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Romance at My Age?
Oh lord, whatever made me think I could have romance at this age? I know I’m not quite over the hill, but the peak is right under my feet, and sometimes I feel like I’m wearing skis and going for the downhill speed championship.
I know you’re never too old for romance but with these hip joints screaming for replacement and gravity pulling everything down, why would I even consider having a romance?
It all started a few weeks ago. At the local VA hospital, I was doing my one-day-a-week volunteer duties taking the bookmobile around the wards when an attractive gentleman asked if I had any John Grisham books on the cart. He wasn’t a patient; he was visiting Mr. Harmon, a very nice elderly man in room 601, who I later learned had been Bill's commanding officer in Viet Nam.
Bill, that’s the guy who asked about the John Grisham books, the one I’m about to have the romance with. I’m not sure I’m going to have a romance with him. I mean, it has been sort of leading in that direction, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had any of that in my life, and of course, there is the problem of the hips.
Let me try to put this in order.
The following week Bill was again visiting Mr. Harmon, and I had several Grisham books. Now how did that happen? Coincidence? I don’t think so. Anyway, we talked about his writing, Grisham’s, not Bill’s, and before I knew it, I was on break meeting Bill in the cafeteria. Well, you know how things go. One thing led to another; I gave him my phone number; he called, and we went to dinner. Oh, let me tell you about that dinner. First, let me tell you about getting ready to go to that dinner.
What to wear? Oh, how I fretted over that. Pants suit? Dress? Suit? Skirt and fancy top? Something easy to get out of. Oops—sorry about that. Didn’t mean to jump ahead. What made me think of that at my age after all these years?
I went to the Mall. I hate the Mall. I hate shopping. That's probably why I didn't have anything in my closet I wanted to wear on a date. Combine going to a Mall shopping when it's not your favorite thing to do, and you are no longer a size; never mind, you get the picture.
Back to what I would wear. I didn't like anything in my closet, so I had to go to the Mall. The first stop was a lingerie shop where I bought an outrageously expensive ‘lift em up’ bra. Come on, I’ve had a few kids, what they didn’t make happen gravity completed. I would go into Victoria’s Secret, but have you seen the women who work there? I mean, they make Calvin Klein perfume models look fat.
I stopped by the day spa for the works; manicure, pedicure, shampoo, style, blow-dry, then headed to the cosmetic counter for a makeup session. This part was not fun. Really. The poor cosmetologist tried her best. She applied concealer, eye shadow, bronzed my cheeks, highlighted my cheekbones, and did everything possible to no avail.
At that point, I was not in the mood to continue shopping. I got home, soaked in lavender bath salts, with lavender scented candles and a glass of Cabernet creating a relaxing mood, hoping to calm my jangled nerves about dating again after all these years. Who am I kidding? What am I doing dating at this age? I’m a grandmother, for heaven’s sake, soon to be a great-grandmother. Well, of course, I married young and had my first child barely out of my teens. That’s what we did back then---way back then. We got married then had kids.
Getting out of a tub, I wrapped a soft terry robe around me, looked in the mirror, and realized the makeup was not me. I removed it and decided to call Bill and cancel the date. But as I thought of him, picturing him in my mind's eye. Did I tell you that Bill is rather good-looking? Quite handsome with gray, slightly curly hair, blue eyes, I mean baby blue eyes. I think he might look like an older Matt Damon.
He is a retired Army Colonel and has wonderful posture, which I'm guessing he got at West Point. I didn’t call him to cancel the date. As they say, I ‘sucked it up and spent an hour selecting and discarding outfits.
Everything in my closet was too old, too tight, too drab, or too bright. Why hadn’t I bought anything new when I was at the mall? Finally, I decided on a black, A-line ankle-length skirt, topping it with a cream long-sleeved loose-fitting over-blouse. I hated it, but I hated everything else more.
Looking in the floor-length mirror hanging behind my bedroom door, I felt a huge surge of doubt. Maybe I should wear slacks. What if we are going to a casual place, maybe even a fast-food restaurant or barbecue hut? I didn’t have a lot of time to change, and then again, there was nothing I cared to change into.
