Translation -- Modern Love：How I Got To Here.
许多年之后，我还会清晰忆起，我们第一次的那个遥远的约会。在加州大学圣特巴巴拉分校的一个餐厅里，他握着我的手，但是我认真地回应：“我不想再结婚了，我真的觉得一个人挺好的。”那天，我穿着引人注目的恨天高配上吊带袜，想用装束掩饰自己的紧张，并不是想引诱单身汉上钩什么的。
作为一个20年后重新单身的人士，我喜欢他欣赏我精致的长发，喜欢他对我诙谐的玩笑发笑的样子。我觉得自己像个蛇蝎美人，我喜欢这样，即使出自虚荣。没有什么严肃认真的、或是需要遵循的永久承诺。我们仅仅是为了好玩。当他举起酒杯敬酒时，眼睛里闪烁着光芒:“敬大美女！”
现在，秃顶的他卧病在床，我们的结婚戒指紧紧勒住他肿胀的手指，像是一种难以辩驳的固执情绪。我实在是忍不住眼眶里汩汩的泪泉，心里一遍遍自责：“对不起，对不起，对不起……”
我们相识于二十年前，那时我在芝加哥参加他的写作课。课间休息的时候，他过来搭讪，称赞我手上的订婚戒指。那时的他有着学院风的可爱，但我不是会对老师上头的女孩。他有着邀请学生保持联系的惯例，所以我就应和了。
十年之后，一个傍晚，我在厨房准备晚餐，女儿在我腿旁边玩耍。我用汗巾擦了擦手，边接电话边哄着撒娇的四岁闺女。
原来他是收到我第一本小说的新书发布会，特地打电话来祝贺我。我没想到他会打电话来，毕竟他教过成千个学生。真是惊喜呢，我把闺女搂到另一边，理了理披散的头发，随手扎成马尾，对着电话羞涩地笑着。
又是一个十年过去了，我离婚了。我从床上无力地爬起来，注视这镜子里的自己，失了神。但我想重新打起精神，重新找回自己。这么些年，日日家务事缠身，是时候拜托家庭主妇这个泥沼，去好好照顾自己了。我要给我的女儿们做个榜样。我需要重拾事业，活出自己。
我开始写作。翻出泛黄的、咖啡迹斑斑的写作课笔记，上面涂满了彩色笔记。这些笔记对我的每本书都有指导作用，我想起来欠老师一个谢谢。
于是我打电话过去，邀请他喝杯咖啡。面对他我其实很想问他是否单身着，毕竟我现在是单身待撩，但是我犹豫了。现在的我有三个孩子，在洛杉矶汉考克公园附近有一栋房子。我想了想，告诉自己，这就是社交罢了。问了又能怎么样，我又不会失去什么。于是，我点击了“发送”。
第二天，我收到了回信，他说：“咖啡我来请。”
我们在圣莫尼卡的咖啡豆咖啡店见面，他穿着短裤和人字拖等着我。他的头发已经有银丝了，但他还是戴着多年前那样的的学院风眼镜，还有那迷人的酒窝。我很惊讶他没有随着年龄变成油腻大叔。这次，我又穿上裙装。
他不记得我了。他不记得我们很久以前的课，也不记得多年后打电话祝贺我。他承认，他点击了我的网站链接，看到了我的照片。
我们坐着聊了三个多小时。
“你想一起吃个晚饭吗?”走到门口时，他问。“我们不必称之为约会。可以把它当作普通一起吃个饭。”
我疑惑地问：“为什么不把它当成一次约会呢？”
“大多数人不喜欢约会”
”可是我喜欢“
”你真是与众不同呢“
就这样，我们开始约会了。每个星期五，他都会开车带我去山谷里吃晚饭。经历了漫长的一周，我很喜欢在周五的时候好好打扮一下自己然后美美地赴约。我喜欢让我的女儿们帮我挑选耳环，然后给一个拿着花的男人开门。当然啦，作为青春期的孩子，想在星期五晚上拥有妈妈不在家的自由时光，但是她们也看到了妈妈作为一个女人贝尊重，被视若珍宝的样子。
我们的进展很快，每周六晚我们都会接着在他家约会。把闺女们“打发”、安排好她们的活动之后，我要精心打扮好几个小时。从托潘加峡谷到圣莫尼卡，每走一英里我都感到我身上作为妈妈的粗糙的皮肤都焕新颜。当看到海洋的时候，我感到由心的转变与新生。当我到达他家的时候，我感觉让自己已经从脚尖到每一个发丝都足够美丽。他能够欣赏我的每一个细节的美，他值得我这样精心的准备，我所需要做得就是自在地呼吸好了。
几个月后，我站在书店的后面，他在那里展示他的新书。几个漂亮而又世故的女人转过头来看着我。我猜是旧女友吧。我与其说是嫉妒，不如说是佩服。一个人走过来，指着致谢栏里我的名字——我想，他把我包括进来是件冒险的事，因为我们只是在约会。
“你是他的新女友吗?”她问。我犹豫了一下。我们的关系当然非同小可，要知道他刚给我买了一件浴袍放在他家里呢。然而，作为“女朋友”，也有一些邪恶和美妙的地方。意思是他想要我。这意味着我们玩得很开心。我在丹佛巡回售书时，他全家都来了。我正准备读一段性爱戏，突然意识到这将是他们对我的第一印象。那又怎样?我想。我只是个女朋友。我可以随心所欲。四年过去了。我在口红和内衣上大肆挥霍，继续扮演蛇蝎美人的角色。
在我们下一次度假时，他告诉酒店服务员这是我们的周年纪念日，所以他们给我们升级了套间，并献上香槟祝贺。我开始怀疑我们是否会有结婚纪念日。现在，当他叫我美女小姐时，我觉得自己很廉价。
我们没有结婚的合理理由。我对生更多的孩子没有兴趣，而他没有孩子也很好。我可以有自己的公寓，我仍然想给我的女儿们树立一个好榜样。如果我要单身，为什么不给自己留点余地呢?我爱他。但如果我不能把他钓上来，我就该放弃了。
我花了好几个星期才鼓起勇气面对他。他耐心地听着，然后笑了起来。“永远不结婚是你说的，”他说，“我又不是这个意思。”然后，他给我看了一篇发黄的报纸文章，这是我们在圣巴巴拉度过的第一个浪漫周末后他剪下的，标题是《如何购买订婚戒指》。
就这样，我们在马里布的海边结婚了。他想要一场真正的婚礼，这样他父母就能到场了。我开玩笑说，他想让他们知道，等他老了会有人照顾他。他那些常春藤盟校的朋友们都飞过来亲眼目睹了这个万年单身汉的结束。他让我穿真正的婚纱，这样就可以炫耀他美丽的新娘了。
在我们结婚两周年纪念日的前几天，我得知自己得了乳腺癌。几个月后，我失去了头发，睫毛，所有让我美丽的东西。
情人节那天，我们坐在火炉前，直到我闻到假发有塑料烧焦的味道。我尝不出巧克力的味道，也无法品尝美酒，但他看起来很开心，吃着虾，和我在一起。他叫我美女小姐，但我以为他只是在迁就我，这让我感觉更糟了。
