The Last Place She'd Look Read online

  The next thing I knew, I was sitting at an outdoor café on a tree-lined street sipping a latte and hearing Will's life story. Was this moment like my first meeting with Ack, the only difference being the breed of dogs resting obediently at the foot of the next table? No, Will was a kinder, gentler human being. He was a doctor of infectious diseases, including AIDS, newly divorced with one daughter in college and the other living on her own, aged 30 — same age as some of my friends.

  “I write self-help and some health-related articles, mainly about alternative healing and Eastern medicine. I've edited a book on AIDS,” I offered, to show I was knowledgeable about the subject.

  “I'm not that familiar with Eastern medicine. The trials are inconsistent.”

  “It helps people. Many treatments and modalities have helped bring AIDS patients into remission.” I sipped my coffee, thinking I'd antagonized yet another first date, so I turned away from him, noticing the people with dogs strolling past our table.

  “There's something very intriguing about you. I'd like to get to know you better.” Will reached across the table to touch my hand. He was clearly handsome, a cross between Leonard Bernstein and Henry Fonda. But he had an old man's hand. It made me feel old, wondering if, as he touched me, I'd dry up, crack, and wither away.

  Meanwhile, women of all ages, at other tables and passing by, looked at him admiringly. But I was still not sold on the idea of being with someone so much older. My first task was to surmise how much older he was. “Undergraduate school? How did you decide to become a doctor?” I was wearing my reporter/detective hat now.

  “Undergraduate, Berkeley, where the best lefties are born and educated.” He smiled, raising his cup to me. “I was always politically active. I wanted to march on Washington with Martin, but my parents said I was too young.”

  My mind raced to place “Martin,” as in Luther King. Will wanted to march on Washington at a time when I was barely in elementary school and not allowed to cross the street myself! If I were better in history and math, I'd know his age. But I didn't want to ask because then I'd have to “give up” my real age, a secret that rivaled the mysteries of the pyramids.

  I'm good at getting dates to talk about themselves. Will waxed poetic about the '60s, meeting his wife at a Black Panthers meeting (something all the really dedicated liberals did, along with a stint in the Peace Corps). He revealed himself to be a caring soul, passionate about his beliefs, living life true to himself, a goal most people just dreamed about. No, his wife was not a woman of color—she was a blonde, blue-eyed heiress and sometimes model—the trifecta of perfection.

  His eloquent words about a long, interesting life were spoken through thin lips, with signs of age at the corners. His lined face was world-traveled. Every experience left its mark, and I saw them all facing me as we both sipped our coffee. He was the personification of what most women would call “a good catch” or “a keeper.” Still raw from the “Ack rejection”, all I could see was a remarkable man, and fearing he'd find me unremarkable, I focused on his thin lips, old man hands, and my imagined newly divorced male need for sexual reawakening after a 32-year marriage (to a slim-thighed, golden goddess, or so I believed). Many of my friends have experienced the melodrama of being the first woman a man sleeps with after his long marriage ends. During that penis resurrection rite of passage, the woman is just a vessel for his need to act out and release the emotional angst of his divorce process. Rebound girl or teacher were not roles I wanted to play. I didn't want to be the woman whose job is to finalize a man's divorce and officiate his born-again, newly single stud life.

  Since the sting of Ack the hack, I was leery of men eager to savor the juice of a sexy, younger woman. I was flattered by Will's attentiveness, yet felt neither sexy nor juicy. I am a prune on a date, in the disguise of a woman. I decided that this time it was me not jumping in with both feet, knowing full well I might be missing a great opportunity.

  I smiled politely. “I should be going soon,” I said tentatively, trying to think of the activity I should be going to so I could fashion a proper excuse.

  “Me, too.” He stood. “I'd like to see you again…maybe dinner?” Reaching into his pocket, Will pulled out two business cards. He asked for and wrote down my number on the one card, then gave me the other. “I'll be in touch.” He reached for my hand and kissed it. We walked in opposite directions.

