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  Leopold had apparently fallen in love with Colin some years back. She couldn’t discern exactly where they had met, but based on the different swim trunks Leopold wore in many of the photos (all of which she had given him on birthdays and Christmases) she could piece together a basic timeline. There were files of romantic getaways on boats with their arms looped around each other’s waists, sharing bowls of pasta, and clinking glasses in front of what looked like a tropical-getaway sunset. The photos, along with the love notes (some complete with heart emojis), were all concealed under fake case folders. Griffith v. Stockwell housed photos from what looked like a country inn. Food photos, fireplace photos, and Colin in a bulky fisherman’s sweater gazing into the lens.

  Tyne then did the second thing most women would do in her situation: She ransacked her house for evidence. As if the hard drive didn’t tell an explicit enough story, she searched for tangible evidence. After all, she was a lawyer’s wife.

  Hours later, she was shaking and crying at my kitchen table. “I don’t understand,” she kept repeating.

  “I think it’s pretty clear, Tyne; your husband is gay.”

  “But he’s not.” She looked at me like a toddler who believes in Santa.

  “Let me ask you this, how often did you guys have sex?”

  “Umm, I don’t know, we haven’t had sex in about ten years?” CUE THE ALARMS, RED FLASHING LIGHTS, EMERGENCY BOMB SIREN!

  Men have sex. And if they’re not having it at home, chances are they are having it somewhere else. It’s scientific; it’s biological; it has been happening for centuries. Tyne was so caught up in the performance of this perfect life, she was content to sacrifice her own sexuality, and ultimately her life, if that would keep the status quo.

  “Why? Why didn’t you guys have sex?”

  “He never wanted to.” And she accepted that. Tyne chose a perfect Christmas card over an orgasm.

  It doesn’t matter that Leopold strayed with a man, another woman, or if he’d chosen a goat. Sex is the barometer of true intimacy. If you are not engaging in a physical relationship, you are basically just living a transactional existence. You are roommates. And you should split the rent, watch Netflix, and cruise eHarmony.com together. But don’t kid yourself that a nonsexual union can sustain itself without one of you sticking a hand in another’s cookie jar.

  I’m thrilled to say that Tyne is now dating the hunky check-in guy at her gym. Who knows where it will lead, but hey—baby steps. The point is, she’s never been happier. And she’s realized what she’s been missing all these years . . . sometimes twice in one day.

  Chapter 17

  And They Called It Puppy Love

  I think I had my midlife crisis in my thirties way before I was married, had kids, and was disheartened by my career. I fell into relationships that lasted way past their expiration dates and was cast in one sitcom bomb after another. I’m glad I got it over with early. I would not want to be a ninety-pound chain smoker who refuses to get out of bed now. Well, maybe one hundred pounds wouldn’t be so bad. I’m a late bloomer in every other facet of my life—first kiss at sixteen, ability to make mature decisions at forty, and discovery of fitness . . . well, not quite there yet. It’s curious my midlife spiral set in so prematurely, but then again, my friend Layla went through menopause at the age of thirty-two, so you just can’t predict.

  Since I got off the court early I have a prime spectator seat for witnessing the U.S. Open of everyone else going bananas. Cuckoo, barmy, cracked, trippy, bobo, whack . . . At least a large portion of my friends. Some act out the cliches of your typical affair or kiss someone of the same sex (drunk at game night) and some take the less obvious route of seeking vaginal rejuvenation. Now let me just say this—do not touch your vagina with a scalpel or scissors unless there’s an honest-to-god medical reason—i.e., there’s a thumb sticking out of it or you’re transitioning. If it is for purely aesthetic purposes or to reclaim the genitalia of a twenty-year-old, DO NOT (I repeat) cut and paste your bits. Go to therapy for at least a year. And, God forbid, if your partner suggests it . . . ? Well, go to therapy with him for a year. Or better yet, dump him.

  My bias against this procedure is not based on firsthand experience; I can’t even look at my vagina, let alone give it a spa day. I simply think designer vagina surgery is expensive, risky, and painful. It’s good puritan common sense: Shaving off your labia will not make you a happier person. It will just make you walk funny. But who am I to say? You only have onegina.

