The Last Place She'd Look (3 page)

I lost 50 pounds the last year of college, anxious about finding a job in the working world. My reward was a trip to the hairdresser who transformed my limp, mousy brown locks into flattering tresses with highlights and lowlights in dark blonde tones. That's been my color ever since — high-maintenance and high-priced. I charged it when I was broke. I'm probably still paying off hair appointments from three years ago on my never-decreasing credit card balance.

Did any of this make me feel pretty? In the dating world a new hairdo always made me feel courageous and spunky, ready to welcome a warm smile offering kind words. Yet sometimes I wondered if I was just repainting an old barn, filled with dusty, anguished junk, eager to disguise it as glowing vintage artifacts. For the most part, whenever I took my lonely self on over 300 dates with the goal of not being alone in the future, I found myself sitting face-to-face with another breathing being, yet I was soul-less. So how could I have appeared attractive to them if I was invisible to myself? Over the years, as I grew confident, receptive, and welcoming, I thought the outcome of first dates that never led anywhere would change. As I became less invisible to myself, I believed my outcome would evolve; I'd at least have a two-week euphoric roller coaster of a romance that would be cast aside like Christmas morning's favorite toy. That would be an improvement over date after date ending with a forced smile, rigid hand shake, and the robotic mouthing of, “Nice to meet you.”

Then I hit my 40s. Ouch. I'd become strong, self-affirming, and grounded. Finally present for my meet and greets, the tables had turned. The youth boat had sailed, leaving me imperceptible to the opposite sex. As much as I tried to have hope in my heart, I felt increasingly invisible as a desirable woman in the company of available, age-appropriate men. (Age-appropriate men—now that's an oxymoron. A middle-aged man who has never been married is a man-child. Living in Los Angeles, man-children are as plentiful as fake boobs.) They were self-absorbed, bitter about their pasts, eager for a companion who wouldn't make them “think too much.” Most men seemed to want someone young enough to give them children (whether they wanted kids or not). Gazing at men's lined, saggy faces, receding hairlines, and expanding bellies, I thought the male population hovering around my age seemed dull and lifeless.

What did men see when they looked at me? Many times when our eyes met for the first time, I sensed they were saying, “Light me up, right now. Show me the magic of your hot, sexy love.” Who can live up to that one-minute do-or-die first impression? Comedian Bill Maher said,
“There comes a time when women should just forget about men. It's called menopause.”
Was this happening to me? Having spent most of my life as a celibate heterosexual, this was a tough concept to embrace. Then I thought, “Was I an unsuccessful heterosexual?” I'd been climbing the penis tree for so long, and the results were seldom worth the hike. If I was as wonderful, funny, and interesting as most friends said I was, then why was finding a relationship so difficult?

I called Julia, my personal goddess of self-esteem. She said,
“Hello”
before I heard her drop the phone, pick it up, drop it again, and finally slur, “Hello, who is this?”

“Are you hung over?” I whispered.

“Sara? What if I am?” I heard Julia strike a match, no doubt her first cigarette of the day.

“I am, too,” I nervously laughed.

“Good for you.” I heard her puffing, waking up. “Get any?”

“I could say 'close but no cigar', but the guy took one look at my body and threw me out of his house,” I told Julia as I poured a sobering cup of coffee.

“If he couldn't see your beauty, then you're better off. He's a jerk, so on to the next.” She puffed again and asked, “This ignoramus was a homeowner?”

“No, he lives in a rented dump … too broke for a decent bottle of wine.”

“Don't spend another minute thinking about him. Get yourself to a yoga class, have a hot bath, and move on.”

“Julia, want to go to yoga with me?”

“I'd love to, dear, but only if we can hit a noon class. Later today I have a guy coming over that I found on
Craigslist
. I've also seen him on Adult Friend Finders. Anyway, he'll be here to scrub my kitchen floors on his hands and knees while I spank him. Then he'll vacuum nude and service my sexual needs.”

“Sounds like a full afternoon,” I replied enviously.

“It's better than hiring a housekeeper—and there's a bonus! By sunset tonight, everything in my house will sparkle, including me,” said Julia. “Check back in a few days. We'll go out. Remember what Eleanor Roosevelt said, 'No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.' Can you imagine her body? And you know, she had a girlfriend! Just food for thought, Sara ...”

