This sounds bad, but now that my husband was taking the kids to France, I could finally go on a date. (If you haven’t read the other posts—he cheated, so I was totally within my rights!)
I had been corresponding on Match.com with the dark-eyed guy with douche-y screen name, “OneInAMillion.” He agreed to a drink. Score! But then he wrote this:
OneInAMillion: Just to let you know, I’m fresh out of a relationship. So I’m really just looking for some erotic fun.
Which I translated as, “I just read your profile in more detail and realized you have kids and are kind of old. But I’d still f–ck you—one time, if you want.” So I wrote back.
Me: Oops, how did I wind up on Tinder? Ha ha. I don’t think that’s what I’m looking for. Good luck.
I was still undeterred. I was going to cheat (even though my marriage was over) if it was the last thing I did. I figured I better lower my standards in terms of looks. That’s what always got me in trouble. Why didn’t I just want the ok-looking, funny guy who would think I was a great catch? Like a 110 pound tuna?
I would be free to try for a tryst again when Maxime took the kids to the airport. That day, I kissed their soft cheeks and breathed in their smell. The little one said, “I love you more than you love me, mommy.”
“That’s not possible,” I told her.
My ten year old looked at my face and said, “Mom! It’s ok. We’ll Facetime you. Every day.”
“Ok, my sweetie.”
I took Maxime aside and told him that I was not trying to be confrontational, but the girls better not fall off his father’s balcony, or I might die.
“Of course, not!” he said and squeezed my shoulder. We weren’t always hateful to each other.
The door closed. Sunny and quite. But I was ready for risky business. It wasn’t long before I made a date with a guy online. In his photos, he kind of looked like the Property Brother twins who are not my type, but I was being open. He was tall and I could overlook the fact that his face long. I mean, I have plenty of cellulite. Who am I to judge?
I bought new sandals with stacked heels and a curling iron. I put on fresh white jeans and a sleeveless shirt. I was grooving out to New Wave music, just the way I used to get ready to go to a party in high school. Alive and awake for the possibilities of the night. I was pumped up like in a boxer in the locker room.
But what if I couldn’t think of anything to say? I went over a list of small talk topics in my mind. Summer vacations. What did you do this weekend? All the things you talk about with your hairdresser. I was ready.
“Hi, can I get you a drink?” He was dressed up with an ironed button down shirt. And in person the face was just fine. “Sure.”
But then he yawned. And when he returned with the drinks, he yawned more.
“I get up at four am to workout every day.”
His online profile said he managed the estate of a famous artist. But he gave no interesting tidbits on her family. Nothing about fights over the money or weird affairs. Just small talk fit for the elevator. Jeeze.
He stretched and yawned with a wide open mouth one more time. “Oh man,” he said. “Sorry about that.” One drink and that was it. It was over. My big escapade. When I left, he opened the door to the Uber. In a last ditch effort, I craned up to give him a peck. But he was too tall. I missed and kissed air.
“I’ll leave it to you if you want to get in touch again,” he said. I should have responded by yawning. Instead, I got in the car and put my head back. I thought about Face Timing my kids. “I love you, mommy.” But it was too late in France.