So, it is safe to assume I do not have a dating story as good as the one I started with. I mean, that was filled with anticipation, excitement, sex, basketball, and politics. Oh, and not to mention, disappointment and embarrassment. For the pessimists or sports fans out there – that pretty much covers what life has to offer.
But, alas, despite how hard I try to change my patterns, I’m an optimist at heart. So I was thinking of sharing one of a few good stories I have – about good moments, good guys, good experiences, good lessons to learn. To redeem everyone’s hope in dating! And, for those that want to have hope in men, in men, too!
But despite none of these good men being saccharine sweet, the stories seemed a little saccharine sweet to jump to. So I’ve chosen one that allows me to relish in self-deprecating humor, one of my favorite types though I’ve tried to reign back a little. So here we go.
One fun Saturday night, I met up with some girlfriends for wine. I was seeing someone at the time who I really liked, quite a bit, and wasn’t thinking of meeting anyone else at the time, as I was trying to figure out where him and I were going if anywhere. We had wine at a low key awesome wine bar in Santa Monica, and were feeling like we wanted to carry on the night. So we went to a bar in West Hollywood that has some dancing in the backroom. Another friend met up with us, making for a very good looking, fun loving, fearsome foursome. I had plans to hang with my friends for a while, dancing, then go meet up with the guy and his friends, at a more low key place. This is known as time management, for clarity.
While dancing, across the dance floor on the other side of the room, I lock eyes with a tall guy with a hat. He is with a crew of friends – a few. There’s four of them. We smile at each other. He’s a bit more the type one of my friends would be attracted to than me, but I keep eyes locked for the benefit of us all. The four of them wedge their way through the dance floor and come over to say hi. We all mutually meet and introduce and share drinks and dance. In my mind, I’m making friends with these four guys, and nothing more, because keep in mind that I’m heading to meet up with the guy I like shortly. I’m making buddies. Before I leave, 2 or 3 of them have my number, including the tall one that I locked eyes with. As it turns out, he lived in Crown Heights (the Jewish Hospital!) much of the last few years I lived in Brooklyn, right down the street. In my mind, we exchanged numbers to talk Brooklyn. To the protest of my friends and these guys, my new friends, I leave to meet up with the guy I’m interested in. The night progresses and ends, fun for all. A night to remember and debrief on over the next couple days.
A couple days later (not many), the Tall Guy With the Hat texts me. We chat. I’m thinking we are being friendly friends, but at some point he asks directly if I’m interested. I’m not uninterested, I just hadn’t thought of it at that point because though while not exclusive, I’d been focused on this other guy who had been on my scene for a while. But, as we chat, I’m open to meeting up with him to refresh my mind on whether there is any potential. And he keeps asking, and I like his persistence. So we make plans to meet for lunch and maybe shop for him to get some things for his new apartment. (Note: This is when I am in between jobs, and have leisurely time to have lunch and shop mid-day!)
When we meet up, I’m reminded that he is definitely younger than me – though it’s hard to say exactly how much younger. I’ve dated guys from my age to, um, younger than my age. The age conversation hasn’t been a huge thing, partly because for the ones I’ve met online, you know each other’s age (or general age, if lying) before meeting. And for the ones I meet in person, obviously our lives have overlapped somehow if we’ve met. And here’s just a side note – I’ve met awesome men who are just a few years younger than me. And I’ve met lame boys the same age. I’ve met awesome men a decade or more younger than me. And I’ve met lame boys the same age. It really doesn’t have much to do with age. But that’s all an aside. Anyway, I know he is younger, but I can’t really pin his age. I’m guessing early 30s-ish-ish? I think he is guessing I’m late 30s-ish-ish. But we don’t ask. We have lunch. We shop. He’s a gentleman. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, opens doors, is polite and engaging and appreciative of my attention. He helps a homeless man who is struggling in his wheelchair, that four other people walked by and didn’t help. He reminds me of good men I’d been involved with before, both in his kindness and his reserved, but warm, demeanor. Admittedly, and I later tell him this, he is nicer than I expect him to be. I’m not sure what I expected. When I tell him, he takes that as the compliment I intend it to be.