I hung up, grabbed my keys, and went to my mailbox. Maybe something there would take my mind off the previous night.

It finally happened. Yes, it's official, folks. The rite of passage had arrived. I just received the rudest piece of mail ever delivered to me:

Welcome to AARP. Our records show that you haven't yet registered for the benefits of AARP membership, even though you are fully eligible. As a member, you'll have the resources and information you need to get the most out of life over 50.

How did they find me? I've lied about my age for so long. They must have been tipped off by Social Security, another agency responsive to the needs of seniors. Was I in that club now? Once I joined the American Association of Retired Persons, it would be like putting one foot in the grave. Should I expect letters from the Neptune Society and Forest Lawn? Time's a wastin'…

Chapter 3

Yoga Geezer

Julia took some time away from her
Craigslist
dates to go to yoga with me. At 52, she was blonde with sapphire blue eyes, fearlessly bisexual, and so comfortable being a sturdy, curvy 250 pounds, she often modeled in the Big Beautiful Woman catalogs.

We carried our mats up two flights of stairs to the sparse, hardwood-floored room. Rolling our mats out flat, not too close to the window, we placed our water bottles side by side. We each sat cross-legged, eyeing every young, beautiful woman who walked into the room, smiling at one another when we saw someone whose youthful beauty made us both feel ancient.

The teacher entered and the class began. Deep breathing, bending, flexing, and sweating, my mind concentrated on the movement of each limb in response to the commands of the teacher. Yoga is not about impressing anyone, gymnastic ability, or putting your foot behind your head. You are not required to be a woman, a Hollywood star, or a chanting vegetarian (though, if you live in L.A., you might find yourself wanting to be any of those for no apparent reason).

Today I focused within myself and didn't look at the gorgeous girls and former ballerinas half my age who could headstand with the ease of exhaling or touch their nose to their crotch effortlessly. I wiped the sweat from my brow, the back of my neck, and then glided into another asana. After an hour of pretzeled poses, it was time for “pigeon,” which focuses on opening the hip flexors. This same part of the body is where holistic practitioners like Louise Hay believe we hold onto our deep-seated emotions and grudges.

It took me a while to position myself for pigeon, also known as humble warrior, as I aligned my body for optimum humble hip opening. I was agitated, clumsy, fumbling to get my feet and knees where they should be.

Finally, my pigeon was calm and aligned, or so I thought. The teacher approached and corrected my pose, gently pressing and pushing my sweaty limbs to stretch deeper, releasing into the asana.

The second after her adjustment, my mind clicked, as if a switch turned on a movie in my mind. It was a flashback to my married life, two decades ago. I saw myself younger, naked, straddling my then-husband Rupert in our bed. My head lifted up to the ceiling, and I screamed, like a mating call, releasing enough anger to shatter the ceiling as if it were a thin pane of glass.

Meanwhile, back on my yoga mat, I'm aware of a low groan — the same scream, only muffled, emitting from my mouth, echoing into my stomach. As I'm groaning, I feel my body release, as if years of angst were peeling away, melting, dissolving. I felt lighter and happier as I wiped a tear and switched to position the same pose on the other side of my body.

A half hour later, class ended. Julia and I smiled at one another, rolled up our mats, and walked to the back of the room to collect our shoes.

“You're quite the intense yogini,” said Will, the only man in the class.

“Me?” I said, surprised to be noticed, let alone singled out.

“Yes, I heard you having a breakthrough on your mat,” he nodded. “Most remarkable. I'm Will, by the way. I think I've seen you here before. But I'm usually surfing at this hour.” Will was tall and lean, kind of a bean pole with a silvery mane of thick grey hair. His face was kind and lined, somewhere between 60 and 65, maybe older, but his body looked youthful, and his eyes were ageless.

“You surf?” I was surprised.

“Yes, I live a block from the beach. It's great to start the day with my board.”

“I'm Sara. This is my friend Julia.”

“Hello, ladies.” Will fumbled with his mat to try and shake my hand. “Well, you two look like you're off somewhere together. I don't want to keep you…I was going to ask if you wanted to get some coffee.”

