It was my fourth date this week. As I dressed for the evening, wearing my standard first date attire which included tight black pants, black boots, and a sexy but not so sexy top, I said a quick prayer that tonight would be the reward for the three shitty dates that came before it. I’m seriously beginning to worry that I’m losing my touch. But, alas (breathe heavy sigh, reeeally heavy if you catch my drift), within seconds of meeting him and seeing that he looked like a bad version of his Tinder profile picture, the disappointment set came crashing in.
I ordered a drink, a ginger ale, because I didn’t want to even risk that alcohol could somehow cloud my judgment here, although I’m pretty certain one drink wouldn’t have been enough to do the trick. So instead, I lamented to myself how I would’ve rather been at home watching a movie in my PJs on the couch. Screw Saturday night. I’m OVER it. Waaay over. It was official. I had finally reached saturation, the point where I would’ve rather been home than out.
The conversation was bo-ring. I already felt the headache coming on. No, not really, but I was secretly wishing for one, giving me the legitimate excuse I needed to leave. So when he asked me if I would like to join him for dinner I politely declined, informing him that I already ate. (See, guys, not all women are gold diggers!)
The minutes dragged on, each one feeling longer than the one before it. Honestly, I never intended to be that girl. Never wanted to be that girl. You know, a bitch. Yet my mind continued to wander to strategies about how best to make my escape.
Recently a friend described a necklace currently on the market that can be programmed to call a specific cell phone number with the quick push of an inconspicuous button. One press and in comes the call from your “friend” telling of the emergency to which you must immediately attend. Unfortunately for me, as I pressed down hard on the diamond pendant around my neck, nothing happened.
“Damn,” I cursed under my breath, “I should’ve bought the fucking thing when I had the chance.”
But, like a gift from God, like manna from heaven, an incoming tweet vibrated my phone like the orgasm I knew I wouldn’t be having any time soon. I read it as if it was an urgent message from the Oval Office itself and furrowed my brow.
“This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all,” I pretended.
Minutes later, I offered my excuses (headache PLUS exhaustion) and left quickly. He seemed disappointed. Perhaps hurt. Sure, I would’ve felt really crappy, too, if someone did that to me. Fortunately, it hasn’t happened – yet – but I can only imagine when it does. After all, every dog bitch has her day. Not to mention that I’m sure this story will go down in the annals and one day be rattled off to a future date of his, the tale about how some twat got up and left him at the bar after only 20 minutes. I’ve heard tales of woe like this before, so I know I’m not alone.
“She was nuts,” I could already hear my date explain.
Once in the car, I immediately called my friend who, only 30 minutes earlier, had wished me good luck on my date. Good karma, my ass. If there is such a thing, I sure wasn’t feeling it. She and another mutual friend were about to leave for the evening. Girls night out or group therapy, as I like to say. Just what the doctor ordered. I was in.
Minutes later I was sitting in the back of my friend’s car, on my way to some new trendy restaurant and bar. We were quite a crew. Sexless in the suburbs, one of us dealing with a recent breakup, another cursing the fiancée of her ex-boyfriend/love of her life, and me, runaway date.
Upon arrival, the night looked promising. Gourmet food, upscale bar, possibly (hopefully) some cute guys. And then we found one – for the three of us. Aren’t those usually the odds for us middle-agers?
What this guy must have been thinking! Damn, I blame the alcohol. We had to have sounded like the Witches of Eastwick as we vied for his attention.
“I just bought a house!”
“I went to law school!”
“You really like my boobs?”
“I have perky boobs, too!”
“My ass is cute, isn’t it? ISNT’T ITTT?”
“I am general counsel of the wooooorld!”
Who was going to get him, this cute 48 year-old smart, successful single dad? He was a little short for me, and not Jewish, but I was willing to make an exception. A compromise. See? I ditched the list. Truly, I did. I’ve even started dating men without an MBA.
And I was prepared. Oh yes I was. I’ve kept up with the landscaping, even during this off-season of not having a steady man in my life. I just keep repeating to myself, over and over again, “If I wax it, I will come. If I wax it, I will come.”
As we sipped our drinks, reveling in our good fortune, he stepped away for a moment. And, then, like hens…
“Who do you think he liiiiikes?” we whispered in hushed tones, the vodka already taking hold of our reason. Anyone eavesdropping would have easily thought we had alcohol poisoning. Each of us pointed to the other, so as not to insult.
“He likes yooouuu!”
“No, he likes yooouuu!”
While what we were really thinking was, “It’s me, me, MEEE!”
He returned to the table moments later, and that’s when it happened. Like clockwork. He dropped the bomb, reciting the worst words that ANY woman can hear after she has invested valuable time speaking with a cute guy.
“I have a girlfriend. And we’re serious.”
“Fuck,” was my only thought. Actually, that he was the anti-fuck was my thought.
Then, without missing a beat, I reached over, pulled my phone from my bag, and began checking emails. Next, I went to pee. Game over. We all lost. Another night down the toilet.
Or was it?
When I came back, well, that’s when all the fun started. That’s when we let our hair down. Way down.
“Wow,” he commented as the profanity began to fly. “What happened here?”
“What happened?” I asked. Men are sooo oblivious sometimes. (insert eye roll)
“You’re no longer a prospect, that’s what happened,” I instructed, wise beyond my two-and-a-half years on the dating scene.
And so we laughed. One of us even cried (No, not me. Not this time, at least.). We talked about relationships. Sex. Size. Positions. Orgasms. He claimed his girlfriend had eight with him just the other night. Eiiiiiiight!
“I’ll have what she’s having!” (When Harry Met Sally)
Then the check came. And this dude paid. PAID! For all of us! Guys, listen up! This. Is. How. It’s. Done. We offered, really we did. But he wouldn’t take it.
He took the three of us up to his apartment.
Oh. Yes. He. Did.
Stud muffin. How cool for him. He got to walk out of a bar with three middle-aged beyotches on his arm. Oh yeah!
Played with his dogs. Pondered his art. And critiqued how he decorated his swanky apartment. Cutie pie would’ve done any gay man proud.
Then we left. Together. My friends and I.
After the girls and I parted ways for the night, I was left alone with my thoughts. I had had high hopes for the evening. Every new date offers a chance at happiness sharing my life with someone else. But, as I came home to my house, my empty bedroom, and got into my king size bed, alone, I felt good. Beautiful. Desired, even though no man desired me that night.
And I slept like a baby, comforted that my friends would be there for me in the morning.