t speak Italian, but I use a few phrases he has taught me over the last several months. Guillermo is pushing eighty.

Ok, so he’s not my boyfriend, in this life that is, but perhaps in another.

“Sylvie! Buongiorno,” he says in his rich accent. I bounce over to his cart to smell the giant powder pink roses. “Let me tell you, bella, it’s going to be a lucky weekend.”

“Is that so? Seems like a regular weekend to me. Maybe you’re getting old and senile, G.” I wink.

Guillermo immigrated to the U.S. decades ago but retains his Northern Italian charm. He is a petite fellow, always clad in a neatly ironed button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, slacks with suspenders, polished brown shoes, and a paperboy hat.

Most evenings, after working 6:30 AM until 2:30 PM as a high school janitor, Guillermo sets up his rickety wood cart to sell the fresh flowers he grows year-round in his covered community garden plot, as well as some he has imported from his extended family who remain in Piedmont, Italy.

His goal: to make a little extra money, of course, but also to nudge the city’s sweethearts to fall in love.

Guillermo’s most charming sales pitch is his confident assurance that if your date purchases even one flower from his cart, the stars have aligned to bring you amore eterno, or, eternal love. I fucking adore a sentimental old man. Take Guillermo’s wisdom and the fact that he loves love as much as I do? Boom, dreamboat.

“Ah, this senile you speak of, this means wise, no?” He returns a wink.

I grin. “Something like that.”

“You’ll see, Sylvie. I can just feel it!” He hands me a soft pink rose in full bloom. The scent is divine. “Happy Birthday, bella.”

Didn’t I tell you he’s a dreamboat? I kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you, G.”

The pressure exchange from hot, dry air to the cool, air-conditioned interior blows wisps of hair from my tidy bun as I slide through the front door of the venue. The first level of the mansion houses our offices as well as French doors that lead to the patio and backyard, which is a half-acre of Eden.

The ceiling is high enough to accommodate an antique chandelier which is lowered by an electric pulley system(!). The west wall of the house has been entirely replaced with windows and, while a pain in the ass to clean, are unique to the building and allow for heavenly evening lighting.

Curiously, today, unlike others, there is a distinct vinegar smell.

I love my job here at The Garden, if for no other reason than the fact that I’m surrounded by the thing I hold most dear: true fucking love. However, being defined by my career has never interested me. Livelihood is important, of course, but I do not feel compelled to spend the bulk of my time working. The idea of doing one thing forty or more hours per week is anything but liberating.

I applied for this job at The Garden without the necessary qualifications, and much to my surprise I was offered the position.

Because coordinating events requires long hours and ample legwork, the position doesn’t call for a conventional full-time commitment. Each coordinator works one to two events per week, plus two to three partial days of office work to provide tours to interested couples, manage contracts, and establish a marketing plan that maintains our famous wait list.

The Garden’s reputation means my primary function is to do everything in my power to ensure our clients are happy out of their minds. In the event that the wedding day does not go to plan, which they rarely do, my fellow coordinators and I must hide the flaws from the couple and their family members. The long days and myriad curve balls require stamina, creativity, and performance under pressure.

A year and a half later, the job suits me; I excel at it, and it allows me to be surrounded by romance. The position even comes with the various insurances one must concern oneself with as an adult.

“Hey, girl, heyyy!” I say energetically to my coworker, Ellie, as I whisk into the office and miss the swivel chair I throw my things toward. “Oh, my God,” I continue, “this guy outside was smoking a joint and now I’m dying to get h—” I stop short, realizing the unsettling vinegar stench is coming from this location and also notice there’s a Happy Birthday balloon floating in the corner. “Aw! Is that for me?” I ask, touched that she remembered.

Ellie, the most seasoned of wedding coordinators, lifts her head from her desk, and it’s clear I’ve misread the tone of the room. Her kinky black hair is falling out of its updo and she remembered to put mascara on only one set of lashes this morning.

There is a yellow-brown stain dribbled on the blouse covering her protruding belly, and a half-eaten bowl of something on the edge of her desk.

