Baby Boomer Bachelorette

NONFICTION

NOVEL

CURRICULUM VITAE

Q&A

LINKS

E-MAIL

Introduction

I hadn't been exactly dateless for the past ten years, but they'd been as scarce as chips on the porcelain in Martha Stewart's cupboards.

Did being closer to fifty than forty have anything to do with it? I didn't like to think so, but the truth is somewhere out there. I thought I looked pretty good for my age. But when you have to start adding the phrase "for my age," you know the men aren't queuing up at your front door like the paparazzi after Ben and J. Lo.

I've never liked to use the word "desperate" in relation to my ability to attract men. In fact, I've never had to use it. And even though it might be appropo in this moment of my life, I refuse to use it now.

So, for the record, it wasn't desperation that led me to place a personal ad in the local paper. Curiosity, yes, that was the right word.

It didn't take long for me to begin a correspondence with three eligible bachelors.

Bachelor Number One sent a photograph of himself giving the thumbs-up sign to the picture-taker from the cockpit of a Cessna Citation. I love a man with a hobby, so I shot back a response telling Number One I really liked his airplane. His reply stated he no longer had it. Disappointed, I said I was sorry. Did he no longer enjoy flying? He said the Citation had been repossessed along with his Lexis, Yukon, and Harley. Not to worry, though, he still had transportation. He could meet me anywhere I wanted on his Schwinn. I declined the invitation and told him I had gotten back with my old boyfriend.

Bachelor Number Two informed me he was an animal lover. That made me ecstatic. I immediately wrote him back and told him that I, too, loved animals. In fact, I had three mutts rescued from death row at the pound, and they, along with two cats, all slept with me at night. I never heard from Bachelor Number Two again.

Bachelor Number Three appeared to be a good match. He sent a black and white photograph taken at the health club in his apartment building that showed him pumping the chest press machine. I spent a small part of my week at the YMCA, so we at least had that in common.

We arranged to meet at the coffee shop at the Barnes & Noble in Arlington. I arrived a little early and hid among the book shelves. I planned to spot Number Three when he first walked in, just to be prepared. His description said he had dark hair, blue eyes and was of average height.

There he was. Since when does five-feet-five inches qualify as "average" height for a man? No place to run, he had spotted me.

"Hi." He smiled. He wasn't missing any teeth.

I smiled back. I wasn't missing any teeth either.

Give the guy a break. Everyone can't be Brendan Fraser. I stood next to Number Three as we ordered our coffee. The top of his head was level with my eyes. I felt sure I could take him, all that working out notwithstanding.

Make the best of it. He's not that bad. It could have been much worse. He's college-educated, has a good job, and his height might not be a problem for another woman. Give him a chance.

"You don't like to drink caffeinated coffee?" He removed the lid from his Cappuccino Frappe Grande and took a sip.

I stared at his hands. Small, white and smooth, they belonged to a porcelain doll. That's why I quit dating lawyers (one of the reasons, anyway). I don't like a man's hands to be softer than mine.

"Caffeine keeps me awake at night." I stirred two packets of artificial sweetener into my White Chocolate Mocha Vente decaf.

"I like to drink caffeine and take ephedra at the same time. Gives me tremendous energy."

"Not to mention severe heart palpitations."

He laughed and looked into my eyes. Uh oh. I suspected he might be falling in love.

Number Three told me about his three ex-wives, and I smiled and nodded sympathetically at each sad tale. I only had one ex-husband to compare with Number Three, but I felt like good old Norman could hold his own with any ten ex-wives. A boozing, womanizing out-of-work fence builder held up well against ex-wives who merely grew bored and left.

Grew bored and left. Those words bounced around in my brain while Number Three droned on. Then a man sat down at the next table. Dark brown hair hung over his shoulder in a limp ponytail. His mustache hadn't been trimmed since the Reagan Administration, and worn, torn jeans with a tie-dyed T-shirt looked like props from "That 70's Show." He tossed his head and used a hand with bitten fingernails to push his ponytail back. Number Three and I stared. The Twenty-First Century hippy was the most interesting thing going on in the room.

The hippy looked right at me. He gazed with curiosity at first, then the light of recognition flashed in his eyes. He leaped from the table, marched over, pushed a thin hand toward me. I took it without thinking. We shook hands with gusto.

"Long time, no see," the hippy said. He studied my face, his brown eyes aglow.

I couldn't say anything and was afraid to look at Number Three.

"Have you been over there lately?" The hippy still looked at me intently.

"Over there?" I said.

"The group? Have you been to the group lately?

I studied the hippy and thought I recognized something under the hair and mustache. "What's your name?

"I'm Colin."

"Colin!" I leaped from the table, ran around and hugged him. "I'm so happy to see you." I still didn't look at Number Three. The silence coming from his side of the table was deafening. I sat back down.

"Maybe you didn't recognize me because of the hair," Colin said.

"The last time I saw you, you didn't have any." I gave a nervous laugh. I didn't turn my head, but looked at Number Three out of the corner of my eye. He stared transfixed at Colin.

Colin looked benignly at Number Three. "I had a brain tumor. Taking radiation, so all my hair fell out." Colin smiled pleasantly. Number Three said nothing.

"Are you okay now?" I asked, "It's been awhile.

"I'm fine." Colin must have felt uncomfortable leaving Number Three out of the conversation. "We knew each other from a group we both attended," Collin said to Number Three.

"What group?" Number Three spoke at last.

Colin looked as if he wanted me to tell him it was okay to continue. I kept my face neutral. He hesitated, then plunged ahead. "A support group for people who've been abducted by aliens."

I spat White Chocolate Mocha onto the table. After I stopped sputtering, I said, "Well, it's good to see you again, Colin. Glad you beat it."

Colin reached out, took my hand and shook it. Then he reached for Number Three. I thought Number Three might pull away, but he allowed Colin to shake his hand too. Colin walked away into the book store. I wondered what books he intended to buy.

One of those proverbial pregnant silences followed his departure. I stirred my coffee and waited for Number Three to ask. Surely anyone would want to know what that had all been about. If I had been in Number Three's position, I would have asked immediately who that guy was and what was he talking about. Of course, I'm the type who thinks if I want to know it, it's my business.

Apparently, other people in the world were too polite to ask personal questions. Number Three glanced quickly at me, but was unable to sustain lengthy eye contact. "Would you like another coffee," he finally asked.

I was dying to explain the exchange between me and Colin, but I refused to volunteer the information. Number Three was going to have to ask. He never did. The evening continued as if Colin had never happened. Number Three even invited me to a jazz club later. I said I had a breakfast appointment, so couldn't stay out that late. Number Three walked me to my car, and we parted amicably. I never heard from him again, and I canceled my personal ad.

All Number Three would have had to do was ask. I would have been happy to tell him Colin and I were members of the same group of Alcoholics Anonymous, and the reason Colin made up that story about being abducted by aliens was to avoid breaking AA's anonymity code.

It didn't bother me, however, that there was someone in the world who thought I had been abducted by aliens. Sometimes, I thought so too.

***

When it comes to over-forty dating, if you feel like you've been abducted by aliens, taken to another planet, and dropped into a reality for which you were totally unprepared, then stay tuned for the following production of Baby Boomer Bachelorette and learn a better way.