The Last Place She'd Look Read online

  “You know, I really should walk my dog right now,” he suddenly uttered matter-of-factly. He climbed over me and got out of bed. He walked to the corner of the room, where just moments before he’d shed his jeans and shirt. Ever the minute man, he was dressed again. “Relax. I’ll be right back,” he said, exiting like a talk show host encouraging you to watch the commercials.

  I lay in this almost-stranger’s bed—alone. Now he had to walk his dog? This guy’s a nut. Let’s hope he fucks like a 25-year-old—and doesn’t just think he does. He acts like he’s an award-winner for stud puppet theater. What if I’m not turned on? He won’t know or care. He’ll dive into me like I was just another lap pool.

  I turned on my side. The mattress and pillows were uncomfortable; the worn sheets were rough on my skin. I heard the sound of his dog scampering back into the house, the click as the leash was removed, a chain clattering on the wooden floors. Ack’s footsteps creaked up the uncarpeted stairs. Entering the room without looking at me, he said robotically, “I can’t do this … tonight. I have to get up early in the morning. I forgot I promised to help someone from work move. You’ll have to go.”

  Suddenly, cold sober, I said to myself, “What you really mean is, 'I lost my appetite to fuck you because your body wasn’t as trophy-worthy as mine.'” But instead, what came out was, “You don’t even want me to sleep here? To cuddle?” I couldn’t believe what I’d said. Was I testing the waters for future encounters? With this schmuck? Was I that desperate?

  He turned, gathered my clothes in a ball, and dropped them on the bed, then, spinning on his heel, he left the room, speeding into the bathroom, and closed the door. When I was his daughter’s age, I modeled in local fashion shows. Now, I just lay there, my self-esteem as crumpled as my clothes.

  The air was icy with dysfunctional disappointment as I dressed. Just as I put my shoes on, I heard the toilet flush. I wondered if he’d jerked off.

  He walked me to my car with all the courtesy of a recruiter ending the interview where you both know you didn’t get the job. His lips grazed my forehead with a parental, dismissive kiss.

  My car door closed. I drove away. By the first traffic light, my heart was racing, blood boiling. Was I rejected the moment he saw me naked? Was he too repulsed by my body to even have a one-night stand? Ack was humping on the couch like his life depended on getting laid. Then he deemed me unworthy to worship at the Ack-altar of testosterone.

  This was more of a violation than an attempted rape. He chewed and spit out his desire for me like a stale piece of bubble gum now relegated to a life on pavement until it snuck onto someone’s shoe. He didn’t think my body was worthy of his, Spartacus warrior asshole. Judgmental, cruel bastard.

  Chapter 2

  Will Having a Relationship Make Me OK? OR Will Being OK Get Me a Relationship?

  How repulsed does a man have to be to throw a naked woman out of his bed without fucking her? The next morning, feeling every sense of self-worth slipping away, I replayed that thought in my mind a dozen times. I didn’t want to believe Ack could be so cruel or that I could feel so rejected.

  I’d sliced and diced my self-esteem by subjecting myself to too many blind dates, about a third of which turned into second dates, and few of which ever led to third dates, much less lasting relationships. None led to sex. This bewildered me. I approached each date with peppy optimism, freshly washed hair, glossed lips, and as much hope as I could muster. Yet I kept getting things wrong over and over…over 340 times, to be exact. I bit my nails and stewed with regret, disappointment, and defeat —wondering why I hadn’t found anybody.

  Why did I put myself into such unsatisfying situations? I should know better. I hoped for the best, anticipated the worst, wore sexy panties, and prayed that each date I was with THE right person.

  These feelings were compounded by the fact that my 50th birthday was looming, lurking with foreboding like the soundtrack from the film Jaws. Was I the shark trying to envelop my prey? Or was I the one-piece bathing-suited swimmer praying that some Speedo-clad Adonis would find, flirt, and invite me to his beach house? In reality I saw myself as a single, middle-life, peri-menopausal woman. (I said “middle-life” because if I called myself middle-aged, it felt so much older, closer to elderly. At 50, how many people did I know who were 100? Who were their partners, and how old were they?) Pushing 50, eager for a date, searching for a mate is difficult—and depressing—a lot like shopping for a gift on Christmas Eve; everything I saw was either picked over or highly irregular. That’s how I felt about the supply of men who would even look at me.