  Will was classy, proper, handsome, well mannered, and well off. Why did he seem too old and wrong for me? In this case, I was the one who was shallow and rejecting, the very thing I'd accused Ack of being mere hours ago. I never wanted to think about the fact that I was old enough to have grown kids, or even be a grandmother. Will spent 32 years in a committed relationship, proof he knew how to do it. If I was really ready for a serious relationship, I'd focus on his years of service. Or would I?

  Because I live in the veneer-soaked La La Land that is Los Angeles, I'd never dated a man whose kids were old enough to give him grandchildren. I'd always dated chubby Peter Pans and man-children, seldom a man with children and never one who saved lives. Plus, I realized Will was around Paul McCartney's age, close to retirement, collecting Social Security, and ready for a chapter in life far from where I was. I felt like I was out with someone's granddad, an attractive man who, even though I liked his company, I couldn't become attracted to, nor cuddle up to or be skin-to-skin with. Would I have felt that way with the real Paul McCartney?

  I went home to rewrite my article, Sex with your Ex, 10 Reasons to Say No because my editor thought some of the true-life examples I'd collected from friends weren't believable enough. I needed to make up stuff to deliver and sell the piece. But since it was always difficult for me to rewrite, I began my work session the way I usually did, by focusing on everything else but writing. As soon as I got home, I watered the plants, did a load of laundry, paid some bills, fluffed and rearranged the pillows on the couch, and then called Julia.

  “'I'm doing my taxes?!'” I blurted the second she said hello. “It's July. Why didn't you say you were shopping for a Christmas tree?”

  “Well, how was coffee? If no one pushes you or hits you over the head, nothing happens,” Julia fired back.

  “He's okay.” I said with indifference.

  “He's handsome. Lots of charisma…like a maestro.”

  “Does he seem old to you?” I inquired.

  “He's got vitality…vigor…that's good.”

  “He's a doctor.”

  “I knew he had vigor…and he can prescribe Viagra.”

  “He said he wants to see me again. I'd be fine if he didn't call. I'm not interested."

  Julia said, “I think he holds great promise. I have a good feeling about this one.”

  “I know he seemed interested in me, but it felt creepy being touched by somebody older than Paul McCartney. I know you think he should be my 50th birthday gift to myself.”

  “Nothing's better than birthday sex!” she shot back.

  “I don't like to screw on the first date.”

  “Sometimes that's not the best approach…but I am your sluttiest friend. Another suggestion, sign up for Facebook! That way everyone you've ever met in your entire life can find you, face you, and wish you a happy birthday.”

  “You mean that social website students and rock bands use?”

  “I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. I bet you have old beaus, admirers, and others from your past eager to reconnect with you.”

  “More like lurking in the shadows.”

  “Lighten up. Try Facebook. If nothing else, you'll get birthday greetings from all over the country. Try it. Check out my page, then make one for yourself. I guarantee surprises. Do it today!”

  I said goodbye to Julia just as another call was coming in — one of my other close friends, Lila.

  “How is the almost birthday girl?” Lila asked cheerfully.

  “I'm recuperating from last night's bad date, but somebody new picked me up at yoga today.”

&
nbsp; “In one door and out the other,” she said. “I hope your dance card is free beginning in the morning, on your special day. “

  “My birthday morning?”

  “Yes, doll, I want to kidnap you and show you a good time.”

  “Sounds great,” I said smiling.

  “I'll pick you up at 8:30. And bring a bathing suit.”

  “Would I really have a good time in a bathing suit? My thighs have been declared a national disaster.”

  “I'm older, with more cellulite. Trust me. Be ready….I'll call when I'm five minutes away.”

  I hung up with Lila, turned on my computer, and went to Facebook.com. I'd thought about doing this for a while, but what better time than now? I could use a little diversion. I set up a profile and looked for Julia. Then I looked through her friends. Some of mine were there too. I contacted them. Then I searched for my best friend from high school and my high school boyfriend. Found both of them. Sent friend requests. They friended me immediately. I scrolled through their friends and saw people I knew so I contacted them. Fingers click-clacking on the keyboard, they sounded like the microwave popcorn I nuked, burned, and inhaled as dinner. My neck and shoulders ached from being hunched over in a secondhand desk chair. But by the time I went to sleep that night I had 35 friends!