“Is that… mustard on spinach?”

As if to explain the insanity of her snack, she says, “I heated it up in the microwave.”

Because Ellie has had an other-worldly craving for expensive mustard throughout her third trimester, the smell and the stain can be attributed to Grey Poupon. What’s more, the buttons of her maternity blazer are fastened one hole too high. Ellie is waiting until she’s actively in labor to start maternity leave. Even as a hot mess, she still exudes a pregnancy glow that lights up the room.

“Sylvie, please. Please do this meeting for me.”

“What… happened?” My voice spikes abnormally high in an effort to maintain cheer. I discreetly peek at her calendar to see how many clients she’s interacted with today.

“Dan said his assistant couldn’t find those giant soft pretzels anywhere,” she says frantically and her eyes well with tears.

Dan is Ellie’s extraordinarily devoted husband and a heart surgeon, to boot. I believe etiquette would advise that I call him Dr. Stone, but there’s something gratifying about being able to call a prominent doctor by their first name—like knowing the owner of a fancy restaurant and getting priority seating (that’s never happened to me, but I imagine it’s a rush)—so I call him Dr. Dan.

Dr. Dan answers nearly every unhinged call and text no matter how busy he is at work. If he’s in surgery when Ellie calls, he has provided his assistant a script of what to say to lift Ellie’s spirits, as well as a menu of preferred lunches to be delivered based on her mood and the brand of mustard most readily available.

“Like, no store has giant pretzels? What the fuck, right? And then…” she lowers her voice. “Girl, I Googled what happens to your butt during childbirth. Let me tell you, it’s not good. It’s not good.” She shakes her head and dabs her cheeks with a tissue. “It’s not good.”

I cringe. It wouldn’t be helpful to say it now, but my cousin, Fiona, had a legendary ass before three hours of pushing flattened it like a pancake and left her with a feisty hemorrhoid.

“And, and! There’s this pain, like, right here,” Ellie gestures to her lower belly.

“Gas?”

“Probably… Anyway, I just can’t seem to pull myself together.”

I nod and enthusiastically say, “You know what? Your butt’s gonna be fine. It’s gonna be fine!”

She nods with me and laughs through her tears. “Yeah!”

“And you’re gonna make this meeting your bitch!” There’s no way I’m doing this meeting.

“Yeah!”

We’re making progress. “And— and fuck giant soft pretzels!”

“What? No.” Ellie starts crying again, and I know we’ve just lost all the ground we’ve gained.

“Too soon, huh? We’re not ready to move on from the pretzels?”

She whimpers, then her cry turns to a laugh.

I walk around her desk and kneel in front of her. “What’s happening now? Are you— are you laughing or crying?”

“Both,” she says through hysterics.

I put my hands on each of her knees. “You know what? Pregnancy is hard. All those celebrities prancing around making it look so easy are full of shit. But when this is all said and done, you’re going to have an adorable little bébé, and you and Dan will fall even deeper in love.” I can feel my eyes widen like Bambi as I say it.

Ellie and Dan are a true love couple. They have that light up when they see each other, grow old together kind of love. I envy their connection, as my own love life has had its — how did I put it before? — Oh yeah, relational misfortunes.

In the years leading up to thirty, I spent about a year (if I’m rounding up) in the arms of a lanky, tattooed professional skateboarder with wild blue eyes, and a wild nature to match. Blaze, he was called, and he had me stumbling from the get-go. Eventually I stumbled into that cliché trap where I thought I might have what it takes—whatever that is—to convert a moody, broken bird into a devoted husband. We got into epic fights, followed by epic sex.

I loved Blaze despite his flaws, at least I think I did. My best friend, Mo, argues that I only loved the idea of him. True to “moody skaterboy” form, he ended things when he decided he had a stronger connection with Moon (love her name), the assistant manager at the skate shop he frequents.

