Dream Date

Let me tell you something, dating in your thirties blows. Sure, sure, thirty is the new twenty and pink is the new black and what not. But if we’re being honest here finding a man in your thirties is like finding a decent pumpkin on Halloween morning. Yeah, the shelves might have one or two that are seemingly free of rot. But at closer look you find just beneath that pretty, fleshy, surface is an inside writhing with decay.

Half the men are jaded, having been heart broken or post-divorce. The other half just realized they worked their entire lives away and the tick tock of old age is looming over their heads. By mid-thirty life has screwed you over so many times you’re merely attempting to find someone whose damage isn’t worse than your own. And as a woman in her rapidly decreasing early thirties, an entire world of problems lay at your feet. Your Spanx need shape correctors of their own. Wrinkles appear in strange places; the youthful glow and shape of your face starts to melt away. Suddenly there’s an excess flab of skin growing beneath your chin like a turkey wattle.

Figuring out what to wear and how much to shave is mentally draining. And really ladies, wouldn’t we rather just sit at home in our worn-out pajamas an extra-large glass of your favorite red beside you while binging trash tv? I know I would.

So, you might be asking yourself, why am I bothering to meet a stranger for dinner?

Because the dry spell has gone on too long. Too long.

Put the Sahara Desert to shame, long.

I glanced down in the car next to me at Merlot. Buckled up safe and sound in the passenger seat. My girl with her tantalizing swirls of black cherry, plum, and chocolate. Merlot never showed up to a date with a ring on their finger. She was well traveled without being pompous. Want to taste Australia? Go ahead. Italy? No problem. Hell, try both. Home girl never laughed at what you did for a living then tried to cover it up with an ‘Oh, you were serious?’

A cool breeze drifted around through my open car windows, summer sounds floating in. Smells of scrumptious Italian dinners and smokey barbeque made my mouth water. Well Merlot my dear, which pairing should we pick tonight? I gently patted the bottle as I inched along the crazy downtown traffic. When mystery date number 5 suggested a place that’s BYOB I jumped on the chance to bring the booze. This way if the night went terrible at least I could drown myself in sweet vino. And if need be, the heavy glass bottle could be weaponized three stooges’ style.

Tonight’s date didn’t need to be wonderful. It just needed to not suck. I don’t think I could handle another night trying to resist the urge to run screaming to the door. If this didn’t work out, I might just accept my fate as a crazy cat lady. Did I have to go to a shelter and adopt a herd of cats? Do they just sense these things in the air and appear at my back door?

The slow tread of traffic was adding the existing anxiety over the entire night. My nauseatingly happily married bestie set up this date. Happy people rarely understood the plight us miserable people faced in the dating world. Sure, we had known each other since infancy but did she really know what I wanted in a man?

Did I?

I had been so set on hoping to find a slightly used, minimally damaged, male specimen I didn’t put much stock into what I wanted. A lack of mommy issues with a stable income would be nice I suppose. Blowing my bangs out of my eyes, I finger tapped the steering wheel along to the radio. The clock on the dash told me in roughly three minutes I would officially be late to this date. I was about six blocks from my destination, and we haven’t moved a single inch. I couldn’t even pull over anywhere and walk. My little putt putt was sandwiched between a bus and a pickup truck.

Screeching sirens sang in the distance and I switched to the news. The bubbly voice on 99.7 prattled about a sink hole. Maybe it was just a baby hole, that we could easily navigate around. Or with my luck it was the size of Rhode Island and my would-be date is nestled at the bottom.

The bus in front of me turned off their engine, the driver climbing out. His hands shielding his eyes looking down the road. Resigned to the fact I would be late, I threw my own car in park, reaching for my phone. Except it wasn’t there.

Blowing out a frustrated sigh, I dug through my purse. I couldn’t have possibly forgotten it, could I? Images of my phone snuggled up on my bedside table floated before me. I had been so focused on snagging my MVP Merlot I didn’t grab the cell as I ran out the door.

What an idiot.

Behind me a man climbed out of the pickup, dirty construction boots and low-slung jeans swaggering over to the bus driver. Had to say, I didn’t hate the view from my angle. Mr. Construction with his broad shoulders and sculpted arms peeking out from a ripped-up tee.

