There is nothing predictable about being in the middle of your life. I've learned that much, if I've learned anything. (Well, except for flabby upper arms. That, apparently, is pretty standard. And chin hairs made of graphite. Don't forget those.) So when one day your college boyfriend shows up, out of the blue, and says he's never really gotten over you — well, there is no rule book on how to handle that one. You could say, "You're a mixed up son of a bitch," which is what you wanted to say twenty years ago when he scaled the walls of your dorm and hung by your fifteenth story window. You might say, "This Romeo and Juliet act is so... Shakespearean," which is what you tried to spit out when he threw your "diverse backgrounds" in your face (you from Connecticut, him from Westchester — despite an Ivy League pedigree the boy was a moron.) You'd probably say, "That ship has sailed, Popeye," which means more or less nothing unless you understand what it is to be a guy who works out five hours a day and thinks his muscles are God's gift to a just-lost-her-virginity, boy crazy freshman. And yet you say none of these things. Instead, you stutter, "Geez, Danny, you look exactly the same," and stare at him, kind of hungry, like you did when you were twenty and all you could think of was how his ripped-to-the-max swimmers body (Eighties lingo, for you youngsters) would look naked in your dorm room.

You've imagined the fairy tale, haven't you? What happens when the long lost boyfriend suddenly appears? At the very least, it is perplexing. It can also get you in a lot of trouble. You are forty-plus, for starters. You are a mom (twice over.) You are newly separated, on your way to a divorce from a skanky whoremonger and with this in mind, your taste in men is up for discussion. Meanwhile, you have a hot handyman who you are pretty sure wants to see you naked, an even hotter birthday party dad who thinks you can shoot the moon and your crazy life is just starting to make sense again. Sort of. Kind of. Maybe. But what do you do? Do you protect your little corner of the world? Do you recognize that even in the lunacy of it all, something good could happen? Do you exercise restraint, common sense, good fucking earth mother judgment — do you do any of those things? Why, of course not. Instead, when your college boyfriend shows up at your door and says he wants "closure," you gaze at him all dopey like a teenager and stammer, "Awesome, do you like white or red? I mean, uh...come on in."

Okay, in the spirit of full disclosure — the old boyfriend showing up at your door is no accident. It is no accident because, in some moronic, possibly alcohol induced, wish-there-were-Ambien-in-the-house phase, you went onto Facebook at three in the morning and tried to find him. And lo and behold, unbelievably (or maybe not, because this is the twenty-first century, need I remind you) Facebook came through (depending on how you look at it) and find him you actually did. (By the way, what is it about the internet and the wee hours? Who are all these people that can't sleep? Does insomnia make us want to find our old flames? Since when is typing for hours the cure for being sleep deprived?)

Anyhoo, there are no prizes for stupidity. If there were, I would certainly have won more than my fair share. But no, there are no prizes for stupidity, just men...you get men for stupidity, which, frankly, is just what I deserve.

"Hey, Danny," I say, completely astonished that he is standing, all his hulking two hundred and forty once-a-wrestler pounds, on my doorstep. (By the way, it is maybe seven in the morning.) "Essie," he says, this huge grin on his still ridiculously handsome face. "No one calls me Essie anymore," I say, in complete shock that he is actually here. "Well, I'm not no one, am I?" he says, still grinning at me broadly. "Who are you, again?" I say, kind of flirty, despite myself. He looks at me and sighs profoundly. "Baby, I'm the one that got away." "You're an idiot," I say. "Maybe I'm your idiot," he answers. "Not likely, " I mumble, and I let him in. (It may be seven a.m, but that's when the wine appears.)

He looks around my living room. "Nice crib," he says. I stare at him, like I'm getting annoyed, even though I'm not. (Not yet, anyway.) "Can't you talk like a normal person?" "Yeah, I could, but what would be the point?" he says and then, still grinning, grabs me in a bear hug. (He hugs like a bear, this one, which is one of the things I always liked about him, really strong, like the kind of guy you wouldn't be afraid to be with if you were lost in the woods. And I am not talking metaphor here.) "You're choking me," I gasp, even though he really isn't, but I can feel his heart beating, like, a million miles a minute which tells me a lot more than I really want to know and suddenly, my own heart drops and I feel like something is about to happen and I am excited and scared.

He pulls back and looks at me. "So, where are the kids?" he asks. "I assume you have a bunch of ‘em." "Like a passel, or a brood?!" I say, a little sarcastic and he nods, eagerly, "Yeah, one of those." "With their father," I say and he can tell just by the look on my face. "You're divorced, huh?" he says, nodding. "Getting there," I say, a little giddy. I kind of step back so we're not touching. "What about you?" He shrugs, nonchalant-like. "Nope. Still holding out for the right gal. You know one?" "You mean, woman?" I say, kind of annoyed all of a sudden. "Nah," he says, "I said exactly what I mean." ("Gal," huh? Perhaps "dame" or "broad" might apply as well. No wonder he's still single. Women love to be broken down into 1940's Rat Pack technology.)

