I call underwear foundation, and, after years of the weight of gravity on my body, I now look better with foundation than without it.
I am a much different woman than I was when I moved to New York more than twenty-five years ago. I was a fresh-faced Midwestern girl with little life experience. The wildest thing I had ever done was drink sloe gin in the college dorm room of a young man who wore pink leopard print spandex pants like Rod Stewart. I let him kiss the sloe gin from my lips and then went tearing back to the safety of my own dorm room.
I came to New York, seeking my fame and fortune as a serious actress. I imagined I would quickly be discovered and, just as quickly, my career would skyrocket. I would be a household name.
Things didn’t proceed quite as I had imagined them, but landing in a city where I knew no one and no one knew me set me free. I managed to get myself on the A-list at New York’s hot spots. I dyed my auburn locks amazing shades of platinum with soft pink and gold rinses. I sang in clubs that ranged from CBGB to the Playboy Club. New York City and I embraced each other. I was where I belonged. I came of age for the first time in New York, and now I find myself coming of age again.
Now I am forty-eight. Over the last few months, I have been, for want of a better word, distracted. As my menstrual cycle has become more irregular, I seem to have physically and emotionally gone back in time to puberty, that is, when my cycle was first irregular. Certainly my hormones are as wacky now as they were then, perhaps for a different reason, but the result is the same. I can think of nothing but boys. I won’t say sex, even though that is true most of the time, but I think about their legs and the hair on their bodies. I think of how their hands would feel holding mine. It’s never really personal, just an ever-present desire to have male contact in any way I can.
So how does a single woman of forty-eight living in New York City accomplish that male closeness? Raging hormones were skewing my judgment. Going out to bars would be disastrous. Bookstores? Grocery stores? Work? No. This is New York City. Most of the men I have met over the years are either gay, married, or both.
I decided to turn to my computer, the only thing I had a true relationship with over the last ten years. I signed up for every online dating service I could find that didn’t seem pornographic in nature....
As I was checking messages one afternoon, I heard a familiar voice from the past. I was floored. The Athlete had pursued me more than a year ago. We had exchanged brief histories, photos, and phone numbers. At one point, we were even to meet for a drink, but life got in the way. It just never happened. I confess that I hadn’t given him another thought. Apparently, the same was not true for him.
I went to my computer and searched for photos and profiles of tall, former professional ballplayers. He said he was six-foot-three, and the photo was quite handsome. When we finally made phone contact again, he explained there had been many changes in his life over the last year and he had remembered our conversations fondly. He wanted to reconnect. Typically, I’d refuse to meet for more than a cup of coffee or a smart cocktail at a first meeting, but the Athlete promised dinner at a fine establishment in Manhattan that I’d wanted to try. I couldn’t resist the promise of fine dining, so I said yes.
The date day arrived, and I was looking forward to it. I was having a good hair day, and, despite the past year’s indulgences, I looked great in my black suit and silk blouse. Since the Athlete claimed to be six-foot-three, I was happily wearing heels. I arrived a bit early, took a seat at the bar, and ordered a glass of wine.
I lost track of time as I sipped my tasty glass of wine and read my book. The staff was eyeing me, and I suddenly realized that I had been sitting there for thirty minutes. I had never waited that long for anyone. Not for a business appointment. Not for a friend. Certainly not for a date with someone I’d never met before. I immediately asked for my check.
As I was paying my bill and preparing to leave the restaurant, a tall man came rushing in, placed a shopping bag on the barstool next to me, and ran off to the men’s room. A couple minutes later, he reappeared, apologizing profusely and blaming the traffic for his tardiness. While the man before me was six-foot-three, that was the only recognizable thing about him. The Athlete was awkward and unattractive.
Once we were seated, the waiter brought over a plate of complimentary snacks. The Athlete lowered his head and began shoveling them in his mouth at an unbelievable rate. I couldn’t believe I had been foolish enough to agree to dine with a complete stranger.
Between bites that no human could ever take, he insisted I open his gift. The first item was a bag of candy kisses. If he had been taking seemingly human bites, I might have found his line about sharing kisses charming later on. But the thought of possibly kissing that mouth exploding with food later in the evening repulsed me. As I opened the remainder of the gift, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The Athlete had presented me with a gift set of Lady Stetson. I don’t believe I had even seen a bottle of Lady Stetson since the 1980s. I was suddenly struck by the ridiculous notion that he was a crazy man who lured women home, enticing them with bottles of drugstore perfume that he had stashed in his closet for the last twenty years. As dinner proceeded, the Athlete became louder and more forceful. The staff, clearly becoming as concerned as I was, monitored the table more closely and constantly refilled my water glass while giving me pitying glances. At one point, the Athlete tried to feed me. I politely said no. He continued to attempt to feed me until I found it necessary to shout out a forceful, “No!” The waiters circled around the table, like wagons in the Westerns I had watched on television as a child.
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Back to the safety of the streets of New York City, I felt like the cab driver was the cavalry riding me home. Perhaps the gift of Lady Stetson was appropriate after all.
