The Do-Over(12)
“Well f*ck those Viagra-popping fools. You need a man who can satisfy you and go all night without chemicals.” Pouring herself another glass of wine, she looked around my new living room, “I really like this place. These are awesome divorce-settlement digs.”
And that, they were. In a new construction high-rise building in our north shore town, I was able to downsize to a beautiful condo. This new home would not be stealing any of my weekend time with yard work and Scarlett could stay in the same school, which for a fourteen-year-old girl, was the only thing that mattered. The building, one of two towers within the complex, had a full gym and a pool on the twenty-first floor and a restaurant, gourmet grocery and a liquor store located at street level. What else could anyone need?
As with many new buildings, the management company regularly hosted themed get-togethers so that residents could mingle and meet their new neighbors. It was one of many nice perks. The social aspects of the complex were really a bonus when beginning a new life.
Laynie, being Laynie, wasn’t going to let it go. “Have you thought about checking out one of the singles’ nights they have here? I saw a flyer posted near the elevator bank. That might be a good way to start checking out the dating scene. If they can afford to live here, then you know they at least make a good living and can keep you satiated with sushi.” I smiled at her free ping at my sushi-loving ex.
“Yeah, but it’s a little close for comfort,” I protested. “If it doesn’t work out you still have to see that person at the mailboxes and in the pool and on really slow, torturous elevator rides.”
“I’ll go to the mixer with you,” she offered. “If it’s horrible and the men are hideous, we’ll just leave and go out someplace fabulous for dinner. C’mon, Tara,” she pleaded, “you really need to get back out there. You deserve a life. A happy life. And a big quaking orgasm.” She smirked at her afterthought, “You know, one where there’s actually someone else in the room with you.”
Bitch. While I knew she was right, the thought of dating in my late thirties made me sick to my stomach. I could already feel the rejection and I had yet to put myself out there to be rejected. It was like bad high school fears surfacing, and at this point in my life, I really didn’t want to deal with it. But Laynie was not going to let up and on some level, I knew she was right. I wanted someone in my life. Someone who gave me everything Frank never could.
A week later, with plans to meet Laynie at the Friday night aptly named Social Singles Social, I stood before my bedroom mirror, my seventh outfit of the night on par with one through six. Nothing looked good. My butt looked huge in all seven outfits. Size 10 was becoming snug. That’s what a divorce will do to you, I rationalized. Fuck you, Frank. I was getting crabbier with each outfit change and the ex was as good a person as any to blame for my surly mood as my anxiety about going to the social escalated.
Going back into my beautiful new closet with the built-in dressers, my new favorite room in the house, I had the epiphany I should have had before I’d even tried on outfit #1. Wear black. Black skirt, black blouse, black pumps – the perfect uniform for New York chic, mourning or hiding ten pounds.
The entertainment facilities in the condo complex was the perfect space to host a small-intimate get-together in the pub rooms or a full-scale affair in the 300-person capacity ballroom. Taking over the pub and several of the salon rooms, I was shocked to see the number of singles attending the event; many of whom were new faces I hadn’t previously seen on the elevators or in the gym. As the social was for residents from both towers that made up the complex, I realized the pickings might not be as slim as I had originally anticipated.
What was quite surprising was running into people I actually did know. “I had no clue you lived here.” It had been a while since I had seen Scarlett’s third grade teacher, Jill Presley.
“Part of my divorce settlement,” she confided and I wondered how many of us there were in that very same boat.
The group’s demographics were all over the place. There was a significant sixty-plus population, both male and female, who I suspected were retirees and then there was a surprisingly large group of twenty-somethings who must’ve had parents with big wallets or were tech industry wizards. The thirty-to-forty age group was a little sparser, but consisted of mostly females, and I felt a flash of fear as I silently prayed that this was not the place divorcees were sent to wither into sex-starved spinsters. Standing back, I assessed the room, and immediately I felt more hopeless than ever. These women were gorgeous with their perfect long tresses and trainer sculpted size 4 bodies. They all looked airbrushed, like retouched photos, with plump lips, perky boobs, spray tans and perfect, straight noses.
Yes, I was intimidated. I didn’t want to be dating again and I didn’t look like these women. What was wrong with just focusing on raising my wonderful teenage daughter and concentrating on a career I loved? Did I really need a man to make my life complete? No. But truth be told, in my most honest moments, when I actually let myself dream, I wanted to share my life with someone who just got me, someone who I could laugh with, someone who would hold me when I cried, someone who would show up with a bunch of blue hydrangeas just because, someone who making love with was hot, passionate and yes, meaningful. Someone who knew how to get me off.
But as I looked around this room at the retouched beauties, the chances of ever finding someone seemed more and more like a distant little girl fantasy. And I wanted to run from this room that was feeling increasingly claustrophobic. I just wanted to run.