And suddenly we're staring at each other in what I can only describe as a dangerous way. In the back of my mind I wonder what the HBPD would do if he could see me now (and this is odd, because I don't think once of Jeffrey or maybe it's not odd at all.) And there's this long moment of silence (you know how I feel about silence, right? If you don't, for the record, I don't feel so good) and then just as I am about to say something along the lines of, "Now what?" he grabs my hand and says, "Come with me." "Where?" I say, confused. "Pamela Anderson's having an estate sale!" he chortles gleefully. "I saw it on line, yesterday. It's gonna be like Baywatch meets the Holy Grail."

Now, I have to explain something. Like many of the guys in my life, this one had his peculiarities. One was leaping the walls of tall buildings in a single bound (Well, it involved rope and climbing cleats, but that was the idea.) The other was going through other people's trash. It was kind of illegal, just a little bit, because when we did this, in college, we would trespass just a smidge more than we should — it wasn't as simple as picking through people's garbage but we were really into it because we were breaking the rules. (It's amazing what you can learn about someone by going through the stuff they are throwing away. Like, I am sure the husband I am ditching says a hell of a lot about me.)

"Pam Anderson, red bathing suit icon?" I ask, suddenly intrigued. "Don't forget star of Baywatch and Barbed Wire," he says, "That's television history," and barely giving me time to grab a pair of inappropriate heels and my wallet, he gets me in the car. So we're driving in his rental down Sunset Boulevard towards the ocean. Sunset is my favorite street in all of Los Angeles because it reeks of possibility (Norma Desmond, notwithstanding) and suddenly, for a moment (and this is bad) I feel like I'm in college once again. "So here's the thing," Danny says, looking at me closely. "We're supposed to pick up a bus at this church parking lot by some street called Winding Way." "How symbolic," I mutter, but it's not like I would say that to him. (Nothing is straightforward in my life, not anymore, is what I mean.) "What's the but?" I ask him instead, because I know one is coming.

"Well..." and he has that glint in his eye, the one that means trouble. "Am I not going to like this?" I say, suspiciously. "No, no, you're going to love this!" he laughs and then he tells me that he knows a guy who knows a guy who knew Kid Rock and has Pam's address already (a big no-no — the church parking lot is there to keep people from knowing too much about where they are going, that's where the shuttle comes in) and instead of getting to Pam's house like everyone else we're going to hike in some back way. "Let's go fuck up some furniture," he yells, looking really happy that he's getting to go through all of Pamela Anderson's things. "I heard she has a pink Prius," I tell him. "Think we can fuck that up too?" and he laughs and takes his hand off the steering wheel and runs it through my hair.

Oh, boy. With a capital "B," if you know what I mean. But I don't say that and the next thing you know, we're hiking through some Malibu canyon. (I try not to think about the last time I was in Malibu, with the HBPD, when he kissed me, because suddenly, I am feeling danger, and not just because I am hiking in the totally wrong shoes.) Danny looks at me. "You look hot, Essie," he says. I shrug, "Pilates," I tell him. I peer around the canyon. "You sure you know where you're going?" I ask, dubiously. "Have I ever led you astray?" he says, kind of seriously and since we both know the answer to that one I don't say anything. He laughs. "This is like the Mission Impossible," he chuckles, "if it was real." "Yeah, I'm pretty sure Mission Impossible is a documentary," I snap back, more than a little concerned. "How far is Pamela's from here?" And I'm feeling anxious all of a sudden, like I'm somewhere that I shouldn't be, not just literally but beyond that — and that's when my inappropriate Jimmy Choos give out and I fall down the ravine.

"Holy fuck!" I hear from up above me. "Essie — are you okay?!" At this point, I am lying on my back, in the dirt and I'm looking at the sky. It's a nice sky, blue, a few, white, fluffy clouds and I'm thinking to myself, you know, lying around in the dirt really isn't so bad. (And maybe, if I spent more time in dirt - like gardening — typical suburban mom stuff — maybe gardening would keep me from getting in my own freakin' way.) "I'm fine!" I yell back, but really, I'm not because I heard a crack in my ankle on the way down and having some bad experience in the ankle department, I know exactly what that means.