  Chapter 4

  Face the Music

  First thing in the morning Julia called me, blurting, the second I picked up the phone. “You must come to my house for pre-birthday cocktails, tonight at seven.”

  “That's very nice, but I….”

  “You can't say no. No excuses. You have to be here,” she insisted.

  “Well, if I have no choice, what am I wearing?”

  “Something comfortable. I know you have those “eating pants” with the drawstring waist. Those and a cute top. See you at seven. Don't be late.”

  In anticipation of Julia-style fun and surprises, that afternoon I napped, showered, and set my hair on electric rollers, so I too could have the bouffant oomph of a soap opera actress like Julia usually did.

  Arriving exactly at seven, I rang her doorbell. When she opened the door, a group of my friends, Beth, Lila, and Diana, were all sitting on couches. No one was drinking cocktails. No one said “Surprise.”

  Julia smiled and hugged me. Then, with a serious voice she said, “We're all here because we love you, care about your happiness, and want to help you.”

  This was more of a lead balloon than a birthday greeting. Something was stinky. There was a woman sitting in a club chair who I'd never met before. All eyes were on her. Molly, an unpretentious, soft spoken woman wearing beige separates, tasteful jewelry, and no make-up shook my hand.

  “Sara, I've been brought here by your wonderful, loving friends,” Molly began. “Everyone in this room wants to help you, and that's why they called me. Please sit down. I have a lot to share with you.”

  Looking around the room, there were my best girls all sitting close together, all silent, focused on this soothing-voiced stranger. I felt agitated, eager to bolt, yet somehow intrigued by this grouping of my friends exhibiting strange behavior.

  “What is this, Candid Camera? Or are you putting me on a reality show? Which one of you thought that was a good birthday gift? Most of you don't even watch television. What's going on here?” I said, fear racing through me.

  Julia put her arm around me and rubbed my shoulder, urging me to sit down next to her. The more she tried to soothe me, the less calm I felt. I looked down at the rug, not wanting to lock eyes with anyone, knowing they were all focused on me.

  “Sara,” Molly continued, softly but sternly. “I understand that you've had over 300 first dates without a relationship or loving experience. Your friends brought me here because they are concerned for you. They think you should have more jubilation in your life and less tribulations. “

  “Am I dreaming this?” I blurted. “Is this what happens when a self-help writer doesn't take a vacation? She dreams her world is trying to fix her problems? Is Oprah in the bathroom waiting to fix my life, give me a cashmere sweater and a car? What the fuck is this, and who are you?”

  “This is a relationship intervention. I'm a psychotherapist who specializes in sexual addiction…”

  “This is a joke! Everyone here knows I'm the most celibate one in this room. This is the warm-up to the male stripper, right? You kids crack me up!”

  “S-a-r-a,” Molly said my name slowly and calmly, yet again. Now her soothing tone was irritating. “Your friends here tonight want you to be happy. They invited me to speak with you to help resolve some of your issues, so that you can lead a happier, healthier life. With your permission, we can explore the patterns that have caused you unhappiness and begin the healing. Do I have your permission?”

  I looked around the room. All of my friends were nodding at me as if to say, “Say yes, say yes.” No way, I thought to myself. How do I get out of this?

  Diana, a tall, strong, voluptuous woman turning 60 soon, was the friend I've known the longest. She placed a large book on the coffee table. It was my wedding album. I shuddered from the shock of seeing that here, now.

  Molly continued, “In dealing with patterns, we'll begin with your most significant relationship with men. We'll revisit your marriage.”

  The sound of her words sent nausea racing though me. I squirmed, eager to stand and leave. Julia held me down. She said, “Let's do this now, once and for all. Then you can be happy. Just listen to Molly.”

