Melani Robinson

Author | 1 Year of Online Dating at 50

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A Seat at Her Table

December 18, 2017 by Melani Leave a Comment

Meet Steph and listen as she talks about the work she’s done to finally feel comfortable in her own skin.  Steph shares her struggles with low self-esteem, but more specifically how living with Poland syndrome, a rare disorder, that has impacted her relationships in the past. Listen as she describes what she’s done to avoid making the same mistakes in her current relationship.

 

Click HERE to listen via iTunes.

Click HERE to listen from the website.

Please: Rate, Review and Subscribe to the podcast on iTunes.

See you again in 2018!

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MATCH!

April 27, 2015 by Melani 8 Comments

A few days ago my friend Tracy and I were talking on the phone and I realized she worked with a guy I’d had my first online date with–waaaaay back in 2001. I was in between relationships and I thought I’d give it a whirl. The site I used was Match.com. Secretively, of course, and I wasn’t on for long. My profile didn’t include photos and gave no hint as to my occupation. Heck, I wouldn’t even give my name when corresponding.

I was deep undercover. Skulking around like a criminal.

I didn’t even tell most friends. I felt I’d be perceived as a loser, a woman so desperate and undateable she couldn’t get a man the normal way. The truth was the company I worked for frowned on employees dating—particularly anyone in a managerial role. As a single mom, my free time was usually filled with softball games or school events. I certainly wasn’t going to date any single dad who had kids running in the same circles as mine. There was already enough speculation about my private life from the cliquish group in the softball community. Seems nothing gets people riled up more than a single woman who refuses to gossip about others OR bare her soul. So they simply made shit up and created a torrid and lascivious love life for me–strictly in their silly little minds.

My, my, my how things have changed.

I officially became an over-sharer. I spent a year blogging about the good, the bad and humiliating. Although I was on numerous sites, most of that year was spent on Match.com. While chronicling my experiences, I often wondered if those gossipmongers (from the past) found the blog.

How do you like me now, bitches?

 

It may surprise you to learn that Match.com is twenty years old. Holy shit, I thought I was a pioneer in 2001 and it had been around for years before I dipped my toe in the cyber pool. Digital dating is the new normal and here are some interesting facts:

  • More than 125 million people have joined Match
  • Match has created more than a quarter of a billion matches
  • Match users have sent more than 4 billion winks and emails
  • More than 20 million people have used Match through a mobile device
  • Match has created more than 10 million relationships 

 

And in the next 20 years:

  • Two out of three relationships and more than half of all marriages will begin online
  • The single population will double

 

Bill & Freddi

Bill & Freddi

And remember Match’s original success story—Bill and Freddi? We cyber-seekers can breathe a sigh of relief. They’re still going strong.

 

Rock on, you crazy lovebirds.

 

Now to get back to MY first Match.com date. My friend Tracy did in fact work with him and knew him well. She confirmed what I believed—he was/is a really good guy. I asked if she knew if he’d remarried and she thought he had.  Here’s what happened back 2001. We’ll call him Carl.

Carl and I went on several dates. He was kind, compassionate and decent. Many nights when my teenaged daughters slept we’d talk on the phone. I was pretty stressed in those days, working long hours and attempting to be both a mother and father to my girls. One person just can’t do it all and I was running myself ragged trying to fill the gaping void in their lives. There was little time for me and late at night when I was picking up the house and doing laundry, I’d talk to Carl and he’d sometimes suggest a temporary but most needed reprieve. He’d ride his Harley to my house and pick me up. He had a sound system on his bike and would always play music from the 70s. The stuff that took me back to my teenage years. Carl would take me down Boulder Highway (Las Vegas) and out to Boulder City, a small town near Hoover Dam. It was usually around midnight so there were few cars on the road. For that one hour, with the wind in my face, my arms around his waist and songs I knew by heart, I was free. Just a chick on the back of a bike feeling mellow.

 

What a gift.

 

Carl and I didn’t see each other for long. After several dates he had not done anything more than kiss me goodnight. I didn’t know if he was sexually attracted to me and was too embarrassed to ask. We weren’t exclusive and it was about that time that I went on a business trip to Pittsburgh, met Neal, and was no longer single.