Had I mentioned I was in a dry spell?

Said man was shaking his head in frustration as the two chatted back and forth. Don’t worry buddy I feel your pain. Deciding I had no other choice I joined the two men click clacking my way over to them.

“Excuse me, do either of you gents have a phone I could borrow?”

The two men turned looking down at me. The bus driver smiled kindly at me, his bald liver spotting head crinkling and covered with a thin sheen of sweat. Meanwhile the driver of the pickup unclipped an old school flip phone from his belt, handing it to me. I looked at his face for the first time.

And oh. My. God.

This hunk of man meat was utterly delicious. Tall perfectly portioned. I felt sweat creeping in uncomfortable places as I cleared my throat.

“I, uh, don’t suppose anyone knows the number to Little Vito’s?”

“Sorry ma’am.” The bus driver said shaking his head and I cringed internally.

Ma’am.

“No,” Mr. Construction sighed.

“Oh well. I tried.” Shrugging, I handed him his phone back. “Guess we’ll be here for a while.”

Mr. Construction cocked an eyebrow at me, nodding. “Hours.”

A man of few words.

He just keeps getting better and better.

“There’s going to be a lot of unhappy people at the 45th street pickup.” The bus driver grimaced glancing again at the miles of cars running up the blocks and out of sight. Mr. Construction nodded along with him.

“Hopefully the rest of my crew isn’t stuck in this mess.”

“Friday night lumber emergency?” I chimed in, feeling left out. He looked me up and down before answering.

“I like to keep my men fed.”

I know it’s the 21st century ladies but forgive me while I swoon. The two men stared at me as I bobbed on the spot awkwardly. Guess this was an A, B, conversation, and I needed to C my way out of here. Blowing out a long breath I tipped my imaginary hat at them.

“Till next time, then.”

Putzing back to my car I unbuckled Merlot and plopped to the curb. Fancy dress be damned. Wasn’t getting any use out of it tonight anyway. Ripping the plastic seal off with my teeth, ready to dig in. No corkscrew? No problem.

I tapped the bottle top along the curb jamming my car key in the gooey top. Never underestimate a woman determined to get to her vice. I jammed the bottle between my knees a lioness attacking a gazelle. Except this stupid gazelle was glued into place and refusing to budge.

A shadow fell over me and I looked up to see Mr. Construction.

“Rough day?”

“Something like that.” I muttered, enjoying the cocky smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’ll share if you can help me get this bottle open.”

He stared at me for a few beats then with a nod, headed off to his truck. I wondered if this was a bring the mountain to Mohammed type moment.

Returning with a water bottle and coffee mug in hand he lounged on the curb beside me. I handed him the bottle and he pulled a screwdriver out of a side pocket. Within seconds the juicy pop and soft hiss floated up from his hands. The silky-smooth notes dancing on the air.

Rinsing out the mug he poured with a heavy hand before handing the cup to me. I bit my tongue to stop from asking him to marry me.

He poured some into his water bottle and tapped his cup to mine.

“Cheers.” I said taking a long soul healing gulp.

We sat in comfortable silence. Strangers but in a common dilemma. He rested an arm on a cocked knee, his other leg stretched out in front of him. We both sat staring at my car who really could use a bath.

“Where you supposed to be?” I asked swirling the burgundy dregs in the bottom of my mug. Wondering if it would make me look bad to go for a refill already.

“Job site in Old City. My foreman is there but I don’t like starting a new project and not being there myself.”

I nodded like I understood. But being a florist, I didn’t have a crew or site I ever had to be worried about.

“How about you? Unless curb side drinking was the plan all along.”

I grinned, “Actually was supposed to be on a blind date.”

He shuddered, “Man, those are the worst.”

“Tell me about it.” I sighed, “I’m not even mad I’m missing it. More annoyed I wasted an hour to get ready.”

“Wasn’t wasted.”

Be still my heart. Beaming at him I held out my hand, “Sarah.”

“Hank.”

“Want a refill Hank?” I asked picking up the bottle. He stood up.

“One second,” He called over his shoulder as he jogged back to his work truck. He dug around in back seat before producing a bag of potato chips. I tilted my head as he sat back down.

“What kind of man would I be if I didn’t contribute something to our first date?”

What kind indeed.