  Another midlife trend I’ve observed is the impulse to move. It’s distracting, it’s time-consuming, and it promises the hope of a better life, one with lacquered walls and built-ins. For some it’s the joy of renovation that motivates them—and I get that; if I could, I would move every six months. My dream is to be a castle flipper. Take a castle in Ireland or France, revive and refurbish it, and then move on to the next palace. Sadly there isn’t much of a market for that. And I can’t find solid gold molding at Home Depot. So I just spend afternoons lying on the couch gazing at paint swatches. And wondering what fish to stock my moat with. But I have seen friends zigzag across the country searching for the meaning of life. And a three-bedroom with water views. But what you are moving from cannot be outpaced. And even Chernobyl looked good in the brochure!

  I did have a mild flirtation with a midlife crisis a couple of years ago. I found myself bolting awake in the middle of the night, plagued by empty-nest nightmares. My twelve- and fourteen-year-old daughters were flapping their wings. What if one of them moved to Kazakhstan? Well, that wasn’t realistic—there’s no Pinkberry there. But what if neither of them wanted to spoon-feed me applesauce and change my bedpan when I was old . . . er. By law, wasn’t the younger daughter required to forfeit her right to marriage and happiness to become a spinster and care for her aging parents? Our adult diapers were not going to change themselves! Wasn’t that written somewhere in the Constitution or the American Girl catalog? I nudged my husband, not in the “let’s get it on” way but in the “there’s a serial killer in the attic go deal with it” way.

  “Hey, hey . . . I think we should adopt a baby.”

  “Okay.” He snorted.

  I lay back down, calmly narrowing down names for my sweet Syrian refugee cherubs. Yes, I would be (by far) the oldest mother in kindergarten, but I could camouflage myself in ripped jeans, sneakers, and hair extensions. I couldn’t decide on two or three babies. My back was shot, so they couldn’t be lifted. But babies live on the kitchen floor anyway. I forgot about colic. Yeah, that might be a deal breaker. And teething . . . how was I going to get my eight hours of sleep with my sweet angels screaming at the top of their lungs? With perimenopause I sometimes treated myself to a crumb of Xanax to deal with the insomnia; what if I didn’t hear them? Or their screaming got to me and I took too many? The more I ruminated on the idea, the more I realized how unfair it would be to use adorable Lily or baby George to fulfill whatever lingering maternal instincts I possessed and to fill a much larger hole of fear of abandonment. However, with the clarity of a good night’s sleep and the vision of creating a light gray elephant–themed nursery, baby George was still not off the table.

  So I did what millennials do when they feel dispirited (or depressed, angry, or fill-in-the-blank emotion): I went online. Unlike them, I did not peruse Tinder, Grinder, iHookup, or FriendFinder. I went on Petfinder.com. Far more temptation . . . and with Petfinder, it’s not just for one hookup, it’s for life!

  Sure, I could have gone for the obvious puggle, buggle, suggle, or other man-made, mass-produced cuddly canine. But I’ve never been a fan of forced breeding. I clicked on a rescued pit bull. Too fit. Like he spent his life in a canine Gold’s gym. No matter how many SoulCycle or Pilates classes I could enroll in, he would always have superior muscle mass; I’d look like Betty White walking Arnold Schwarzenegger. My finger swiped through hundreds of dogs. I would pause occasionally to imagine myself with a particular pooch. Would we make a good couple?
Could I see us together? Was he breastfed?

  And then I found him. And I knew. Like when you see dark chocolate–covered potato chips. You don’t need to try them to know they’re perfection. My heart almost burst out of my faded pink monkey pajamas. Sure, it was his looks (I’m as superficial as the next gal), but there was something else, something beneath his penetrating gaze. He knew who he was. He was young, about sixteen weeks, but something told me he was an old soul. He had silky, short black hair with a striking white lightning bolt down the center of his face. Those deep, mahogany eyes a girl can get lost in. He would be large, based on the size of his paws, but not massive. Probably not an athlete, but definitely athletic. Maybe not football, but certainly he would chase a tennis ball. I swiped through a few more mutts but couldn’t get his face out of my head. As I used to say after the first time I met my husband, like a good melon, you just know!