 

When I returned, Carl called me and I told him I’d met someone, well, not just someone but the love of my life. He was gracious and wished me well.

Carl called occasionally to “check in” and see if my relationship was still going strong. Of course it was and he always said he was happy for me, but also disappointed. He thought we had something special. I cared about Carl and figured I should tell him the truth: I never knew if he was attracted to me. He was flabbergasted. He said he was so enamored he didn’t want to do anything to blow it. He was being a gentleman and taking it slow out of respect. I then asked if he wanted some advice. He welcomed it.

 

See? I was even a dating know-it-all back then.

 

I told Carl that the next time he felt that way he had to “go for it.” Most women don’t want to be treated like delicate flowers. I know I didn’t. I told him after a couple of dates he should make a move, let her know that he’s hot for her. He laughed, assured me he’d take my advice and then told me if things didn’t work out with Neal, he had a thing or two to show me.

 

Atta baby, Carl!

Tracy & Mel-35th HS reunion

Tracy & Mel-35th HS reunion

 

I shared this story with my friend Tracy. We laughed and wondered if he met his current wife online? I’d like to think so.

Happy 20th Anniversary, Match, my original cyber-relationship broker.

How about you? When did you first dip your toe into the digital dating waters? Which site was it? Full disclosure: This post is sponsored by Match.com. BUT, I was given creative freedom, cause you know that’s how I roll.

Match Timeline Final“Online dating only sucks until it doesn’t.” Melani Robinson

No Age In Love

March 1, 2015 by Melani 14 Comments

The following essay was a Modern Love submission that was rejected. I heard the editor was looking for more humor pieces so I gave it a shot. I didn’t do anything with it for about a year and then entered it in Solas awards for Best Travel Writing. It just received an honorable mention. I thought you might enjoy reading it and I’ve added some photos.

 

No Age In Love

The first time a new widow has sex will probably be memorable. When it’s in Milan with a beautiful waiter, sixteen years her junior, it is indelible.

My friend Jeanne and I boarded the plane in Philly and would spend three weeks traveling the boot from top to bottom. Neal, my husband, was supposed to be my companion. He wanted to introduce me to his favorite country. His death, six months before, changed everything. Life without him was so unbearable I often wished for an accident or terminal illness of my own.

“Aren’t you excited?” Jeanne said, as the plane took off.

“I hope we plummet into the ocean,” I mumbled as I looked out the window and it was then that given my desire to buy the farm, Jeanne realized separate planes might’ve been prudent. She internally acknowledged her risk of becoming collateral damage.

On our first night the hotel concierge booked a table at a swanky restaurant. It was an effort to put on mascara. I wore sensible shoes.

“Our waiter’s flirting with you.”

“Please, I could’ve given birth to him. I mean, if I were a slutty fifteen-year-old,” I said, discretely tucking my clodhoppers further under the seat.

When he returned to our table I asked, “Were you smiling at me because I mispronounced the dish?”

“No. I was smiling because you’re a gorgeous woman.”

Jeanne grinned which prompted me to remind her of the facts. He was a handsome waiter in Italy. It was his job to flirt with middle-aged women.

When he deposited the check he also included his card. If we needed anything during our trip, we shouldn’t hesitate to call. As we walked back to our hotel, my friend repeatedly suggested I phone. After a couple of drinks at the hotel bar, beyond the bottle of wine we shared with dinner, I was properly liquored-up and I did. Salvatore invited me for a nightcap and I quickly changed into preposterous shoes, put on makeup and fixed my hair.

Entering the pub a few blocks from the hotel, I came to my senses. Surveying the crowd it was apparent that the only appropriate role for someone my age was as a chaperone to rowdy high school kids traveling abroad. Feeling foolish I turned to leave and there he was.

“Bella, let me get you a drink.”

Perhaps it was his unlined and glorious face or the impeccably tailored clothing that hugged his long lean frame but one drink became two and an hour passed as we sat on the patio and chatted. A light rain began in what was surely a cue that our evening should end and Salvatore ceremoniously opened his umbrella, placed his arm around my waist and pulled me closer to him and the protection of cover (of course he did).

“May I drive you to your hotel?” he asked.

“No. You can take me to your place.”

