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under his towel when I emerged from the ocean in my snorkel gear carrying a handful of cowrie shells or toss it into the laundry bag at night. But, magically, the book would appear in his hands again by sunrise.
    Leo left the book on my bedside table the day he disappeared from my life. As well as some loose change and an unfinished prescription bottle of codeine. And that same battered paperback with mai tai stains sits on my office shelf today.
    I married George Stephanopoulos, author of the memoir that foiled my passion play on the isle of Maui. I loved something, set it free, and something even better came back to me. And I’m never setting George free. I don’t care what Sting says.

CHAPTER 4
Be Curious
    BE CURIOUS, NOT JUDGMENTAL.
    — WALT WHITMAN
    I t’s impossible to live in our society with an open heart and an open mind (and closed legs). I am bombarded by the Internet, on TV, at potlucks, by the brutal snap judgments people make about everyone else! I’m not proud to say that I fall prey to it. Just for an example: I hate Kendall Jenner. I don’t even know Kendall Jenner. I wouldn’t know Kendall Jenner if she knocked on my door and said,“Hi! I’m Kendall Jenner!” But I hate Kendall Jenner. Why? I guess because I’m supposed to?
    It’s easy to look down on all the haters on the Internet who harsh on (anonymously) the general population, but you don’t have to be a forty-seven-year-old recluse who lives over his parents’ garage and downloads porn all day to pass vicious judgment on a daily basis. Of course, trolls (and I’m talking the trash-talking kind, not the creepy ones who frequent chat rooms dedicated to dungeons) offer the most flagrant examples of ignorant vitriol; they don’t try to understand, accept, or even know the people they so swiftly condemn. And if I ever did bump into @DirtyPieHole on the street, I’m sure he would be very sweet and gracious, unlike his comments: “If Ali has cancer, then sorry, but she is one ugly bitch #WearMakeup.” I would forgive him only if he was actually missing a face.
    But let’s be honest: we all judge others, usually without making the slightest attempt to address the fact that our judgment is born of ignorance. And as a guy I dated from Brown who dropped a lot of acid once said, “You have to have understanding to have acceptance and then love.” He also totaled my Saab.
    N ow that I am in my forties, I aim to be more accepting. Unless you’re a man wearing knee-length denimshorts. Or have a goatee. Or use #grateful on your Twitter feed. Oh God, I’m doing it. Okay. Open heart.
    I was recently at a fiftieth (she says forty-seventh) birthday party in Malibu, California. A place famous for being incredibly judgy, but in a non-judgy way. “It’s all good” is the cornerstone of the vernacular on Point Dume, yet it is only “all good” if you’re Pilates fit, surf, have a Frank Gehry beach shack, and are sleeping with your yoga instructor. Malibu is also one of the few places in the world where you pay hundreds of dollars for worn and tattered sweatshirts. Fine, I bought two. But in my defense, I was on Ambien because of jet lag. I also have no recollection of purchasing six pairs of the exact same jeans on that drug. (My friend Amelia took an Ambien and bought five princess canopy beds from a Pottery Barn kids’ catalog. She doesn’t have children.)
    The birthday party was made up of a group of eight women, some of us who knew each other, others who were meeting for the first time. It’s was a real girls’ night with an ocean view and a delicious board of smelly French cheeses and bottles of Pouilly-Fuissé. We were all exuberant to be away from kids and husbands for a night of debauchery (which for women my age meant a night of delving into such topics as varicose veins, sex dreams about the contractor, and the latest pill everyone was taking for anxiety). All topped off with some form of dark chocolate.
    As a surprise, one of the