  Once upon a time, I was married. It was in the Jurassic era, or so it seemed. Bringing up my married years was as relevant to any conversation as my SAT scores. It wasn’t a good marriage or a long marriage—yet it was a life-defining moment. So I still dragged it around like a heavy suitcase with a broken handle. Divorced before 30, I’d spent most of my life since then feeling overlooked and alone, in spite of the winning qualities my friends told me I had.

  Sure, I’d had a six-month relationship probably every three to five years over the past two decades. No, make that one blip of a person every five to seven years. But for the most part, I was alone.

  Sometimes I’d regale friends with my dating mishaps, mainly if my experiences were so absurd that I didn’t feel chipped at or eaten away. For example, many people have told me about first dates where the person they’d met was really someone 20 years older or 100 pounds heavier than their photo. One date I had was both. His reason for meeting me was that he was hoping that dating a writer would be easier and cheaper than taking a writing class. If he found me attractive, as he said, “Maybe I’ll give you a crack at writing my memoir. I was a tennis pro (Yeah, I thought, about 18 years and 85 pounds ago).Ya know, I’ve dated women prettier and sexier than you. But with you I might actually learn something. So I’d give you a tumble. Whaddya say?”

  There was another guy who spoke with me on the phone, three separate occasions for two hours each time, captivated by my witty patter. He told me he couldn’t wait to meet me. I was eager about this one, too. I thought we had rapport. I met him outside a restaurant on a Tuesday night. He took one look at me, then horrified, looked down and away, as if the sight of me was so repulsive, he was checking to see if he’d puked on his own shoes. What did he think a mid-life woman looked like? Surely he’d seen my photos. No first date ever made me feel more rejected or uglier in an instant. Is it any wonder I can’t remember his name?

  My sado-masochism continued when we entered the dimly lit restaurant. He told the maître d' we’d sit at the bar, not staying for dinner, just drinks and appetizers. He was still with me, doing me a favor, but didn’t think I rated a table. He balked at a nine dollar bowl of soup, ordered it anyway, and proceeded to slurp it like my grandpa when he didn’t have his dentures in. During the slurping my date never looked at me.

  Finally, as he spooned the last slurp, my self-esteem surfaced, explaining, “I just developed this really bad headache. Maybe we should try this another time.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he said. Quickly eyeing our waiter, he requested the check and asked me to pay for my wine. I saw it as a small price to pay to end the agony.

  Finally, back in my car, I felt comforted by the familiar clicking sound of my seat belt and the car engine revving. The next thing I heard were my own sobs as I cried, tears blurring my view as I drove all the way home to my momentarily tidy (but empty of another breathing soul) apartment.

  I could make these dates sound funny, but the bigger question was, why did I subject myself to these humiliating encounters? Could I have behaved any differently and created another, more positive outcome? Was my stink of desperation perfume that repellent? Did I want too much? Did I not give enough of myself?

  Sick of being the token single at coupled dinner parties, or the sympathy guest at Thanksgiving dinner, I dreaded every heartbreaking holiday season, thinking, “Who will invite me to spend the holidays
with them? How will I hide my empty-hearted sadness when I get there?” I’d probably die of a broken heart, or be ignored and wither away like an abandoned house plant. I felt as lost as a cow without a cowbell...only cows had thinner thighs. Cows knew how to graze in the grass on a sunny day and appreciate the moment. I could take lessons…move to a farm. Maybe a fat farm.

  I lost 50 pounds the last year of college, anxious about finding a job in the working world. My reward was a trip to the hairdresser who transformed my limp, mousy brown locks into flattering tresses with highlights and lowlights in dark blonde tones. That's been my color ever since — high-maintenance and high-priced. I charged it when I was broke. I'm probably still paying off hair appointments from three years ago on my never-decreasing credit card balance.

