The Last Place She'd Look Read Free Page B

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,