It had started innocently enough. I'd moved to the Upper West Side after my divorce. Weeks in, I went to see chamber music with my friend Emily Ann (widowed lawyer), and on the way home said I had to stop at the market.
Emily Ann did, too. "What are you getting?" she asked.
(Now see, looking back, I already want to spend the rest of my life with that person: someone genuinely interested in my shopping list.)
"I've been craving tuna," I said. "But the celery comes prepackaged in two heads, and I only ever want a couple of stalks." I hated waste. Emily Ann did, too.
"It's why I never make tuna," Emily Ann put in ruefully.
"What are you getting?"
"Bread for sandwiches."
Sliced bread. That, too, I hadn't bought because I only ever needed a couple of pieces at a time. (Viv was away, summering with her dad.)
Right then, in the fusty cavity between the inner and outer doors of Morton Williams on Fifty-Seventh, inspiration struck.
I grabbed Emily Ann by both arms and dug my fingers in.
"You buy celery!" she cried, reading my mind. "And I buy bread, and we give each other half!"
A runaway train couldn't have stopped us. On the aggressively narrow dining counter, I broke off celery stalks and slipped them into her Dave's Killer Bread bag. Into my celery bag went six pieces of her twenty-one-grain bread. It was divine, if spinsterish—
Strike that.
It was divine and spinsterish.
When I attempt to define happiness and understand its place in the hierarchy of the human project (divorced philosopher), my mind leaps to those five minutes in the market with Emily Ann. (Sorry, marriage-to-Hal! Sorry, birth-of-Viv!) They were marked by spontaneity, creative problem-solving, lawlessness, laughter and kinship. I existed vividly and exclusively in the present moment. The universe was harmonious and it had my back. I felt wide and well.
Obv, the next day Emily Ann and I texted each other pictures. Her tuna: rough chunks of celery and onion drowning in mayonnaise. My tuna: finely diced celery, onion, fresh dill, parsley, kalamata olives, capers and Mama Lil's Peppers, undetectable mayonnaise, generous lemon juice. Her arms: fingerprint-bruised from being dug into. Mine: not.
I recounted the story to our friend Minna (making her the divorced theater director). She wildly wanted in.
Thus began Fridays at Fairway. A meetup of single women who purchase and divvy celery, carrots, basil, muffins—anything we want but comes packaged too much for one. We've been known to bring Tupperware and Ziplocs. I call it a meetup because when other women see what we're doing, they instantly get it and want in. Sometimes it's a dozen of us. Other times it's just me and a bag of Mexican limes, ten for a dollar. I'm still surprised The New York Times hasn't gotten in touch; isn't that all the Style Section is, breathless reporting on trends that barely exist?
We kicked it up a notch when an apartment became available on my floor. I mentioned it to Minna, who'd turned on her longtime East Village neighborhood for getting overrun by bougie NYU students. So she escaped to the suburbs of Manhattan, aka the Upper West Side, followed by Emily Ann a year later. The idea being to pool our resources and, when the time comes, we'll take care of one another.
Women. You can't accuse us of not being practical.
Whenever I mention this arrangement to married couples, I'm met with one of two responses neatly divided along gender lines.
1. "Wait, you can do that?" (Said with wheels turning and fond memories of Ding-Dong Ditch.)
2. "Keep away from my wife."
Here's how it works. There are Fridays at Fairway, as discussed. In addition, Minna, Emily Ann and I have a joint account into which we contribute $650 per month to cover all expenses. These include: Ziggy to walk the dogs; Julio to clean—pro- tip, hire a man because you return home not just to a clean house, but everything is fixed; Minna only needs her assistant Monday through Thursday, so we can request her on Fridays for errands, gratis.
We split subscriptions to the ballet, symphony and theater. A pair of tickets among us, as not all can or want to go to everything. (Bored yet? Too bad!) We sign up on the family plan for streaming services, cell phones and museum memberships. Emily Ann came with a car. We share the cost of a parking space in the Ansonia basement. (An extravagance out of reach for mere mortals, but split three ways? Move over, Gods!) Because we can guarantee three appointments, the hair-stylist does our roots at home—at salon prices. I thought it was a bridge too far when Minna insisted on a seamstress once a month.
Until the first thing she did was go through my dresses and add pockets. Now? Can't live without.
For the ghoulish eventualities: we'll need to fold in a nurse, physical therapist, cook and someone to hold us by the arm as we take our final shuffles around the block. When Ziggy heard this, he said, "I got you. I'll walk you for free." Love that kid.
Plus, we get to die at home. Plus, we're not a burden to our kids. Plus, no Florida. Plus, compared to nursing homes, it’s a huge money saver.
Covens: you can't afford not to!