每况愈下。我的手指麻木了，指甲发紫了，我的眼睛噙满了泪水，什么也看不见。我没法再假装了，也不想欺骗自己了。我把高跟鞋扔到壁橱的后面，他帮我穿拖鞋在附近跌跌撞撞地走着。化疗期间他一直陪着我，直到我把他赶走。因为我不想让他看到我那样无助和软弱。化疗带来的副作用降临了，我无法表达自己的内心想法，也无法理清思路。我觉得自己很蠢、很丑。最重要的是，我感到内疚。
“我很抱歉，”我说。“这不是你想要的。
“这也许真的有些糟糕，”他说。“但这也不是你想要的。”
现在我们每天晚上坐在床上看电视。我最喜欢的时装表演正在进行，他转头对我我。“这是一次完美的约会。”
我笑了，以为他在逗我，他一边揉着我疼痛的腿。但当我看着他的脸时，他在微笑，他的注意力已经回到了屏幕上。
我意识到他就是那个耍花招的人。他让我相信他回应了我的力量和美丽，所以我觉得自己强大而美丽。也许这从来都不是我想象中的浪漫。也许我是个肤浅的人。但他看到了我身上更多的内在。当我们坐在床上看美女时，我并不嫉妒，因为他仍然认为我是美丽的。
我要做的就是自在地大口呼吸。
原文
When I told him I would never marry again, I meant it. We were holding hands in a restaurant in Santa Barbara, Calif., on our first weekend away, and I was hiding my nerves behind the boldness of high heels and a garter belt. I wasn’t trying to bait the hook, or reel in the lifelong bachelor.
Newly single after 20 years, I loved how he admired my long hair and subtle décolletage, how he laughed at my witty banter. I felt like a femme fatale, and I liked it. Nothing serious, nothing permanent. We were there for the fun. There was a gleam in his eyes as he raised his glass in a toast: “To Lady Beautiful.”
Now he looks at me, bald and bedridden, finger swollen around my wedding band, and I can’t help but say I’m sorry.
We had met two decades earlier, when I took his writing seminar in Los Angeles. During the break, he admired my engagement ring. He was cute in a preppy way, but I was not the kind of girl to be “hot for teacher.” He had a policy of inviting students to stay in touch, so I did.
Ten years later, the phone rang in the kitchen where I was making dinner while my daughters played underfoot. I wiped my hands on my sweat pants, and picked up my crying 4-year-old to comfort while I answered.
He had received the invitation to the book party for my first novel and was calling to congratulate me. Despite thousands of students, he went out of his way to call. Surprised, I shifted my daughter to the other hip, smoothed a loose hair toward my ponytail and hung up the phone smiling.
Another decade and a difficult divorce later, I climbed out of bed and studied my bedraggled reflection in the mirror. After years of being an exhausted work-at-home mom, it was time to take better care of myself, to control my destiny, to set a good example for my daughters. I needed a new project, one that would reclaim my maiden name.
When I sat down to begin writing, I dug out my faded notes from his class, now adorned with crayon marks and coffee stains. These notes had guided every book I had ever sold. I owed this man a thank you.
