by Melody Bowen
This coming Sunday is April 25, 2004, which (in another life) would have been my 12th wedding anniversary. Had I stayed married, that is. But Sunday will be just another day, because I divorced Blowhole -- er, I meant to say "my ex-husband" -- a little more than two years ago. The fact that a would-be anniversary is approaching didn't even cross my mind, quite honestly, until a couple of days ago. I can't even remember what triggered the memory. What is most memorable -- most surprising -- to me is that it didn't even occur to me until now. It's feels positively fabulous to know that I've shelved that life (and that man), and that thoughts of that part of my life have receded to a dusty, rarely-visited tunnel far in the back of my mind. (Say it with me now: Woohoo!)
This recent revelation got me thinking about all that's happened in my life these last two years as a re-singlified girl. I've been involved with a man for several months now (a man I'm clearly crazy about), and the fact that I've been off the market for so long makes it even more fun for me to look back at these last two years and laugh about the things that happen to re-singlified 30-something girls (like me) who are trying to adjust to living life alone again.
Memories of My Re-Singlification:
My first post-dumping-the-weasel dates were with a Harley-riding, Jaguar-driving 40-something man who was a fantastic dancer and a real sweetheart. We had a great time together, especially in light of the fact it was obvious very early in the relationship that it would never get serious. We enjoyed a few dinners, tore up a few dance floors, but I got skittish when I discovered that he absolutely loved a black velvet painting of a sunset that hung in his bedroom (could somebody call the Fab Five from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy for me, please?). I got doubly skittish when he wanted "the kids" to meet me. We never dated after that, but we stayed in touch, and we're still friends. (He's a great guy; we just weren't right for each other.)
Next victim: the Beautiful Idiot. My friend Cindy, who was my downstairs neighbor, introduced me to the man I've come to call the Beautiful Idiot (faithful readers have heard of him before). Beautiful Idiot was easy on the eyes, that's for sure, but -- um... -- there's just no polite way to dodge the fact that he was, well, a bit of a moron. A moron with a wandering eye. (Actually, I don't think his eyes were the only parts of his body that wandered.) This was a man who actually picked up phone numbers from other women when we were on dates, had a serious Oedipal thing with his mother that I won't even go into, and used to eat tuna mixed with oatmeal to help him beef up his already freakishly huge biceps. I remember when our relationship ended, I sprawled across my bed and sniffled for about seven or eight minutes, and then realized that I was relieved. (I'm sure my relief was nothing compared to the relief my girlfriends felt that they wouldn't have to endure late-night what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-him phone calls from me anymore.)
A few months later, my good friend Cheryl (my roommate at the time, even) got tired of watching me date all the wrong men over and over, and she attempted to intercede by finding me what she perceived to be the perfect man for me. (Warning: This is the reason that Cheryl -- although I love her dearly -- shall never, ever be allowed to set me or anyone else I know up on a blind date.) Cheryl met the guy we'll call "Froggy" (you'll see why momentarily) while I was vacationing in south Texas. She called every day to tell me how excited this man was to meet me ("Mel, he's a journalist, too, a photojournalist for TV news, a helicopter pilot. You're just going to love him..."). The night I got home from vacation, Cheryl met me at the front door and insisted that we go for a late-night breakfast to meet Froggy. The date lasted less than half an hour. Froggy claimed to be 43 but was at least 53. He had the biggest beer gut I've ever seen. Upon meeting me, he draped a heavy arm around my shoulder, and -- I'm not even close to kidding -- said, "Have you heard the one about the snatch-eating frog?" (No, I'm not kidding. And, yes, he meant what you think he meant.) He opened with the nastiest joke I've ever heard, which was quickly followed by one that was even worse. So much worse that a group of drunks three tables away got up and left the restaurant. (I ask you: How gross do you have to be to drive drunks out of an IHOP in the middle of the night?) When we finally got the hell out of there, I glared at Cheryl and she squealed, "I'm so sorry!!!!" I told her if ever she tried to set me up again, I only had three words for her: Snatch...eating...frog. (Now, I need only hold up three fingers, and she knows what I'm talking about.)
What followed in the ensuing months were a series of weird, sometimes-decent-but-usually-terrifying dates. Like the soccer coach who was so terrified I'd figure out that he was bald that he'd never take his hat off (how's that for poor self-image?). Once I saw him with the hat off, he never called me again. Then, the swing dancer / sports writer who canceled a Saturday night date at the last minute by e-mail (bye-bye, loser). Then the baker (who was also my neighbor) who bamboozled me into a first date under the pretense of a friendly fishing trip. Once we got to the riverbank, he produced a bottle of wine, glasses, a basket of crackers, cheeses, caviar, & proceeded to put the moves on me. Nice try, but no sale. He later started leaving me breakfast breads that he'd baked himself (sweet, I know...) with handwritten notes on napkins, all with misspellings like "Melody, your a sun shinning in a pine forrest." (We just weren't meant to be -- never pair a writer with someone who misspells three words in a one-sentence love note.) Then there was the architect who I'm convinced only took me to lunch to see if he could get me to divulge information about my employer (an architecture/engineering firm) and its clients. (What a creep.) Then there was a brief crush on a coworker that never went anywhere (no, I'm not telling who), then a stolen kiss after a few drinks with a coworker who I still can't believe I kissed (yikes -- and I'm not telling who he was either).
And let's not forget the mechanical engineer who spent our one and only date "people watching" (translation: looking for the tightest skirt and the easiest woman in the house that night). He called me a couple of days later and whined endlessly about how his ex-wife hadn't called to wish him a happy birthday. (Ick.) The last time he called (and I didn't answer) was, as a matter of fact, the day I had my first date with Ned. Ah, Ned... My last first date. My bad date days were over the minute we met. He serenaded me in the first two minutes we met, bought me lunch at a cute little Mexican restaurant, and the conversation never lulled. Date number two was only a few hours later. After dinner, we came back to my place -- talked, laughed, got to know each other a little better -- and when he left he asked if he could kiss me. He asked if he could kiss me. (It was all over for me right then.) He kissed me goodnight, then headed for his car. As he was walking away from me, I leaned against my front door and whispered, "Ned...". He turned, I smiled, and I crooked my index finger in that come-back-here-you-cutie kind of way, and he walked back to the door so I could kiss him again. (I think that was the moment it was all over for him.)
Note to self: Say a little prayer of thanks for Ned, who reminds me how far I've come in these two years of re-singlification, who reminds me that I don't have to be married to a cheating weasel, and who reminds me that I don't have to date a deadbeat. Especially say a prayer of thanks that he would never, ever tell me a joke about a snatch-eating frog. (Say it with me: Woohoo!)