Following Blaze, I was in a relationship with Jake, The Adrenaline Junkie, which is actually how he would introduce himself at parties. We had a short-lived courtship that was primarily characterized by having sex in dangerous locales. Think, shark-infested waters or the edge of a cliff. After he almost paralyzed himself bungee jumping off a bridge to prove his love for me, as well as my therapist’s insistence that Jake was the reason for my benzo prescription, I broke up with him.

I am now proud to be adrenaline– and benzo–free.

Oh, and I almost forgot Aiden. Yes, forgettable Aiden, an engineer with oversized glasses and perpetual coffee breath. Aiden was kind but boring, both conversationally and sexually, the latter of which was quite confusing given the extensive porn collection on his cloud storage.

These incidents were a catalyst for my recently amended views on romance, for experimenting with a more practical vision of love. Thus, what followed was a series of responsible, albeit unsuccessful dates I had set up through various dating apps.

One such date ended with the gentleman (a term used sarcastically here) going home with an ex-girlfriend that had coincidentally been dining at the same restaurant. Because the ex-girlfriend’s date happened to be a highly-rated Uber driver, my date tipped him handsomely to ensure my safe arrival home and sent me off with extra dessert in a to-go box.

Truthfully, I was perfectly content eating tiramisu in my bed. When I told my older brother, Elliott, about the incident he reprimanded me for my simple-minded faith in humanity and poor taste in men.

Another dating app “match” spoke repeatedly of his love for sailing. An odd hobby given that we live in a landlocked state with only a handful of modest reservoirs, but I didn’t hesitate to accept the invitation to join him for lunch on his boat. I blame celebrity propaganda for my imaginings of basking on a yacht, being served smoked salmon crostini by the crew.

Consequently, I was utterly crestfallen when I showed up at the reservoir to find him preparing to “set sail” in a dinky, metal fishing boat his grandfather had built in 1963. There was no sail to speak of, and the cumbersome motor took up a third of the boat. My date was dressed to the yacht club nines, though—sweater tied around his shoulders, pennies in his loafers, and all.

Ever the good sport, and because I didn’t want to hurt his dead grandpa’s feelings, I hesitantly boarded the boat, inadvertently dragging one of my sandaled feet through a pile of goose poop and mud. The nightmare motor proved to not only be unwieldy, but loud and stinky, and after sacrificing half our lunch to the deranged reservoir geese, we were forced to row back to shore with broken oars (also from 1963) when the engine refused to start again.

For the sake of not sounding entirely pathetic, it should be noted that I have had some relative successes in my love life. My first love, Nikolai, was an exchange student from Poland. Most of the girls wanted to climb him like the tree that he was, but I was the only one who succeeded.

Nikolai and I did all the things high school lovers are supposed to do together: homework, prom, virginity loss, smoke weed out of his foreign-made bong, and lots of gazing into each other’s eyes. We lost touch after he returned to Poland and refused to get a MySpace account.

My sophomore year of college, I dated Tyson, a sweet, intelligent man whose parents immigrated from Ghana. We met at a fraternity party and he didn’t argue when a few weeks later I began introducing him as my boyfriend. I was in love with him, to be sure, but as college went on, we outgrew the relationship.

Sprinkled throughout these uninspired love stories were mind-numbing hookups and one night stands. When I tired of trying to make sense of men and their impulses, I hooked up with some women in college. In time, however, I found myself craving the real deal millennium falcon.

These efforts (and in some cases, when the only sexual position I could muster was the starfish, the effort was strictly left to my sexual counterpart) were all categorically fruitless. It took some time for me to admit this fact about myself: I am not a One Hot Night of Passion kind of woman. Rather, I want all the nights of passion… everyday… for the rest of your life.

And if I don’t get them, I’ll slash your tires.

Just kidding.

There’s a song lyric from my favorite band, Juice, that says, “I don’t ever get naked just for one night,” which, in a heartbroken stupor, I narrowly avoided having tattooed on my lower abdomen as a reminder to myself and a warning to future lovers.

“So you’ll do the final walk-through meeting for me?” Ellie’s question brings me back from the rabbit hole of my underwhelming love life.