Unknown-1The next morning I expected the sick feeling to hit, one that occurred when a monumental mistake of the floozy variety was made. It never did. That night was like an IV drip of narcotics after months of acute appendicitis. I planned to exchange airy “ciaos,” the requisite cheek kisses and proceed to day two of the vacation with the big event being “The Last Supper.” Instead, a second evening with Salvatore followed. “Some widows drink to numb the pain,” I told myself, “I have sex with random waiters in foreign countries.”

The clear conscious was brief, though, as even an agnostic should not forget she’s in the land of saints andFullSizeRender-9 popes. As Jeanne and I waited for the train to Florence I noticed a group of people staring at my diamond and ruby wedding band. When we squeezed aboard the overcrowded, standing-room only car they did, too. The next hour we were surrounded by a band of professional pickpockets who strategically, with feigned casualness, placed their hands on our suitcases and handbags as the train bumped along. We eventually locked ourselves in the lavatory, removed all jewelry and buried our wallets deep in our American-sized luggage. I winced at the reminder of my marriage as I slid the ring off and then glanced in the mirror. I was sweating like a criminal.

“A stolen wedding ring seems appropriate,” I thought, yet was also relieved to see that Jeanne—who started the day with her naturally curly hair straightened like a board—was equally sodden and had morphed into Chaka Khan.

Arriving in Florence I had several missed calls from Salvatore. As I imagined our interlude was complete it was confusing and I called him back. “I’ll come to Firenze, if you want,” he suggested, and I did. Later that afternoon while sightseeing my lips began tingling. I asked Jeanne (a nurse) if she noticed anything unusual about my mouth. “Nope, looks normal to me,” she said as we began to climb the 463 steps of the Duomo. At the halfway point we were breathing hard and I was certain I felt my lips bouncing. Once at the top I turned towards my friend and she jumped. I was having some sort of allergic reaction as my lips and tongue were swollen and my limbs were covered with walnut sized welts. Running down the steps to find a pharmacy for the Italian equivalent of Benadryl I asked for directions from a tour guide.

“Pharma-see-uh?” I gasped, as my throat tightened.

“It’s pharma-CHI-uh,” Jeanne corrected, in what had to be a shout out to her Italian heritage. Obviously, even when things were dire, proper pronunciation was paramount. We eventually called the hotel doctor who gave me a shot of medication which quickly began working. My lips no longer brushed against the tip of my nose and end of my chin. The doctor asked what I was allergic to and I told her to my knowledge, nothing.

“This isn’t nothing,” she said tersely.

She was correct and I concluded it was the pox of the merry widow.

Swollen face, days later.

Later that evening Jeanne casually mentioned that for someone who wanted to die I certainly rushed to the pharmacy. I rolled my eyes and stated the obvious: I didn’t want to die a heinous death, gasping for air with a gargantuan tongue and distorted face. She could be such a stickler.

The next day I called Salvatore and told him Florence was out. My face was puffy and I’d spent too much time thinking about him. What began as an escape from grief had transitioned into something more complex. I’d started to care. The futility of a relationship with a much younger man and guaranteed hurt when it ended—and I knew it would end–had snapped me into survival mode, a place where any potential pain was to be identified and avoided.

“It was fun! Arrivederci!” was my new attitude.

Salvatore was not so flippant.

“I want to see you again,” he repeated during multiple calls and by the time we arrived in Rome it was, “I must see you.”

Determined to erase our encounter, Jeanne and I filled our days with all Rome offered and my amnesiaFullSizeRender-10 appeared acute until we reached the Vatican. I planned to light a candle in memory of my very Catholic husband even though his upbringing, which included daily mass as an alter boy, seemed like serious overkill. In his eyes my dogma-free childhood was parental neglect but I often pointed out the residual effect: I wasn’t ruled by shame. He usually countered that a little contrition never hurt anyone and as I walked through Saint Peter’s Basilica, surrounded by tangible icons of good versus evil, I flashed back to my indiscretion. It was as if the environment pulled it from where it was buried in my brain and I wondered how many “Hail Marys” a priest might assign me.

My susceptibility to vicarious Catholic guilt was horrifying.

Sorrento

Sorrento

As we moved south the opportunity to meet faded. By the time we were in Sorrento and soon headed back to the States I knew the memories of my vacation fling would quickly wane.

