How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane by Johanna Stein Page A

Norwegian, Spanish, and Korean, which made him tall, dark, and hairless. We dated for three months, until one evening when he said he was uncomfortable with our age difference and then drove away with my heart in the trunk of his Reliant K-Car. It was my first heartbreak,and it took me an embarrassingly long time to get over (i.e., several Olympics). But when I did, I learned Lesson 3, that, contrary to popular belief, heartbreak is not fatal; in fact, it’s a necessity of modern life, for if not for heartbreak, (a) there would be no soft rock, (b) telephone psychics would be unemployed, and (c) waterproof mascara would never have been invented. I also learned that Sara Lee Cake tastes best when mixed with salty tears.
    There was “ The Cherry Picker, ” who taught me the significance of my virginity, right around the time he left with it. (Can there ever be a perfect virginity-losing experience? Probably not. Studies show that 92 percent of Big V–losing experiences are awkward, uncomfortable, and involve the music of Spandau Ballet.) I’d never bought into the idea that one’s virginity should be put on a pedestal like some kind of holy grail. As a young liberated woman, I found the idea offensive, archaic, and even a little dangerous. Yet the memory of that afternoon has since been rendered in high-def, 3-D detail with particular clarity on the moment that I looked into his eyes and realized that I would always remember it and what an enormous drag that was going to be. That was Lesson 4, that the worth of most “first” events in life—like the “losing” of one’s so-called virginity—lies in how they translate into memory and that a little consideration on behalf of your future self can save you from a lifetime of forehead-slapping regret.
    Lesson 5 came courtesy of “ Mr. Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, ” who taught me the fastest lesson I’ve ever learned: that the first time a guy hits you must be the last. And if a guy does hit you, you must fight back as hard as possible, and when you get the chance, crush his nuts into nut butter. That was what I did with Mr. SLAGIATT before saying sayonara, and I consider myself a better woman for it. As for him, I wonder if he became a better man for it, and if not, then I suspect that he at least became a better soprano.
    Lesson 6 was thanks to H-BLART, “ The Hot-Blooded Artist, ” who was like a character out of a Russian novel; he was a married-but-separated visionary genius who taught me all about art, philosophy, creativity, and what happens when you subsist on a diet of fresh fruit and Ecstasy.
    Yes, he was a bit “eccentric,” like the time he karate-chopped a cockroach on my kitchen wall and demanded I leave it there as a “warning to all the others.” And true, he was prone to delusions, like the time he hid in the windmill on the eighth hole of a mini-golf course, convinced that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were after him. On the other hand, he was the first man who ever made me feel truly adored. On the other other hand, he also liked to sit in a dark closet smelling my shoes. *
    H-BLART’s lesson was that in small doses, a little unpredictability and passion are fun, but in real-life doses, they’re overwhelming and can sometimes lead to legal issues. I don’t know where H-BLART is today, but I think of him often, whenever I am confronted witha new idea or way of seeing the world. Or when I see a cockroach skittering across a floor.
    Lesson 7 humped anything that moved. He was a complete dog. In fact, he was The Actual Dog.
    TAD didn’t look anything like I imagined he would. I’d wanted a tall, muscular dog, like a Dalmatian or a Great Dane. * TAD was a short, scrappy stray, a cross between a terrier and a sewer rat. He walked into my house and into my life and decided that I was the one for him. Me, I figured I’d give him a couple of weeks. In