Viewing myself in profile, sucking it up, the gut this time, I wondered if I should wear a girdle. I wondered if I had a girdle. Then I had a vision of an intimate romantic interlude being unromantic trying to tug off a girdle. Remember wriggling out of a girdle?
“Stop that,” I told myself. “You are not having a romantic interlude. You are having dinner, that’s it.” I know people have sex on first dates; I watched ‘Friends’ and ‘Sex in the City.” It isn’t like it was back in my day. Don’t you just hate when older people say, ‘back in my day’? Even if people were having sex on a first date, they didn’t broadcast it except maybe to a best friend. The guys bragged to all their buddies.
The doorbell chimed. Panic began creeping like a vine snaking up a wall. I mentally said a few prayers, grabbed the black evening bag off the bed and took a deep breath telling myself, “it is only a date, for gosh sake! Get hold of yourself!
Just because it’s been a long, long time since you’ve had a date, you don’t need to panic.” Then I told myself to shut up, took a deep breath, and sauntered down the thickly carpeted steps.
I was pleased to see Bill was wearing a dark blue, very nicely tailored suit, not just because he looked so handsome. I breathed a little easier, assuming we weren’t going to a barbecue shack or fast food place, and I wouldn’t be overdressed.
He brought flowers, well, a flower. It was a potted orchid, one of those plants that only the greenest of green thumbers have luck with, and of course, you know me, pansies quiver when I near them; roses tighten their buds, and daisies shed their petals before I can get out the first “he loves me, he loves me not’.
I put the orchid on the coffee table. He waited a moment or two, picked it up and carried it to one of the windows, placed it on the narrow drop leaf table, smiled, and said that particular orchid likes a certain amount of light.
Okay, I shrugged, thinking that window faces north and there’s a huge tree outside that blocks most of the daylight, but I didn’t say anything, just smiled and offered him a glass of wine.
He declined, saying we had just enough time to get to the restaurant for our reservation. I wondered if that was the real reason he declined, or maybe he wanted something stronger? Maybe he was a recovering alcoholic and didn’t imbibe.
Suddenly I was aware that I knew almost nothing about him. I was going out with a stranger, a tall, muscular stranger. I was going in his car! Maybe I should have arranged to meet him at the restaurant. Knowing the restaurant would have erased all my near panic attacks. I would have known what to wear.
How does one who hasn’t dated in years know these things? Why isn’t there a book out about re-entering the dating world? Maybe I will write one.
Driving to the restaurant, our conversation was light. He commented on what a nice evening it was. I agreed. He looked over at me and smiled as he asked if I had ordered the full moon. I shook my head.
I couldn’t believe it. I had spent almost two hours finding things of interest to talk about. I watched cable news stations, listened to some talk radio, went on the internet, and ‘googled’ current events, world affairs, the weather, and at the moment, I couldn’t think of one intelligent thing to say.
Finally, I asked him where we were going to dinner and was impressed when he named one of the finest and most expensive restaurants in town.
I hope you like French food.” He parked by the canopy on the circular drive. “I probably should have asked before I made the reservations.”
“Please, Lord, let the menu be in English,” I silently prayed as a valet opened my car door.
Bill reached for my hand as we walked on the carpet leading to the elegant beveled glass doors. Oh, I was reading the signs. “Casanova’, a Vegas-style neon sign flashed across my inner vision as we entered the elegant French restaurant! I was sure there would be excellent service and fine wine. Could this be leading up to one of those romantic, intimate interludes? Or, could it be leading to a one-night stand, a bim-bam thank you ma'am night? Not with this gal, no way, or was there?
It was obvious Bill was no stranger to this most enticingly romantic setting. He was warmly greeted as we were ushered directly to a table for two near a flower and plant-decked garden. The waiter poured water into the crystal goblets asking Bill if he wanted his usual drink then asked him what the lady would have.
A questioning look from Bill. Then raised eyebrows when I ordered a Scotch on the rocks. I wanted a double but decided it could make me weaken in the romance arena, something it did in my midlife crisis after becoming a widow.