  In life you have to take risks. You listen to your gut, you take the plunge, you throw caution to the wind. You throw a dog a bone.

  Cooper arrived on a Sunday afternoon in August. He had a tragic childhood, according to the shelter papers. His mother was a homeless beagle in Arkansas with heartworms that gave birth to a litter of puppies moments before being euthanized. Cooper’s brother was killed in the shelter by a gang of dogs. His sister was adopted a few weeks before him. But all this occurred in his infancy, so I figured therapy was unnecessary. And he seemed so happy! This was definitely not going to be a Prozac pet. I saw how much my dad spent medicating his cat, Monty. That cat was a serial rapist but was so doped up he just lay catatonic on the rug all day.

  When Cooper jumped out of the animal transit truck it was as if he had been released from a week at Bible camp. He couldn’t run, lick, pee, or jump fast enough, so it all happened simultaneously. Just once I’d like to witness my kids behave like that when I place dinner on the table.

  The first few months I was in a constant state of puppy love. Everything he did was adorable to me. I became one of those people who walked around the yard saying (in a cartoon voice) “Who’s a good boy? Huh? Who’s a good boy? Who’s Mommy’s perfect baby from our Lord Jesus Christ?” Yes, he disemboweled a few pieces of furniture and splattered poop Jackson Pollock–style across the hallway carpet, but he never barked loudly or held up his paw to me. And he could read my thoughts. When I put on my sneakers and reached for his leash, it was as if we were communicating telepathically: He knew I was taking him to the park! Oh, the park . . . how many rapturous afternoons we have spent lying in the grass and running up the rocky knoll as if in a flea-collar commercial. One day we were chasing squirrels and we both got peckish, so we bought a couple of hot dogs from a street vendor. And wouldn’t you know it, Cooper, always watching out for me, jumped up and devoured my hot dog. He knew I wasn’t eating carbs that week.

  I think Petco should host a perimenopause adoption day the first Saturday of every month. It would save many women from making ungodly mistakes. And it’s more fulfilling than Wellbutrin. Who wouldn’t want to be greeted with such exuberance when you walk in the door? Cooper leaps onto the bed the second he hears me brushing my teeth. Granted, so does my husband, but for different reasons. And even though Cooper loves me just the way I am, he encourages me to take him to the park or the beach every day until we’re both tuckered out. No trainer could ever motivate me like Cooper. But then again, no trainer ever licked my face.

  If I want to be reclusive and watch the USA Network marathon of Law & Order SVU, he is content coiling his body around mine with a paw on my thigh. He might not understand the mature content of the show, but he’s peaceful knowing we are at rest. And that at the end, Olivia Benson will prevail.

  My husband is not a jealous man. There’s no reason for him to be. But he has started referring to my pup as “boyfriend.” “You with your boyfriend?” Even though my boyfriend is a hound mix that eats other dogs’ poop, just the titillation factor of the word is very satisfying. I mean, my husband better keep on his toes, or at any minute Cooper and I could shoplift a large London broil and make haste to Mexico.

  You don’t want an affair! It’s messy, painful, and requires so much extra grooming. And if you are someone who believes self-mutilation is the answer, then I can’t help you. But there are doctors in Malibu who probably can. Listen to me—I cannot howl this loud enough—get a dog! If you’re allergic or they don’t allow dogs in your building, get a cat or a chinchilla or a damn betta fish (although with a fish I can’t promise you’ll get that unconditional love; they don’t really cuddle). One last piece of advice: Don’t get suckered into bunnies (even on Easter) because they do multiply faster than the national debt—nobody can handle that much unconditional love.

  Give a man one rabbit, and he will eat for a day; give a man two rabbits, and he will feed his family and his neighbors and return you 64,768 rabbits in change.

