The Sugar Baby Who Introduced Me to Outdoor Activities

I’m the only daughter of diplomats, so you would think that I would have lived a life of adventure and cross-cultural exchange and all of that. But the opposite is actually true. My parents loved being diplomats, and they did very well for themselves. But as a consequence of their work, I grew up in a country that wasn’t stable, and once I became an adult, I learned that there were almost constant threats to my safety. My parents were, secretly, terrified of me being kidnapped, and they were also largely absent from my day-to-day life. I went to a highly exclusive and secure private school. I spent school breaks at home with a live-in nanny who was in her 50s, and when my parents were given time off, we would travel back to the US to their parents’ house, where I couldn’t remember anything other than being extremely bored.

The way that I coped with all of this was that I got very, very good at reading. And in turn, I became a prolific writer. By the time I was in my mid-20s, I got my first book deal, and things have been more or less wonderful on that front ever since. Sure, I get the occasional review that my books are lacking in “real-world feel,” but what can you expect from someone who developed agoraphobia by the time I was 18? My books are for people who don’t want to venture outside; they want to drift away to a world of fantasy. And I give them that.

As I started to get successful, I moved back to the US, not far from where my grandparents were living at the time. Eventually, my parents retired and moved back, as well. So, they were my main support system.

Of course, relying on your grandparents and parents as your social network will only work for so long, and when it was just me and my mom left, I admitted to her how lonely I was. She had been trying for years to get me to go to therapy for my agoraphobia, and as she became less and less able to leave the house herself, I finally took her advice.

At first, my therapy sessions were over the phone, but my therapist was able to convince me to come to her office as a way to start exposing myself to new environments. From there, we worked towards slowly introducing other activities, like going to a coffee shop to do my writing from time to time or going to the botanical garden on the weekend when there were likely to be more people.

Usually, when I had my one day a week of working in a coffee shop, I would choose the table farthest away from everyone else and position myself towards the wall. The staff always kept my table reserved, and they knew to leave me alone while I was there. I’m not one to use my wealth and status to my advantage, but this was a rare exception, and I always made sure to leave a handsome tip.

Anyway, one day, someone tapped me on the shoulder, which normally would have been enough for me to pack up and leave. But when I turned around, I was surprised to see that it was a nice-looking younger man who seemed to be a fan.

“I’m so sorry,” he started off, which I appreciated. But I was still finding myself getting annoyed, “But I’m a big fan.”

I thought about offering him a signature or a picture together just to get him to go away, but he had kind of a magnetism that appealed to me. Unlike with most people, I didn’t feel an immediate urge to run away from him.

“How do you know who I am?” I asked.

He told me that there was an online community of fans in which a rumor was circulating that I had been spotted at this coffee shop.

Great, I thought, now I’ll have to find a different place to go.

“Anyway, I didn’t want to interrupt, but you looked like maybe you were taking a break, so I thought, ‘Here’s my chance!’ I just wanted to say I’m a fan and I’ll let you get back to it.”

I was embarrassed that he had caught me staring off into the distance, but the fact was, I was struggling with the piece that I was working on. It was something much different from my normal work; an introspection on losing my father and coming to terms with my own reclusivity. How ironic, I thought, that this man had interrupted my reclusivity exactly in the moment when I was thinking about being alone.

“Hey,” I told him. “Would you like to sit down and have a cup of coffee with me?”

Turns out, Jared was the young guy’s name, and he was not a writer, but rather a park ranger. Apparently, my books were some of his favorite things to bring with him when he was in the backcountry and didn’t have access to the internet.

I told him that it was shocking to me to think that something written by a homebody like myself could be enjoyed by someone who preferred to be outside.

He laughed, “You should try it sometime. You might find that being on your own in the woods is as peaceful as being on your own at home. Only, there’s more to look at.”

This was an interesting idea. I didn’t fully buy into it. But there was something about Jared’s carefree attitude that made me believe him.

I talked about it with my therapist during our next session, and she was pleasantly surprised.

“First of all, I’m proud of you for inviting a stranger to sit down with you. That’s big. And second, was there, maybe, a romantic spark?”

My therapist, I suspected, had been waiting years to be able to ask this question.

Jared and I continued to have coffee together every couple of weeks, but he told me that he would be going on a retreat with some colleagues for a month and was leaving the following week.

“I know it’s not really your thing,” he started, “But I was wondering if you might want to go for a hike with me. Wait, hike is probably too loaded of a word. A walk in nature. Something very easy. I know a trail that isn’t at all crowded, but it’s not creepy, isolated either. What do you think?”

And that’s how I got talked into doing any form of exercise outside the house in years.

I wanted to hate it, I really did. I wanted to complain about the bugs, my feet hurting and pollen. But I was enjoying myself too much to remember that this wasn’t my personality at all.

Jared knew all about the different kinds of trees and could identify birds by just their calls. He knew which leaves he could touch, which were delicately fragrant when he held his fingers up for me to smell.

We walked at my pace, and for the first time, probably ever, I was frustrated that I wasn’t more mobile. I didn’t want him to have to slow down for me.

At the end of our walk, I was determined: I wanted to do this again, and I wanted to get in shape. I didn’t tell Jared, but the month he was gone, I did the unthinkable and I hired a personal trainer (at a gym!), and I started going a couple of times per week.

It was like poking holes in my agoraphobia every time I left the house. More and more, I felt capable of being around people without panicking. I went for walks in my own neighborhood. I never once missed a session with my trainer.

And every time I left the house, my mother congratulated me with a genuine look of pride on her face.

By the time that Jared came back, I felt strong enough to go on more walks, which turned into hikes, which turned into overnight backpacking trips. When I wasn’t with Jared, I was writing, and what I was writing felt like some of the best work I had written in years.

I don’t remember exactly when my relationship with Jared went from platonic to sugar momma/sugar baby, but it felt like a natural transition. About a year into our relationship, I published what I wanted to be my last book, and I proposed something to Jared.

“Since it’s my last work, I think I want to go on a book tour,” I told him. “And I think I want you to come with me, if you are open to it.”

He would have to take a sabbatical, and we would have to make sure there was time to schedule in a few hikes into the tour so that Jared didn’t feel too stir crazy. But, ultimately, he said yes.

When I floated the idea to my mother and let her know that I was worried about leaving her alone, she waved me off. “I’ve been waiting for you to spread your wings for years. Please, for the love of Jared,” and she gave me a wink, “GO!”