Salvatore had a different plan.

He called regularly and our conversations would end with him asking me to return or allow him to visit. I would point out the obstacles of geography and age and he would reply, “Bella, there is no age in love.”

We became friends on Facebook and I watched as he opened his own restaurant. He invited me to the opening night party but I declined. In the event photos lovely, dewy girls surrounded him and although we’d never talked about anyone we were dating, his options seemed greater than mine.

“You belong with someone your age,” I told him.

“Every man in my family marries an older woman,” he said. “My mother is older than my father, my brother’s wife is older. It’s what we do.”

Although I wanted to believe there was a genetic marker portending a happy life for us, I doubted the scientific backing of our May/December pairing.

Jeanne and Tom's wedding

Jeanne and Tom’s wedding

But, much can change in five years and I gradually became stronger–the ache of loss transitioned into gratitude for what I once had. I was ready to take risks and when Jeanne announced plans for her upcoming wedding in Tuscany I knew I would see Salvatore. I even daydreamed about living in Italy part time, but didn’t share my impending visit. He’d been disappointed more than once with tentative plans made in moments of weakness or too much wine that always dissolved when I came to my senses.

I visited his Facebook page daily and allowed myself to recall touching his taut stomach and the feel of his legs entwined with mine as we talked. I didn’t worry that he’d grown even more attractive, while that same stretch might not have been as kind to me. During one of those times there were new photos of Salvatore that reflected a palpable bliss.

He had gotten married.

His bride wore a white lace gown that hugged her lithe, narrow frame. Salvatore held her against him while they danced, so perfect they could’ve been on the cover of a bridal magazine. He would have the life he deserved with a partner his own age and the children I knew he wanted. I would never forget those two nights that soothed my pain but there would be no reunion for us, only friendship.

I don’t agree with Salvatore. There is absolutely an age in love. He was exactly where he belonged and finally, after five rough years, I knew I was, too.

“We all become explorers during our first few days in a new city, or a new love affair.” Mignon McLaughlin

At Last: Part Two

July 17, 2014 by Melani 36 Comments

Once finished with class I checked my phone and faced the truth. I would never hear from Will again. I deleted my profile and headed to Trader Joe’s for groceries.

 On the walk I got a call…

It was Will but you already knew that, right?

He apologized for not getting back to me after he processed the information, as he was away on business and very busy.

It was strange to finally hear his voice. Sure, we had numerous text conversations but this was intimate, serious and real–two hours of real. Then he called again that night and we talked for three hours.

AND several times the next day.

AND every day after that.

We also continued to text multiple times each day and raucous laughter was automatic. Will was away for two weeks on business but I don’t think he got much work done. I know I didn’t do much writing as my head, normally filled with my current work, was full to the brim with him. He asked me if I would like to go to dinner a day or so after he returned. He first sent a text and then called to apologize for asking me out in that manner. There are some things that should be done with a phone call, he explained.

I liked that.

During one of our typical days of texting I was surprised when his business partner responded. Will was driving. I wanted to be a good sport so we went back and forth for a short time and then he called.

“Will has a girlfriend,” he said. I could hear the teasing tone in his voice accompanied by Will’s protests in the background. “He’s in love. It’s Melani this and Melani that. All he does is talk about you.”

I really liked that.

As much as I hoped to be Will’s girlfriend, I didn’t bring it up. After all, we hadn’t even met.

BUT, he did.

He asked me if I was dating other men and I told him I was not. He said he’s always preferred to focus on one person, dating multiple women was not the path he chose and he’d like to focus on me.

So, after hours and hours of talking, never ending texts and just about any over-sharing one could imagine, it was date night. I wasn’t even a bit nervous. I knew this man and was comfortable being myself. I also have (cough) a few first dates under my belt.

I’m Melani Robinson-Goddess of First Dates!

Pour La Victoire

I took my time getting ready and since Will chose a restaurant one short block from my house (my favorite neighborhood bistro, by the way), I decided to wear a dress and serious heels. The kind that might get a girl in trouble—or at least accentuate her calves. Shoes of the impractical variety.