  —Anonymous

  Chapter 18

  Let Them Go

  I went to an organic summer camp called Mountain Peaks Camp, in the Adirondacks, when I was nine years old. Let me be more precise: I was shipped off, as most of my friends and siblings were, for an enriching two-month retreat that served the dual purpose of giving my parents a break from not having to hear “I’m bored” all summer, and me some fresh air and a sabbatical from an obsession with Charlie’s Angels. Looking back, all the parents must have been elated to have us out of their hair, what with all the key parties and marijuana Crock-Pot mixers going on. As our parents were experimenting with weed and one another, we were planting rhubarb and mucking out horse stalls.

  On the first day, the hills were alive with sounds of screaming as my trunk was brought to my tent. A tent in a forest of mosquitoes and no air-conditioning. I was a somewhat needy child who had a difficult time expressing myself (I held on to the bumper of our Volvo for two hours). This was years before email and texting, so all communication was restricted to handwritten letters. It’s hard to fathom now that a heartfelt missive on Snoopy stationery concerning a horrible bout of homesickness wouldn’t elicit a reply for ten days. I even wrote SOS with pinecones on the craggy beach. The first week my only friend was an overweight pony called Popcorn.

  And here’s the most devastating part—we weren’t allowed sugar. I know. Criminal. Once in a while we got strawberry-rhubarb pie sweetened with raw maple sugar. Some parents tried to hide candy in thermoses, cut tennis balls, and the sleeves of sweatshirts, but it was always confiscated. And probably inhaled in the counselors’ private quarters that same night. I remember we once snuck into our counselor Julie’s tent looking for candy and found what we thought was a sink stopper. We borrowed it to play Frisbee and eventually lost it somewhere out by the lake. Turns out it was her diaphragm. Julie must have had a very frustrating summer.

  We spent an extraordinary amount of time weeding the garden, which took up about an acre of the camp property. When you are detoxing from potato chips, Twinkies, and Marshmallow Fluff, raw fennel stalks are delicious. So when you were lucky enough to stumble upon a raspberry bush? It was like being in a 7-Eleven with no supervision and a hundred-dollar bill. When we had day trips to pick blueberries, I would inhale them until I choked and had purple teeth. And don’t get me started on the peanut butter and horsefly sandwiches we created for afternoon snacks!

  When you were an older camper, you were allowed to go on overnight camping trips. Sometimes they would last as long as four or five days. Without a toilet. Not recommended for kids with anxiety. You saw nothing but trees for hours, had no idea where you were most of the time, and obsessed over how you would be killed by the cannibal madman who lived in a cave. We would scale the peak of Mount Marcy wearing twenty-pound backpacks filled with dented pots, cans of Sterno, and water bottles. It was like an army video for teens. Dinner was goulash and crackers heated over a fire. Occasionally they would mix it up and we’d have hot dogs and beans (which I still love, but my husband won’t eat). After the gassy cuisine we would spread out our sl
eeping bags in a sweltering tent and try to position ourselves so that we wouldn’t be lying on a knobby tree root. If you did happen to lie on a knobby tree root, you would walk like a pregnant woman the next day, belly out, clutching your lower back.

  I had a best friend at Mountain Peaks Camp. Her name was Anne. Anne was from Westchester, wore braces, and had a boy’s haircut. She was emotionally cushioned by the fact that she had an older brother and a younger one at the camp. But that didn’t stop her from waking me up the first night, as I was sniveling into my pillow, and telling me a made-up story about how she had a sister who died. I think she did it to distract me. God, I hope so.

  Anne was with me on one of these Navy SEAL overnights. After two days our hiking boots were mangled, we had moss and mud permanently embedded on the backs of our ankles, and we smelled like Off! Deep Woods insect repellent spray. When we walked the last few steps from the trail onto the camp property, it felt like we were coming back from the first lunar walk. Everyone greeted us with hugs and questions about what we saw, what we did, who had developed a crush on who. You know, post-being-in-space stuff. And then we were allowed to shower. Not a long hot shower, a warm trickle with biodegradable soap and some antifungus slippers. It felt blissful washing the dead, bloodied insects off my legs and throwing away my pee-pee rag. (That is a washcloth used every time you urinate so as not to trash the environment with paper. It was tied to the back of our packs. Nothing brings all the boys to the yard like a waving rag of waste matter!)