The Conference

I don't know what possessed me, but the other morning while madly dashing about the house to get to a conference I was already late for, I donned a pink, little Jackie O. dress that fit snugly to my torso.

Perhaps this sartorial fact had nothing to do with what happened later that day. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. But perhaps not. Either way, several hours later when I stepped into the conference's ballroom for a pre-dinner cocktail reception, and saw everyone else there outfitted in shades of black and gray, I knew, bottom line, that I stood out - if not like a sore thumb, than like one of those pink, marshmallow Easter peeps - as I sashayed (at least I didn't hop) over to the bar.

Fortunately, I had other things to worry about. Like the fact that I didn't know a soul in the room, so where was I going to stand while I kicked back my chardonnay?

In another mood, I might have sought out a spot by the wall, or sidled up to a post. Alternatively, I might have planted myself near a friendly-looking group with the hope that eventually I could weave my way into their conversation.

Instead, who knows why, I chose the wide, open, empty space in the middle of the room, where the nearest person to me was a good six feet away.

Did I look conspicuous? Probably. But on this day, I didn't care. I was okay with my own company and rather than trying to attach myself to this person or that one, I was content with waiting to see if anyone approached me.

Sure enough, it didn't take long before a distinguished-looking man ambled over and introduced himself as the president of the university that was sponsoring the conference.

Wow, I thought, as we chatted about this and that. But when he was called away, and another gentleman - this one a captain of industry and the conference's other co-sponsor - immediately took his place, I suspected something was up.

Maybe it was the pink dress. Or that nature abhors a vacuum. Or maybe I was having some strange, lemming-like affect. Whatever the case, when the captain departed, a third fellow - the philanthropist who was funding funded the entire event - instantly showed up at my side.

And so the cocktail hour progressed. Until, come the dinner hour, I found myself at the very front of the ballroom, seated with the conference's most important guests, and engaged in delightful conversation.

Obviously, the evening could have ended up vastly different. In fact, if anything, it was odd that it turned out so splendidly. All I can figure is that by not giving a hoot how things went, I inadvertently left plenty of room for the unexpected to show up.

Which leaves me wondering whether I can carry this let-go-and-be experience over into my love life. Just imagine, to search without searching, or better yet, to find without looking. Now that would be grand.

The Auction - Date #13

I came home last night after meeting Mr. Big (see The Lesson) vowing I was done with dating. My son was at his dad's, so no one was there to hear me, but still I ranted aloud. "Over. Finished. I'm twice-divorced and single. So be it."

What sent me off? Date #13, who turned out to be smart, interesting, easy to talk with, as well as nice-looking. Our son's are nearly the same age. We share similar interests. Plus, he wants to be in love and my guess is, he'd be willing to work at it.

Of course, there were differences. Like the fact that he owns a dozens guns which he keeps in his bedroom closet. And that he's apolitical, leaning towards right wing.

Still, I probably could live with these things if I'd fallen for the guy. But last night, at least, I didn't. Instead, while driving home from the bar where we'd met for a drink, I was flooded with sadness - about how this funny, clever guy had been trying to sell himself to me. And how I, in a somewhat more subtle way (only because I didn't enumerate my quirks), had been trying to sell myself to him.

I mean really, how sad. That at this age, instead of celebrating ourselves, here we are, decked out in dating finery, voluntarily climbing onto the auction block for prospective buyers to poke and prod us and even inspect our teeth.

No wonder, I hurled my casual, first date, just-sexy-enough-but-not-too outfit into the wash as if it were the enemy. Yuck and good riddance!

Thankfully, life looks different in the morning light. And the first thing I did today after brushing my teeth, was retract my words.

I had to. If I want to love again, giving up is not an option. Like it or not, it just isn't. Or to quote my girlfriend Eustacia, "Forward ever, backwards never."

Tar Baby

I can't believe it. A simple email exchange with the ex-boyfriend, and here I am a veritable logjam of emotions.

Why do I do this to myself?

It had all seemed harmless enough. I had a business question that I knew he could answer, and anyway, I was sure I was over him.

Obviously I wasn't, given that here I am, for a good hour now, dithering about this feeling and that one, unable to focus let alone get any work done.

And all he wrote was, "Call me." Two words. That's it. But it was enough to send me in a tailspin, trying to decide whether I should.

The best I can figure is that my inner tar baby took over. And just like Br'er Rabbit in the Uncle Remus stories, who got himself hopelessly stuck on a doll of turpentine and tar, I too could end up forever entangled if I don't watch out.

A wise source, aka Wikipedia, suggests that if you find yourself in a sticky situation that is aggravated by additional contact, the only way to solve the situation is by separation.

Makes sense to me. But now I have to do it.

The Lesson

I have another date in the works and according to the person who fixed me up, he's smart, funny, and couldn't be nicer.

So what's the catch? Me.