  Molly opened the wedding album, scanning each photo, then showing the pages to me. “You look more frightened than happy in these pictures. What were you thinking that day? Tell me about why you chose this man and how it ended.”

  I fidgeted in my seat, resistant, feeling straight-jacketed in the moment, burning to bolt out of there.

  Julia whispered in my ear, “Just listen, and breathe. It will all be better soon.”

  I gulped, turning as Diana spoke, “Sara dated this guy for about a year. He was smart, funny, and good in the sack. He wanted to marry her. She didn't think anyone else would ever ask her. She thought the fun and good loving would continue. Neither did. As soon as they said I do, he didn't. They stopped doing anything together. He slept with five women in his office within the first year of marriage. He spent 100,000 dollars on horse racing. Sara felt she couldn't afford to stay.”

  “Ya know, this is as much fun as a colonoscopy. When's the birthday cake?”

  “Your detachment shows how painful this issue still is for you. Unresolved angst is what's causing your current romantic challenges.”

  “I don't have a romantic life.”

  “We want you to,” Lila chimed in. A blue-eyed blonde in her late 50s, she was wickedly wise and full of surprises. “We want you to have love and happiness and…”

  “And lots of sex,” Diana jumped in. “Listen to Molly. She's here to help you.”

  “The decisions about your next relationship were all colored by the unresolved issues from your marriage. You felt you couldn't trust your husband, and more importantly, you couldn't trust yourself. Think about it. Does this ring true?”

  My friends looked at me like I was a puppy going in for surgery. It was embarrassing and painful to explore all of this now, in front of everyone. But my friends all knew me so well, so it felt more like one of those teaching surgeries, where all of the med students stand around observing and learning. I hoped the moment would do someone some good.

  “It rings, like a car alarm that won't shut itself off,” I blurted, distressed.

  “What choices did you make in your next relationship?” Molly asked.

  Beth stood to speak. At 45, Beth, the youngest of my friends, was married and had two sons, aged 17 and 20. She had short, dark hair and clear porcelain skin. She began, “That's a funky place in the way-back machine. Sara divorced at 29 and had a bunch of no-chemistry, not–even-a-kiss-on-the-first-date experiences till 32. Then she dated a guy whose mother had just died. He wanted Sara t
o redecorate her apartment with his mom's stuff. He'd bring her worn-out chairs with crooked arms and lots of doilies for her tabletops. She told me she never felt sexy, just old and dusty.”

  “Is this my birthday or my eulogy?” I said loudly and bitterly, boiling with frustration, feeling exposed and dissected like a bug under a microscope whose wings were being pulled apart.

  I heard Julia giggle. My eyes darted to her immediately, like a nun spying a disobedient fifth grader.

  “I'm sorry to laugh. But your hardships can be hilarious. I was just thinking about one.”

  “We're here so that Sara has happy relationships, not laughable hardships,” Molly insisted, emphasizing the seriousness of the occasion. “What happened to the new relationship after your marriage?”

  “Well, he did want to have sex with me, but only on his late mother's bed. Now if that wasn't creepy enough, over her bed was a life-size crucifixion, complete with blood on the cross. I so wanted to heal my feelings of being sexually abandoned by my husband with acts of sexual abandon. But this guy was sooooo not the choice. The minute he would get me to the bed, I would bolt from the room. After three times I realized I couldn't be touched by this man. So I ended the relationship.”

  “You walked out?” Molly asked, confirming my statement.

  “I stumbled, in a running fashion, to be exact.”

  Now Lila was laughing. “Kid, I wish there was a male stripper here for you tonight. Sounds like you need it more than anybody.”

  Molly cleared her throat, as if trying to get the room back on track. “Why do you think you are single now?”

  “Have you ever been on a dating website? Nightmare Alley. Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink. Most men want women under 40. That ain't me, babe. I missed the last bus out of single town about 10 years ago.” I delivered that last line with a James Cagney accent.

  “I'm familiar with web dating research. Yes, 51 percent of men want women of childbearing age. But 49 percent of older men are eager for relationships with older women.”