Julia glanced at me, raised her eyebrows, cocked her head, and said, “We weren't going anywhere together. I'm going home to do my taxes. Why don't you two go for coffee?” She practically pushed me into him.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting at an outdoor café on a tree-lined street sipping a latte and hearing Will's life story. Was this moment like my first meeting with Ack, the only difference being the breed of dogs resting obediently at the foot of the next table? No, Will was a kinder, gentler human being. He was a doctor of infectious diseases, including AIDS, newly divorced with one daughter in college and the other living on her own, aged 30 — same age as some of my friends.

“I write self-help and some health-related articles, mainly about alternative healing and Eastern medicine. I've edited a book on AIDS,” I offered, to show I was knowledgeable about the subject.

“I'm not that familiar with Eastern medicine. The trials are inconsistent.”

“It helps people. Many treatments and modalities have helped bring AIDS patients into remission.” I sipped my coffee, thinking I'd antagonized yet another first date, so I turned away from him, noticing the people with dogs strolling past our table.

“There's something very intriguing about you. I'd like to get to know you better.” Will reached across the table to touch my hand. He was clearly handsome, a cross between Leonard Bernstein and Henry Fonda. But he had an old man's hand. It made me feel old, wondering if, as he touched me, I'd dry up, crack, and wither away.

Meanwhile, women of all ages, at other tables and passing by, looked at him admiringly. But I was still not sold on the idea of being with someone so much older. My first task was to surmise
how much
older he was. “Undergraduate school? How did you decide to become a doctor?” I was wearing my reporter/detective hat now.

“Undergraduate, Berkeley, where the best lefties are born and educated.” He smiled, raising his cup to me. “I was always politically active. I wanted to march on Washington with Martin, but my parents said I was too young.”

My mind raced to place “Martin,” as in Luther King. Will wanted to march on Washington at a time when I was barely in elementary school and not allowed to cross the street myself! If I were better in history and math, I'd know his age. But I didn't want to ask because then I'd have to “give up” my real age, a secret that rivaled the mysteries of the pyramids.

I'm good at getting dates to talk about themselves. Will waxed poetic about the '60s, meeting his wife at a
Black Panthers
meeting (something all the really dedicated liberals did, along with a stint in the
Peace Corps
). He revealed himself to be a caring soul, passionate about his beliefs, living life true to himself, a goal most people just dreamed about. No, his wife was not a woman of color—she was a blonde, blue-eyed heiress and sometimes model—the trifecta of perfection.

His eloquent words about a long, interesting life were spoken through thin lips, with signs of age at the corners. His lined face was world-traveled. Every experience left its mark, and I saw them all facing me as we both sipped our coffee. He was the personification of what most women would call “a good catch” or “a keeper.” Still raw from the “Ack rejection”, all I could see was a remarkable man, and fearing he'd find me unremarkable, I focused on his thin lips, old man hands, and my imagined newly divorced male need for sexual reawakening after a 32-year marriage (to a slim-thighed, golden goddess, or so I believed). Many of my friends have experienced the melodrama of being the first woman a man sleeps with after his long marriage ends. During that penis resurrection rite of passage, the woman is just a vessel for his need to act out and release the emotional angst of his divorce process. Rebound girl or teacher were not roles I wanted to play. I didn't want to be the woman whose job is to finalize a man's divorce and officiate his born-again, newly single stud life.

Since the sting of Ack the hack, I was leery of men eager to savor the juice of a sexy, younger woman. I was flattered by Will's attentiveness, yet felt neither sexy nor juicy. I am a prune on a date, in the disguise of a woman. I decided that this time it was me
not
jumping in with both feet, knowing full well I might be missing a great opportunity.

I smiled politely. “I should be going soon,” I said tentatively, trying to think of the activity I should be going to so I could fashion a proper excuse.

“Me, too.” He stood. “I'd like to see you again…maybe dinner?” Reaching into his pocket, Will pulled out two business cards. He asked for and wrote down my number on the one card, then gave me the other. “I'll be in touch.” He reached for my hand and kissed it. We walked in opposite directions.