I googled his image and unless it's out-of-date, he appears to be, how should I say it, a tad heavy-set.

I know. How limited and shallow can you be?

In my case, I guess a lot. And I know why. My mother was, to put it mildly, a big woman. Perhaps if we'd had a healthy, loving, mother-daughter relationship, I'd view overweight people differently. But we didn't. And consequently, here I am, long after she's passed, still, to my regret, judging people by their poundage.

Last week, I was having a heart-to-heart with a girlfriend and asked if she minded that her hubby leaned towards the chunky.

She looked at me like I was crazy. "Of course I want him to be healthy, but I love his body. Every single inch of it."

Another friend's husband is an enormously talented guy, who is also physically enormous. Think Peter Ustinov, Pavarotti, or hello, one of the most charismatic people you know.

So what am I waiting for? I can stand here on the sidelines, weighing peoples' worth forever, or say to heck with that, toss neuroses to the wind, and finally, at long last, have a little... no, a lot more fun.

Pearls

What can I do? It's just not there. That ineffable, magical feeling, aka the spark, continues to elude me.

I tried with Date #11, even extending my two-date minimum rule to three, in case the problem was mine and I was unconsciously self-sabotaging or simply looking the wrong way.

Unfortunately, it wasn't to be. And I mean "unfortunately" because wouldn't it be grand if I was done with this whole dating thing and instead could report, "Yippee, I found him. My Dreamboat. My Sweet Pea."

But in fact, after a good three months of searching, I'm not any closer to walking down the aisle (albeit for a third time) than when I began. Which is not to say it's been a waste. Far from it. All along the way, I've learned a multitude of things, about myself, about others and the world-at-large including:

1) Scoop-neck tops are for girls. Anyone older should stick with V-necks, particularly those that show a little cleavage.

2) To walk in 4-inch stilettos and not waddle like a walrus, tilt your upper body slightly forward and lead with your head.

3) Whole Foods sells a tinted, facial moisturizer that takes less than three seconds to apply and really does even out the skin tones --or so said my son after staring at my pores, before and after.

4) Always look a man straight in the eye, unless he's married, in the throes of divorce, or hates being alone.

And 5) That a lot of men (at least among the ones I meet) are on medication. But don't let this be disconcerting. As a psychiatrist friend asserts, the men who aren't probably should be.

Done is Done

Two friends on the same day posed identical questions. Why didn't you go out for coffee with the guy you met in Kinko's (Date #12)?

I had work to do, I explained.

So, you could have gone for ten or fifteen minutes.

Yeah, but...would you have gone, spur of the moment like that?

Absolutely. And normally you would have too. Why didn't you this time?

What can I say? I don't know. Was I being responsible? Following my instinct? Or was I simply afraid?

And if I was afraid, then of what? That I'd get bored? Have nothing more to say? Or that maybe he had potential?

And if he had potential, then what about the fact that his nose was a tad big and his lips thin? Or that he was a doctor and not a politician or a poet, like the last two men I'd fallen for? Or that he actually listened when I spoke and even asked questions?

And if this guy could carry on a thoughtful, two-way conversation, then that might mean I'd enjoyed myself, and want to see him again, and maybe even, dare I say it, like him. Yes, like him.

Oh my.

What's done is done. Still, yesterday after thinking awhile, I shot off an email. "Since you didn't follow up on that cup of coffee, thought I would." That was all. Nice and simple.

Minutes later, he wrote back. "Thanks for writing. Out of town...Crazy busy...Glad to have your email...Talk soon."

Will we? Who knows. We may have missed the moment. But I did learn something, as seen by the fact that later in the day when Date #11 phoned, I said yes to getting together, even though I could have drummed up a million and one reasons why not to.

Indigestion - Almost Date #12

I met a man at Kinko's yesterday while vocalizing my surprise that I'd have to use a credit card to cover 22 cents worth of photocopies.

My incredulity must have been a tad, dare I say, loud, because out of the blue this man on the other side of the store offered to let me use his machine and pay him the quarter.

How could I refuse? Thanking him, I made my copies, then asked what he was xeroxing. He asked me the same. I answered. And soon enough, one thing led to another, and I learned he was a doctor, originally from out East, with a couple kids and an amiable ex-wife, and did I want to grab a cup of coffee?

Yes, I did. But I had to get to work. Could we make it for another time?

Which was when it happened - that look of confusion mixed with guilt, flashing across his face. Within seconds, he regained his composure and entered my number into his phone. But the deed was done. I'd discovered his secret: He was unavailable.

My guess is he already had a girlfriend. A cup of coffee on the fly would have been nothing more than just coffee. But what I was suggesting constituted a date. And he wasn't going there.

Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe at the moment I suggested we meet another day, he'd been hit by a blast of heartburn or indigestion and that accounted for his strange expression. But until I hear otherwise, I'm sticking with my gut. This guy is taken and good for him.