I wrote an e-mail offering to buy him a coffee. Then I hesitated. I had just begun to date, so naturally I wondered if he was single. I envisioned three kids and a house in the Hancock Park neighborhood of Los Angeles. This was networking, I told myself. What did I have to lose? I hit “send.”
The next day, he e-mailed back: “I’ll buy the coffee.”
We met at the Coffee Bean in Santa Monica, where he waited in shorts and flip-flops. His hair was gray, but he wore the same preppy glasses, had the same dimples. I was surprised he wasn’t more businesslike. Then again, I wore a dress.
He didn’t remember me. He didn’t recall our long-ago class or phoning to congratulate me years later. He admitted that he clicked on the link to my Web site and saw my picture.
Our coffee lasted three hours.
“Would you like to have dinner?” he asked as we walked to the door. “We don’t have to call it a date. We could just eat at the same time.”
I was confused. “Why wouldn’t we call it a date?”
“Most people don’t like dating,” he said.
“I love dating,” I said.
“You’re new.”
We began to date. Every Friday he drove to the valley to take me out to dinner. After a long week, I loved dressing up and dining out. I loved having my girls pick out my earrings, then answer the door to a man bearing flowers. Sure, they were teenagers, eager to get rid of me on a Friday night, but they also saw how a woman should be treated. And they saw that I was a woman worthy of respect.
Soon, we added Saturday nights at his house. After shuttling the girls to their activities, I primped for hours, shedding my valley mom skin with each mile through Topanga Canyon to Santa Monica. Once the ocean was in view, my transformation was more than physical. By the time I arrived at his house, I had done everything possible to make myself beautiful, to feel beautiful. And he was a worthy audience, appreciating every detail. All I had to do was breathe.
A few months later, I stood at the back of the bookstore where he presented his new book. Several attractive and sophisticated women turned their heads to look at me. Old girlfriends, I guessed. I was more impressed than jealous. One came over and pointed at my name in the acknowledgments — risky business for him to include me, I had thought, since we were only dating.
“Are you the new girlfriend?” she asked.
I hesitated. We were certainly exclusive. He had just bought me a bathrobe for his house. Yet, there was something wicked and wonderful about being The Girlfriend. It meant he wanted me. It meant we were having fun.
His entire family showed up while I was on a book tour in Denver. I was about to read a sex scene when I realized this would be their first impression of me.
So what? I thought. I was just a girlfriend. I could do what I pleased.
Four years passed. I splurged on lipstick and lingerie and continued to play the part of femme fatale.
On our next vacation, he told the hotel clerk it was our anniversary, so they upgraded our room and served us Champagne. I began to wonder if we would ever have a wedding anniversary. Now, when he called me Lady Beautiful, I felt cheap.
There was no logical reason for us to marry. I had no interest in having more children and he was fine without. I could get my own apartment; I still wanted to set a good example for my daughters. If I was going to be single, why not keep my options open? I loved him. But if I couldn’t reel him in, it was time to cut bait.
It took weeks for me to get the courage to confront him. He listened patiently, then began to laugh. “Never getting married were your terms,” he said, “not mine.” Later, he showed me a yellowed newspaper article he had clipped after our first romantic weekend in Santa Barbara. It was entitled, “How to Buy an Engagement Ring.”
We were married overlooking the ocean in Malibu. He wanted a real wedding so his parents could be there. I teased that he wanted them to know he would have someone to care for him in old age. His Ivy League friends flew out to see the notorious bachelor’s demise with their own eyes. He asked me to wear a real wedding dress so he could show off his beautiful bride.
Days before our second anniversary, I learned I had breast cancer. Within months, I lost my hair, my eyelashes, everything that made me beautiful.
On Valentine’s Day, we sat in front of the fire until I could smell plastic burn on the back of my wig. I couldn’t taste the chocolate or drink the wine, but he seemed happy, eating shrimp and being together. He called me Lady Beautiful, but I thought he was just humoring me. It made me feel worse.
Soon there were fewer good days. My fingers were numb, my nails purple, and my eyes too teary to see. I couldn’t keep up the charade, didn’t want to. After my high heels were exiled to the back of my closet, he helped me stumble around the neighborhood in slippers. He sat with me through chemo until I shooed him away.
I didn’t want him to see me like that, helpless and weak. The chemo fog descended and I couldn’t get my words right or my thoughts clear. I felt stupid. I felt ugly. Most of all, I felt guilty.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “This is not what you signed up for.”
“That may be true,” he said. “But neither did you.”
Now we sit in bed watching TV every night. My favorite fashion show is on and he turns to me. “This is the perfect date,” he says.
I laugh, thinking he is teasing as he rubs my aching legs. But when I look at his face, he is smiling, his attention already back on the screen.
And I realize that he was the one who did the bait and switch. He made me believe that he responded to my strength and beauty, so I felt strong and beautiful. Maybe this was never the romance I imagined. Maybe I was the shallow one. He saw more. As we sit in bed and watch the beautiful women, I am not jealous. He still thinks I am one of them.
All I have to do is breathe.