We have a great afternoon, and we see each other every couple days for a while, talk every morning and every night. We go to a Clippers game, we go to a movie. We go out to dinner. We decorate his place. We go out dancing and meet up with my friends. We don’t, though, ever talk about age. We talk about careers, goals, family, friends, sports, funny stories, dance, ambitions. The important stuff. Just not age. I know from the beginning he isn’t my soul mate, but I enjoy his energy and his attention and our time, so just go with it for a bit.
One night, we had plans to go out. But it was raining in Los Angeles and he had to work a little later than expected. I suggest we just order in at my place and watch a movie, which he is game for. He comes over after he is off, and we order Thai food. He brings some drinks, and helps me set the table and get the food set out, and he even goes out of his way to light the candles I have on my table and in my fireplace. It’s all very sweet. We have some music playing and sit down to have dinner, and it’s a perfect setting. (Side note, everyone always loves my table. Normally when people come they sit there even when I’m trying to get them to enjoy the rest of my house! But in this instance, I’m happy to be at the candlelit table.)
Our conversation kind of meanders around, but is really intimate and nice. He tells me about his life growing up, his mother and separately his father (they are divorced). His experiences and influences getting into the profession he is in, and some of the recent hurdles he had faced even since I had met him. He asks lots of questions about me, my kids, my former relationships and family relationships. There is lots of depth and intimacy being developed. I’m not trying to make it sound perfect – but it was very nice! We start talking New York and Hurricane Sandy (I think because of the rain outside). We were both there during this time, and we talk about the experience of being in a city like NYC during one of these big, historic events.
He then is about to ask about 9/11, but stops himself. “I was about to ask about 9/11, but you weren’t in New York yet during 9/11, right?”
I don’t think twice about it. I say, yes, I was. “It was my first year of law school…..oh wait, actually, my second. Yeah, my second year of law school…” and I go on to detail the day in great detail. He listens, with interest and empathy and is engaged.
“Wow, that is incredible.” He responds.
“Yes, it was much more intense for many others. But it certainly is so etched in my memory that it feels like yesterday,” I say.
I take a bit of my pad thai. And as I’m taking a sip of my water, he adds, “Yes, I’ll never forget that day either. I was in Sixth Grade….”
I immediately spit out my water. All over my plate. Water everywhere. When I heard “sixth grade” – a year of school designated by a number, not even a name – I choke. I quickly within a split second do math – my oldest nephew is 22. What grade was he in in 2001? Please tell me he was much younger than 6th grade. (He was, whew. He was only 6. This guy is not as young as my nephew.)
“I’m sorry. I just, I wasn’t prepared for that. I was not in 6th grade.” I say, as I try to nicely wipe up the water that came out of my mouth and maybe even my nose, luckily mostly landing in my plate. So much water that I have to get a new plate of food. At this time, I had dated two other guys his same age. But I just hadn’t learned of their age in this context, in this way, so it caught me off guard and made the age difference seem more stark.
“I heard.” He says, with a big kind smile, holding back a slightly enamored laugh at my clumsiness. He’s not phased by the age, as I was. Nor was he phased by me spitting water. He helped me get a second plate, and we don’t even pause on the fact, we just go on with the discussion about what 9/11 was like for him. And I keep thinking that when I was in sixth grade, the space shuttle Challenger blew up. I was so young. I just kept thinking of my sixth grade teacher telling us what happened — I kept thinking of the sour cherry candy we earned if we made good choices.
Eventually, we move to other topics, including relationships, and this is a grand way to even out the playing field. As it turns out, dating in your 40s isn’t really all that different than dating in middle school, so any age difference between 27 and 43 is quite irrelevant.
And he still hadn’t figured out my actual age. I didn’t clarify that before law school, I got my Masters. And after that, I taught for a couple years. And it wasn’t my first year of law school, it was my second. I chose not to clarify any of that, because why did it really matter? I wasn’t comparing 12 and 27 years old. It was a different story now, we were 28 and 43. And didn’t I say I knew by this point in time, it isn’t really about the age?
Take it for what it’s worth. I should either be immensely proud or immensely embarrassed of this story. And if truth be told, I’m a little bit of both.
Brooklyn to Venice 