Why I Did Not Marry Adriana Lima

A week after I broke up with Adriana Lima, I was boating in the Mediterranean with Penelope Cruz. “But you looked so happy together,” said Penelope. Her Spanish accent was unbearably sexy.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” I said. “Adriana and I wanted different things out of life. I wanted her; she wanted a six-foot seven-inch Serbian basketball player named Marko Jaric. We tried to work around that, but couldn’t.”

“You poor baby,” said Penelope, sunbathing topless.

Yes, I thought. Poor baby.

 

My heart was still healing when I confided my problems to Hugh Hefner while visiting his house. It was a small get-together, and Hugh and I were walking around the swimming pool.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over her,” I said, raising my voice a bit to be heard over the laughter of playmates skinny-dipping.

“My boy,” said Hugh, “the world is your oyster, and it’s your responsibility to take advantage of that. Think of all the times my heart broke over the years, but I pushed on. Your leaving her was the best thing that could ever have happened. You now have the freedom to go out there and find true love, like I have.”

“You’re a very wise man,” I said.

 

But a month later, all the panic and fear I thought I’d put behind me at the mansion party returned, and I woke up at three in the morning in a sweat. I rolled over and said, “Gisele, how long does it take to get over someone?”

“Oh God, this isn’t about Adriana, is it?”

“I mean, what if there are such things as soul mates, and they’re predetermined before we’re born? And what if she’s mine, and I’m hers, but because I ended it our souls will go wandering the earth aimlessly and alone for the rest of our lives?”

She looked at me as only Gisele can do. “If she were your soul mate, you would have known. But she’s not, and deep down you knew that, so get over it.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Thanks, Gisele.”

“What’s going on?” said a sleepy voice beside us.

“Sorry, Penelope,” I said. “Go back to sleep.”