It was the morning after Hal’s birthday and huddled at Caribou the refrain was familiar.
“Being single’s getting old.”
The remark evoked immediate laughter from Weiskopf. “I thought.” he noted, “That after the Columbus nonsense you were taking a break?”
“Time’s up.” I defended. “That was two months ago… and besides,” I continued, “I’ve been thinking…”
“That’s dangerous!” said Ed, ready to laugh.
“Gonna let them make the first move. If someone’s interested fine, if not—no harm, no foul. It’ll be easier, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” he said, “But we’ll have nothing to talk about.”
Game plan set late February, I not only rejoined JDate, (for another “last” time”), but gingerly spread word I’d be fixed up. The results, my buddy snickered weeks later, were the same.
The month’s start, to be sure, was awkward. There was the accountant that struck first, and met me for coffee. “Aren’t you enticed?” she’d asked me on line… and the truly attractive Russian émigré (also, oddly, an accountant). No magic with the former and ‘though the latter brought chemistry, the fact is that in an hour over dinner at Brio I didn’t understand a single thing she said.
And so it was that days after the bilingual dinner, while checking in for a manicure, old friend Betty pulled me aside.
“She wants to go out with you,” she told me, pointing to someone that once did my nails—someone absolutely stunning.
(It was a no-brainer, I figured. Not only did I ask her out that morning, but I couldn’t wait to share the news with wise ass Ed.
“I have only one prediction,” said my friend.
“OK?”
“You know how you get bored easily?”
“Yeah—your point?”
“I don’t know whether you’ll have a good time or not but either way I predict six weeks from now you’ll be getting your nails done somewhere else.”
The date was fun, actually. She was even better looking at night. That being noted, for reasons I can’t quite put my finger on, it was a case of CLOSE, BUT NO CIGAR. Unsolicited, she’d told me what a great time she’d had, that she couldn’t wait to “tell Betty…” and that I should call her. Days later, though, when I did phone, she said she’d call back.
She never did.
(Maybe she’d been drunk at dinner).
Ed said to call her—perhaps I’d heard wrong. “Maybe she’s waiting for your call.” I passed. (Rochelle told me long ago that if a woman wants to see you she knows well how to get the message across. I take Rolo at face value; she never lied to me). With no emotional investment, I folded the hand.
We were just past mid-month, and it was same old same old. 61, and for whatever reason, just not ready for prime time. Time to concentrate, (I sensed), on the kids, the grandkids, Seders coming up, the new office, the program, whatever. I was all in.
A few days passed.
“I want you to meet someone,” said my barber. “She’s about your age, comes here, and knows who you are. She said I should give you her number.”
“OK!” I jumped, rejuvenated.
We went to dinner last week—the new referral and me. Nice Jewish girl, age appropriate, educated. Didn’t seem to smile, but perhaps, (I thought in those first minutes), perhaps even normal.
“Do you know my ex-husband?” she asked two traffic lights into the evening.
“Of course,” I responded. (Both he and I have lived our whole lives here, I thought. How couldn’t we know each other. And who cares?)
“I just want you to know,” she continued, “I don’t date people that know him.”
“I just want YOU to know,” I didn’t say, but wanted to, “That now I really am all in.”