I had my first date in two decades the other week. Boy can I pick 'em. Or maybe they find me. If that's the case, I'd better get my little o'le man magnetizer readjusted.
It all started with a simple, friendly conversation between cross country seat-mates on Jet Blue. I didn't really want to talk. It was my first flight in eight years. I'd just tossed out about nine tenths of my possessions, lost my cat, said good-bye to the soon to be ex-husband. To say I was anxious about my future as an unemployed camper in my older brother's family living room would be putting it mildly. I just wanted to worry my way across the continental divide.
But I'm a tolerant person. And when the good-looking guy sitting in the window seat to my right struck up a conversation I did my best to participate. We discovered we had a few things in common. I'm an ex-lawyer; he's been in Court a lot defending himself in a divorce.
The red flag should have gone up when he mentioned his ex-wife and six kids but face it, I'm rusty. I kept smiling and interjected a joke or a comment here or there as we jetted across the country. I learned he was a contractor coming to LA for a three month job. This was his first trip to Southern California. He'd be staying in a friend's loft in downtown LA.
He had a couple of scotches. I stayed stalwartly sober thinking "twelve years in September. What wouldn't I give for a good stiff belt?"
We exchanges e-mail addresses as we clicked on our seat belts. He courteously assisted me with my hand luggage as we de-planed. We smiled in farewell as we walked through the gate and that, I thought, was that.
To my surprise he bounded over to me and my brother as we were struggling to drag my worldly possessions out of the airport. He said to my brother, Dan, "I just wanted to say good-bye to your beautiful sister."
My brother's jaw dropped. I blushed. Dan said "Oh here, I'll give you our number," and scribbled it hurriedly on the back of a bank envelope. I prayed the envelope didn't have any banking information in it, remembering the time the bus mate who hit on me on the way out to California stole my sister's guitar. I didn't really expect to hear from the seat mate.
He called three days later. We exchanged notes on our progress adjusting to life on the sweeter side of the country. He was working, working, working, but "hey," he said, "maybe we could get together Sunday and go to the beach."
"Uh, sure" I said, feeling faintly guilty. My forth finger still had a white streak where the ring used to be. I was also exhilarated. A date! I hadn't been on a date in, gosh, 20 years. Gulp.
Sunday rolled around. My friend called and we arranged to meet at the end of the Santa Monica Pier at 3:00. My sister-in-law and I figured out the subway and bus schedule. I packed a towel and a comb and a few other necessities and off I went for my big adventure feeling young and sexy and slightly naughty. Steppin' out. So what if he has an ex-wife and six kids.
We met as planned on the pier and strolled side by side down the beach. He spread out a blanket and we stripped to our swimsuits. We're the same age. He's in great shape. I weigh more than I've ever weighed and felt awkward to say the least. He didn't seem to notice.
We frolicked and played in the waves as the afternoon waned. After the swim he pulled out a bottle of red wine and yup, I did it. The first sip tasted, I imagined, as a deep suck of blood would have to a vampire who hadn't fed in a dozen years.