"Scott, ask Todd to use his best brand, please."
"Certainly, Mr. Carson."
The signs were getting bolder. Bill was very well known and catered to, a regular, perhaps a wealthy regular? I realized I didn't even know what he did other than was a retired Colonel.
"I should have asked if you have a preferred Scotch. I'm sorry."
"No, I'm not a connoisseur of Scotch." I unfolded the linen napkin, laying it on my lap, then glancing at a music combo setting up on a small stage. "I see there will be music."
He turned, looking around, then back to me. It's one of my favorites. They play the oldies, good for dancing. I hope you like to dance."
As Scott placed the drinks on the table, I picked up the menu. "Do you have a favorite entree? I assume you are familiar with the menu." Was I caustic?
He raised his glass, sipped, and glanced at his menu. "If you like beef, I suggest the filet mignon or steak, Diane. The chef's sauce is one of the best."
"Sounds perfect." I folded the menu, picked up my glass, and made up my mind to enjoy the dinner, which I did. The steak Diane was divine. The Château Malbec Bordeaux wine even more divine. I was becoming more than mellow, finally relaxing.
Laying down his knife and fork, Bill said softly, "You know I used to see you in the halls at the VA?" Pausing, sipping, then smiling. "I decided to ask you about Grishom to get your attention."
"You got it. But I don't know why I never saw you until that day."
"I think knowing my friend Hal was blind, you avoided coming into his room. It was thoughtful of you. I noticed you in the hall when you passed the room and saw you a few times in the cafeteria. I was determined to meet you."
It would be an understatement to say I was flattered. More flabbergasted than flattered. "I had no idea." I stammered.
After Scott removed our plates. Bill poured the last of the wine into our glasses and softly said. "Believe it or not, I am a bit shy around women."
No way. He seemed too suave and perfectly composed to be shy, I was thinking as the music began playing an old familiar tune.
He stood, reached out his hand for mine, and led me to the small dance floor. "One of my old-time favorites,' he murmured, pulling me closer. "It Had to Be You. Do you remember it?"
I remembered. How could I forget? Alan and I danced to it at our wedding. Suddenly my eyes filled with tears. I pushed away from him, stopped at the table, picked up my clutch bag, and headed towards the Ladies Room. He caught up with me, pulled me around. I kept my head lowered, not wanting to show the tears.
"Did I say or do something wrong?" Gently he lifted my chin, softly wiped the now overflowing tears, then wrapped his arms around me. "Memories?" He whispered.
I nodded against his chest.
"How long has it been. I know when we had coffee, you said you are a widow."
Way too long for me to be acting like this." I pulled myself away. "I am sorry. It's just that it was our favorite song, and I haven't heard it in years."
He held my hand. "I'm like that with "You Belong to Me". It was Eve's and my favorite. He grinned, "Wonder what kind of song today's young people will be remembering?" He was attempting to lighten the mood.
I laughed, took the handkerchief he offered, wiped my tears, and told him I needed to fix my makeup. "I'll be out in a minute."
"He gently brushed his thumb against my cheek. "I'll be waiting."
And he was. He had paid the check, waited at the table, and asked if I was ready to leave. I nodded. The Scotch and wine were starting to do their little dance with me. I was becoming more than mellow, perhaps a bit tipsy, and willed myself to be careful. It was the first date, maybe our only date.
At my front door, he leaned down, lightly kissed me, just enough to make me want more, deeper, perhaps with more passion. He tightened his arms around me. I was mellowing, beginning to feel romantic.
"Okay, if I call you tomorrow?" His whisper was hoarse.
I nodded against his chest. He released me. "I'll call in the morning. Maybe we can have Brunch at Melar's. They have an excellent Champagne Brunch." He kissed me on the cheek, waiting as I unlocked the door and was inside before walking to his car.
I watched him through the window. Maybe I won't wait for the 3rd date. I was feeling something more than mellow. I was feeling romantic. I knew I was not too old for romance.
The End, at least until tomorrow.
Sex, Lies, and Online Dating on
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