"I'm coming to get you!" yells Danny and I'm all like, "No, no - you'll get stuck down here," but being the big, hulking guy and all before I know it he's climbing, over the roots and rocks and soaking wet leaves. He looks at me. I'm still lying on the ground because I'm not sure where to go from here. "Gosh, Essie — I'm sorry," he says. And I can see he is. "This is kind of all my fault, " he says, sadly. "I wasn't thinking ahead." "Yeah, well join the club," I say and kind of smile. He leans over me. "I was always getting us in some kind of trouble, huh?" he says as he hoists me on his giant, muscle-bound back. "It wasn't just you, believe me," I sigh and grab him around the neck with all the strength I can muster.

When we're back up at the top of the gulch he lowers me slowly to the ground. "Well," he says, quietly. "Well," I answer. "I guess that's what happens when you want a little piece of television history.""Yep," he nods, slowly. "I guess it is." He looks at me. "You don't mind if I carry you out, do you?" I shrug. "I don't really see that there's another way."

And so we're hiking through the canyon again, except now I'm on his back. We're both not saying much of anything for a while, like the crazy fun of this whole thing has gone and we're back to reality again. (So much for being a rebel, I suppose.) After a little while I interrupt the sound of Danny's echoing feet. He's walking slowly, so he won't hurt me. (Or to keep his middle aged back from going out, I'm not exactly sure.) "Hey, why did you come to find me, anyway?" I say. "We could have just kept writing on the internet and left well enough alone." He doesn't speak for a moment. "Okay, never mind," I say. "Forget it. It's my fault, for going on that stupid Facebook thing." "No, no... I wanted some closure," he says. "I know it sounds stupid, but I kind of wanted to know what happened." "Lots of people don't work out," I answer. "Relationships are like washing machines. They're built to break, if you know what I mean." "Well, I wanted to say I'm sorry." "Sorry for what?" I ask him. "Well, for fucking us up, Essie. I mean, I don't want to sound like an asshole or anything, but I wanted to apologize for whatever I did."

And here's the thing. You know those moments when you realize that you're always telling the story a certain way, when in reality, the truth is completely different? (And believe me, it's not like I haven't been waiting my whole life for a guy to apologize to me.) This was one of those times. "It wasn't your fault, Danny," I told him. "I'm the fuck up. I'm the asshole. You were just a typical boy. It was entirely me." And he looks at me like this huge weight has been lifted off his muscle-bound shoulders and he says (typically), "Typical? No fucking way?!"

The light in the canyons of Malibu has always kind of struck me as a strange thing. Like, when you're in the woods, you can't really see much but then suddenly, you turn a corner and it's like the sun is shining a spotlight in your eyes. Well, that's what happened. We turned a corner, came around the side of a large rock, stepped over some brush and there we were. The house rose out of the land around it like a castle. In fact, it looked just like that, like someone had decided that the princess of Baywatch needed to live in a royal palace by the sea. (I've always wondered what it would be like to live in a castle, but then, I've never looked that good in a red bathing suit to begin with.)

"Wow, magnificent," said Danny. "Impressive," I agree. He hoists me up a little higher on his shoulders. Suddenly, we're both re-energized, like we're in this fairy tale and someone suddenly turned the page. "Are you game?" he asks me. "Totally," I tell him. We start to move furtively through the brush, our eyes on the prize: French Provencal furniture, teeny tiny lingerie tops, that elusive red lifeguard bathing suit (and right now, that rule breaking suit means everything to me.)

Suddenly, a little man appears next to us. "What are you doing up here?!" he yelps, clearly perturbed. (He's kind of dwarf-like, like a gnome.) "We came for the estate sale," I say, trying not to laugh. "Pamela Anderson," says Danny, helpfully. "Well, you're supposed to take the shuttle in," growls the gnome. "This isn't how you get here." "Yeah, I know and we're so sorry," I say, in my best imitation of charming. "But I sprained my ankle and this gentleman was kind enough to carry me in." "She's really in to Baywatch," says Danny, very seriously. "She does sand sprints totally like Pamela's. "And I love "Barbed Wire," I say, helpfully. "She does," says Danny. "We're sorry if we're breaking any rules."

The gnome man looks us up and down. (Mostly up, considering.) "Well, just this one time," he squeaks, grudgingly. "But you should be more careful." He looks at my clearly swelling ankle. "You could get in serious trouble." Danny and I look at each other. We nod, like we are really heeding this cautionary tale. "I hear you," I say. Then the little man looks from side to side and leans in, like he has something really important to tell us. "Actually, " he whispers, "Miss Anderson doesn't really care about shit like rules." I look at him and nod, trying not to reveal much of anything. "I know," I say, really seriously. "I hear she has lots of tattoos." The little man touches my arm, confidentially. "That's the least of it," he whispers. "She dances to her own drummer." "Does she do it in a hot, red bathing suit?" says Danny. I ignore this. I look from the little man to Danny and then back again. "Oh, she's one of a kind," says the little gnome. "Believe me." I look at the castle and I look inside myself and then I stop looking and I say, "I know exactly what you mean."