  Did any of this make me feel pretty? In the dating world a new hairdo always made me feel courageous and spunky, ready to welcome a warm smile offering kind words. Yet sometimes I wondered if I was just repainting an old barn, filled with dusty, anguished junk, eager to disguise it as glowing vintage artifacts. For the most part, whenever I took my lonely self on over 300 dates with the goal of not being alone in the future, I found myself sitting face-to-face with another breathing being, yet I was soul-less. So how could I have appeared attractive to them if I was invisible to myself? Over the years, as I grew confident, receptive, and welcoming, I thought the outcome of first dates that never led anywhere would change. As I became less invisible to myself, I believed my outcome would evolve; I'd at least have a two-week euphoric roller coaster of a romance that would be cast aside like Christmas morning's favorite toy. That would be an improvement over date after date ending with a forced smile, rigid hand shake, and the robotic mouthing of, “Nice to meet you.”

  Then I hit my 40s. Ouch. I'd become strong, self-affirming, and grounded. Finally present for my meet and greets, the tables had turned. The youth boat had sailed, leaving me imperceptible to the opposite sex. As much as I tried to have hope in my heart, I felt increasingly invisible as a desirable woman in the company of available, age-appropriate men. (Age-appropriate men—now that's an oxymoron. A middle-aged man who has never been married is a man-child. Living in Los Angeles, man-children are as plentiful as fake boobs.) They were self-absorbed, bitter about their pasts, eager for a companion who wouldn't make them “think too much.” Most men seemed to want someone young enough to give them children (whether they wanted kids or not). Gazing at men's lined, saggy faces, receding hairlines, and expanding bellies, I thought the male population hovering around my age seemed dull and lifeless.

  What did men see when they looked at me? Many times when our eyes met for the first time, I sensed they were saying, “Light me up, right now. Show me the magic of your hot, sexy love.” Who can live up to that one-minute do-or-die first impression? Comedian Bill Maher said, “There comes a time when women should just forget about men. It's called menopause.” Was this happening to me? Having spent most of my life as a celibate heterosexual, this was a tough concept to embrace. Then I thought, “Was I an unsuccessful heterosexual?” I'd been climbing the penis tree for so long, and the results were seldom worth the hike. If I was as wonderful, funny, and interesting as most friends said I was, then why was finding a relationship so difficult?

  I called Julia, my personal goddess of self-esteem. She said, “Hello” before I heard her drop the phone, pick it up, drop it again, and finally slur, “Hello, who is this?”

  “Are you hung over?” I whispered.

  “Sara? What if I am?” I heard Julia strike a match, no doubt her first cigarette of the day.

  “I am, too,” I nervously laughed.

  “Good for you.” I heard her puffing, waking up. “Get any?”

  “I could say 'close but no cigar', but the guy took one look at my body and threw me out of his house,” I told Julia as I poured a sobering cup of coffee.

  “If he couldn't see your beauty, then you're better off. He's a jerk, so on to the next.” She puffed again and asked, “This ignoramus was a homeowner?”

  “No, he lives in a rented dump … too broke for a decent bottle of wine.”

  “Don't spend another minute thinking about him. Get yourself to a yoga class, have a hot bath, and move on.”

  “Julia, want to go to yoga with me?”

  “I'd love to, dear, but only if we can hit a noon class. Later today I have a guy coming over that I found on Craigslist. I've also seen him on Adult Friend Finders. Anyway, he'll be here to scrub my kitchen floors on his hands and knees while I spank him. Then he'll vacuum nude and service my sexual needs.”

  “Sounds like a full afternoon,” I replied enviously.

  “It's better than hiring a housekeeper—and there's a bonus! By sunset tonight, everything in my house will sparkle, including me,” said Julia. “Check back in a few days. We'll go out. Remember what Eleanor Roosevelt said, 'No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.' Can you imagine her body? And you know, she had a girlfriend! Just food for thought, Sara ...”

  I hung up, grabbed my keys, and went to my mailbox. Maybe something there would take my mind off the previous night.

