The Last Place She'd Look Read Free Page A

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