Where It All Began

It all begins where it always does: sex, love, dreams thwarted, the eternal optimist getting temporarily blind-sighted, but doggedly persisting on in the belief that there will be a better tomorrow. Perhaps not on the actual tomorrow, but on some tomorrow.

On this day of all days, I had gone back to the doctor's office to get a stronger antibiotic for a cough that refused to go away. Right away let me confess that this cough is in all likelihood due to my very bad habit of inhaling packaged narcotics in the form of cigarettes. On my last visit, the doctor had asked me point blank, "What the HELL do you think you're doing?!" And of course I meekly concurred that smoking was indeed a very bad and filthy habit, and one that I had once again, on the New Year, sworn I'd give up. Not that I had yet made much headway, 25 days into the year. But still, I was likely to pack it in, any day now.

I don't generally like a doctor shouting at me, but this one had a very charming way of doing so... helped more than a little by the simple facts that he A) was blondely gorgeous B) was single (via a semi-recent divorce) C) was in his late thirties D) possessed a great sense of humor E) had been flirting with me for two years when various minor ailments would bring me in to see him. I demurred sweetly to throw away my cigarettes in favor of a square sticker that would slowly ween me off nicotine, and to have a chest x-ray.

I was a very good girl, actually, and did both. On this second visit of the year, I had worked very hard to look extremely cute (without looking like I was trying to look cute—a masterful feat, as any girl will tell you) and to radiate an "ask-me-out-vibe" without seeming too obvious. After all, he had to think it was his idea.

Yes, my lungs seemed to be fine, the doctor confirmed. Yes, I still seemed to have a cough and tightness in my chest, which he couldn't fathom a reason for, and yes, he would prescribe another antibiotic for ten days. Before he could send me off courteously, I muttered, "or maybe I'll just not get better so I can come back and see you again." Clunky, I agree, but it stopped him in his tracks. He turned to look at me and said, "Well, are you going out for a drink with me then?"  Bingo.

The bar was crowded, leaving us perched precariously on bar stools while comparing life-experiences, crazy family members, past relationships (well, his mostly, since he had quite a few words to say on the subject of his failed marriage). We had actually gone to the same school, and competed on whose parents could drive us crazier, when he suddenly told me he had had to tell a patient that day that they were going to die. The look in his eyes both hurt and brave, I couldn't help myself but had to kiss him right then and there. And what a kiss it was... soft yet firm, moist and warm. I was beginning to feel decidedly floaty, and trust me, one drink isn't enough to get me dizzy usually.

As we left the bar, he asked me if I wanted to come to his place for a minute before going home. I thought to myself, "oh no, I know myself too well, and this is going too well to blow on a one-nighter." But, it was extremely cold, and I did need to pee (excuse me for mentioning it, but the bladder can be a highly influential decision-maker), so I decided to go in for a minute. Just a minute. And next I knew I was kissing the Indiana Jones scar he got on his chin at age 12, and he had unleashed one of my nipples, and soon we were both scantily clad and kissing like there was no tomorrow.

Sounds wonderful, doesn't it? It was for a moment. Then, it all went kablooie. How, you ask? He said, "this is the first time in a long while I've been with an older woman." An Older Woman??! Here he was, a few years older than my 30-something, and he had just called me "an older woman" —An Older Woman!!! It boggled the mind. I said, "you did not just say that?" And he had the actual gall to say, "well, you are, aren't you? I mean, I usually date younger women. My last girlfriend was 23."  "Oh, I see, so I'll just get Botox and collagen and a mini-facelift tomorrow, no problem," I tried to joke, although I was honestly reeling. "Your face still looks fine." I think I had heard enough by then, so decided to extricate myself. Wait, it gets worse. As I was putting on the various items of clothing that had found their way to the floor, he said, "this is somewhat new to me—usually I date 3 or 4 girls at once."

I bid him a goodnight and left the future open. Today I received a text message from him saying he "had to think about things." Think about things! Ha!

I'm just glad that as "an Older Woman" I found out sooner rather than later about his Peter Pan complex, and that he wasted no more of my time or emotional reserves. And yet, I still think to myself, what are the chances for any of us women in our thirties, who may be in the blooms of our lives, the ripeness of our beauties, our sexual peaks, and our emotional capacities, if men are already thinking of us, in our early thirties, as "older women"? Ouch! Are we doomed?