  It finally happened. Yes, it's official, folks. The rite of passage had arrived. I just received the rudest piece of mail ever delivered to me:

  Welcome to AARP. Our records show that you haven't yet registered for the benefits of AARP membership, even though you are fully eligible. As a member, you'll have the resources and information you need to get the most out of life over 50.

  How did they find me? I've lied about my age for so long. They must have been tipped off by Social Security, another agency responsive to the needs of seniors. Was I in that club now? Once I joined the American Association of Retired Persons, it would be like putting one foot in the grave. Should I expect letters from the Neptune Society and Forest Lawn? Time's a wastin'…

  Chapter 3

  Yoga Geezer

  Julia took some time away from her Craigslist dates to go to yoga with me. At 52, she was blonde with sapphire blue eyes, fearlessly bisexual, and so comfortable being a sturdy, curvy 250 pounds, she often modeled in the Big Beautiful Woman catalogs.

  We carried our mats up two flights of stairs to the sparse, hardwood-floored room. Rolling our mats out flat, not too close to the window, we placed our water bottles side by side. We each sat cross-legged, eyeing every young, beautiful woman who walked into the room, smiling at one another when we saw someone whose youthful beauty made us both feel ancient.

  The teacher entered and the class began. Deep breathing, bending, flexing, and sweating, my mind concentrated on the movement of each limb in response to the commands of the teacher. Yoga is not about impressing anyone, gymnastic ability, or putting your foot behind your head. You are not required to be a woman, a Hollywood star, or a chanting vegetarian (though, if you live in L.A., you might find yourself wanting to be any of those for no apparent reason).

  Today I focused within myself and didn't look at the gorgeous girls and former ballerinas half my age who could headstand with the ease of exhaling or touch their nose to their crotch effortlessly. I wiped the sweat from my brow, the back of my neck, and then glided into another asana. After an hour of pretzeled poses, it was time for “pigeon,” which focuses on opening the hip flexors. This same part of the body is where holistic practitioners like Louise Hay believe we hold onto our deep-seated emotions and grudges.

  It took me a while to position myself for pigeon, also known as humble warrior, as I aligned my body for optimum humble hip opening. I was agitated, clumsy, fumbling to get my feet and knees where they should be.

  Finally, my pigeon was calm and aligned, or so I thought. The teacher approached and corrected my pose, gently pressing and pushing my sweaty limbs to stretch deeper, releasing into the asana.

  The second after her adjustment, my mind clicked, as if a switch turned on a movie in my mind. It was a flashback to my married life, two decades ago. I saw myself younger, naked, straddling m
y then-husband Rupert in our bed. My head lifted up to the ceiling, and I screamed, like a mating call, releasing enough anger to shatter the ceiling as if it were a thin pane of glass.

  Meanwhile, back on my yoga mat, I'm aware of a low groan — the same scream, only muffled, emitting from my mouth, echoing into my stomach. As I'm groaning, I feel my body release, as if years of angst were peeling away, melting, dissolving. I felt lighter and happier as I wiped a tear and switched to position the same pose on the other side of my body.

  A half hour later, class ended. Julia and I smiled at one another, rolled up our mats, and walked to the back of the room to collect our shoes.

  “You're quite the intense yogini,” said Will, the only man in the class.

  “Me?” I said, surprised to be noticed, let alone singled out.

  “Yes, I heard you having a breakthrough on your mat,” he nodded. “Most remarkable. I'm Will, by the way. I think I've seen you here before. But I'm usually surfing at this hour.” Will was tall and lean, kind of a bean pole with a silvery mane of thick grey hair. His face was kind and lined, somewhere between 60 and 65, maybe older, but his body looked youthful, and his eyes were ageless.

  “You surf?” I was surprised.

  “Yes, I live a block from the beach. It's great to start the day with my board.”

  “I'm Sara. This is my friend Julia.”

  “Hello, ladies.” Will fumbled with his mat to try and shake my hand. “Well, you two look like you're off somewhere together. I don't want to keep you…I was going to ask if you wanted to get some coffee.”

  Julia glanced at me, raised her eyebrows, cocked her head, and said, “We weren't going anywhere together. I'm going home to do my taxes. Why don't you two go for coffee?” She practically pushed me into him.