As coordinators, we meet with the couple a dozen times in the months leading up to their wedding and in most cases form a strong connection. Their wedding is their Oscars and we’re running the show. I am entirely unprepared for a final walk-through with this couple. I don’t even know their names.

But I would do anything for my fellow woman, especially Ellie, so I wipe the glisten from my chin, throw a floral blazer over my orange maxi dress and slam a shot of Pepto-Bismol.

“Fine, I’ll do it. But only because you look famished. Eat your spinach and mustard.”

I smooth the wrinkles of my dress while checking my appearance in the full sized mirror. My long, blonde hair that those of us in the hair-dying game shamelessly refer to as “bottle blonde” is now falling from its bun, but I have time only to brush the fly-aways out of my face.

The summer before I started sixth grade, I cut my hair into a pixie cut on a whim and it nearly ruined my life. Since then, I’ve taken pride in keeping my hair long. I pay Mo, my aforementioned best friend and hair stylist, a significant fee every ten weeks to get my sandy-blonde hue just right.

“You look so pretty.” Ellie’s tears return as she watches me in the mirror.

“Babe, so do you! You’re like a pregnant Black Aphrodite. A fucking Goddess,” I insist.

I’m not exaggerating even a little bit. Ellie is a total babe—flawless black skin, curves for days, and enchanting eyes. She just looks like a celebrity whose “team” is taking the day off today.

I return to my reflection in the mirror. I look pretty enough, I suppose, but I’ve got nothing on Ellie. I’m just another basic blonde. So entirely basic, in fact, that on average I have to shake a person’s hand and look deeply into their eyes about four times before they remember me. Four.

My iridescent white skin was the bane of my existence until I eventually decided that, given my discomfort in the dark, having a skin color that can light up the night isn’t all bad. And I have nice eyes and a great ass, so there’s that.

It took nearly two decades of self-loathing, one year of an eating disorder, and countless self-reinventions to realize I’m fine without being the prettiest girl in the room. In fact, it’s much better not to be. Women are spoon-fed the lie that we are only worth what we can deliver in beauty, but I have more to offer than my looks.

I have to remember to tell my therapist that; she’ll be so pleased.

I roll my eyes internally when I see that the bride and groom (of whom Ellie offered minimal details) are flanked by mothers and aunts, superfluous family members who simply want to feel as though their attendance is required and will surely have opinions aplenty about how the wedding should be managed. I plaster a wide smile on my face and approach the group.

“Sarah, Jimmy! How are you? My name is Sylvie, I’ll be meeting with you on behalf of Ellie today.”

“Oh my God! She had the baby, didn’t she?” Sarah says excitedly. She reminds me of Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend’s Wedding: naive and exuberant.

Without thinking, I reply, “Yes!”

Sarah turns to a woman who looks exactly like her in about thirty years. “Mom, Ellie had the baby.”

Dear God, did I just say yes?

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” mom replies. “Boy or girl?”

Everyone looks at me, utterly thrilled and expecting an answer. The reasons for my lie are varied and ridiculous—inability to function like a normal adult, a desire to cover for Ellie’s soon-to-be flat ass, an unhealthy need to provide emotional satisfaction to those around me—but now that I’ve started I can’t stop. “I, uh– um– girl. Boy! It’s a boy.” Everyone falls silent at the awkwardness of the moment, and my stomach growls. “Anyway! Shall we get started?”

An hour later, I’m rounding home base on the longest walk-through of my short career. To hasten their departure, I’ve guided Sarah, Jimmy, and their attendants as close to the front door as I can without pushing them out. I conclude by reminding everyone what time they need to arrive here at The Garden next week, and just as I’m about to sigh with relief, there’s a muffled scream of my name.

Confused, I tilt my head toward the sound. The chit-chat dies down when everyone else seems to register a second, “Sylvie!”

As I start toward the office, Ellie waddles out, breathing heavily. “Something’s happening,” she says. Fluid is running down her thighs and her eyes are lit with fear.

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