Saturday, 5:20 p.m. In ten minutes I'd depart my apartment for
the lobby where I'd use my cell phone to call Lyft for a pickup. My
destination's address was memorized, ready to submit to the driver-- a Thai
restaurant on Lawrence Ave. --where I'd meet, in person, a 77-year-old male
from OurTime.com
Before
this, I had stood before my bedroom's full-length mirror and surveyed my image:
pricey black-and-white Eileen Fisher tank top and unconstructed grey jacket
over black Gap jeans, black Stuart Weitzman strap sandals. I gave my outfit two
thumbs up.
Along with
my fashionable getup, I had enhanced my image by upgrading face and hair
products. Instead of everyday Mac makeup, I used special occasion Sisley. Shampoo
and conditioner got elevated, too. Kevin Murphy swapped for Bumble and bumble. The
only part of my body that hadn't been creamed or painted was my nails. I hadn't
had time for a professional manicure, so I removed chipped polish and applied a
clear base coat. My bland nails would have to do.
Then, the
phone rang.
"Just
got in," said my date. "Can we postpone till seven?"
"No,"
I said, my voice level, but geared for a rise. "That's too late. I'm ready
now. I'm all dressed and about to call a ride for the restaurant."
"I
need to shower and change," he said, offering no reason or apology for the
delay.
"What's
the earliest you can make it?"
"6:30."
I'm thinking, should've listened to my gut. In our first
phone conversation, he had admitted he wasn't in contact with his adult kids;
that's usually a red flag. He also divulged he was bounced from his job. Flag
number two. Why had I even made a date with this loser?
"Listen,"
I said, already angry with myself for using my overpriced cosmetics for a date
that grew cloudier as the conversation continued. "You knew you had plans
for six; you even confirmed the day before. You should have made it your
business to be on time. This doesn't feel good. Let's forget about it."
"But,
I have to clean up," he said. "You wouldn't want me to skip
that." He was testy; as if I were the culprit.
"Goodbye,"
I said, stabbing the cell phone's red icon to end the call.
"Sorry,"
he got out before my line went dead.
All dressed
up and nowhere to go, so I started dialing to seek an alternate dinner plan.
"Oh, sorry," said my neighbor, Diane. "I'm going to Plum Market,
but you're welcome to come along."
My friend
Lisa responded, "Just got back in the house from gardening. Going to
change and settle in. Any other time, I'd be on my way."
"About
to get in the car for an event in the suburbs," said my ex-husband, who
has remained a good friend. Sorry this happened to you."
"It's
okay," I told each one. "I'm really happy to stay home. And, I'll
have material for my blog. No great loss."
Resigned to
my revised evening, and relieved I hadn't sprung for a manicure, I changed from
my snazzy garb into decades-old leggings and t-shirt. I poured my usual
thimble-full of chardonnay, placed a dinner tray on my lap and watched another
episode of "The West Wing" and then the pilot of the British series
of "House of Cards." Despite
my face still in full makeup and my hair coiffed, I felt as settled and relaxed
as a baby hippo in a puddle of soothing mud.
Putting the
deleted date behind me, the next day I returned to scroll the dating site's latest
matches. I had already met two other men, and although I didn't fall in love
with either one, or they with me, they were nice, dependable, and stable.
The first
two were Jewish (as was the dud), which sort of surprised me because I had
chosen this site -- rather than the exclusive JDate -- so I could meet men of
different races and religions. But somehow I decided that selecting a member of
my tribe moved the game along quicker, like a roll of the dice that allowed your
token to skip several stops and land in a prime spot on the board.
Of course,
every time I flipped past the Christians, I paused to muse. Tommy was gentile,
and we had a compatible, loving 16-year-relationship and marriage. Why was I
not willing to chance that again?
So now, I'll
shift strategy. My last experience with a clansman has sent me back to
ecumenism. This time, though, I'll heed my boundaries and only make plans with a
man close to his kids and gainfully employed or retired.
I might even
book a manicure.