 

I was serene as I rode the elevator down to the lobby, “Lookin’ hot, Mel!” Said my doorman Rich. I strolled around the block and did notice a man or two checking me out. I’ve got this, I thought smugly. When I arrived, the hostess told me Will had already been seated so she showed me to our table. He saw me coming and stood up.

I took one look at him—all 6’3” perfection, wearing a beautiful suit to match his gorgeous face and I’m sure you know what was going on inside. You’ll be happy to know that I maintained my dignity, greeted him warmly with a big smile and gracious, “Hello!” as I effortlessly took my seat across the table from him.

OK, that’s how the scene would play out in the movie version. Let’s try again.

Will stood up, smiled as I walked his way–and I lost it.

One look at him and my face flushed bright red, my legs stopped cooperating so my walk got aeyes-wide-open little hitch-y, and my eyes widened as I stared at him, a shocked expression on my face. I awkwardly took my seat, never taking my focus from him, and although my brained screamed SAY SOMETHING, YOU IDIOT, my mouth refused to work. I couldn’t find my words and at the same time I felt beads of perspiration forming on my upper lip.

Will spoke first. “Are you OK? Do I disappoint you?”

Palace_of_Versailles1Did he disappoint me? Probably in the same way the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel let me down or Versailles seemed like just another big ole house.

FINALLY, I found my voice.

“Oh my god, no, not at all. I’m choking under pressure here because you’re so much more than I expected. Your photos don’t do you justice and I came here tonight, full of myself and confidant and took one look at you and I’m a total idiot. I need a drink.”

Will looked relieved as he smiled, and then motioned our server and I ordered a martini.

And after a couple of sips you’ll be glad to know I rallied.

We talked and laughed. He teased me mercilessly about my entrance—we laughed some more. Once I paired the voice I knew and trusted with his face it was effortless. I also knew, without a doubt, I was falling in love. Close to two hundred dates and almost seven years alone, it was quite clear.

After dinner he said he wasn’t ready for the evening to end so he suggested a nightcap. After attempting one neighborhood lounge that was not what we were hoping for, I knew exactly where we should go:

THE SEXY BAR.

If you followed 1yearofonlinedatingat50.com you might remember the sexy bar. It’s a secret underground paradise in my neighborhood. As we made our way from Broadway to Columbus my feet were killing me. I didn’t think we would be walking or I would’ve saved those stripper heels for another date. I told Will I had made a bad footwear choice and we slowed our pace to a stroll as he held my hand and guided me towards our destination.

And that, my friends, was a very good thing because if he hadn’t been firmly holding my hand I would’ve fallen flat on my ass. As it was, the heel of my shoe got stuck in a sidewalk crevice and my ankle turned. That led me to stumble in that incredibly alluring manner—first the ankle turns thensquat1 the knees buckle followed swiftly by the badonk slamming to the ground. Will held on and was able to steady me enough that once all motion had stopped, I found myself squatting on the sidewalk. It looked a lot like this.

That’s right, I’m bringin’ sexy back.

He pulled me up and all I could do was laugh. What other option did I have?

We managed to get to the sexy bar and he was impressed.

Shalel's almost hidden entrance

Shalel’s almost hidden entrance

“How did I live in the city for all those years without discovering this place?”

We ordered drinks and soaked in the sultry vibe. Then he leaned across the table and kissed me.

Now that was a movie moment.

An hour later he we were headed to my place but neither of us wanted the night to end. We sat on a bench near the bar and talked for another sixty minutes. The date had lasted six hours by then.

He walked me home and I was tempted—oh so tempted—to ask him inside, but I resisted and instead we gave hormonal teenagers a run for their money with the passionate kisses in front of my building.

Neighbors, be damned!

I think I floated to the elevator (the only graceful moment all night) and by the time I was in the apartment and getting undressed, Will called. I know, we’re ridiculous. We talked as he drove back to Westchester and then for another hour.

I have never made a bigger fool of myself on a date. I was Mary Katherine Gallagher. None of it mattered, though.

The magic was there.

To be continued…

“We were together. I forgot the rest.” Walt Whitman

Getting Schooled

June 19, 2014 by Melani 57 Comments

The other day we were driving back to the city from Staten Island, where I take my dogs to the vet (not a story filled with bitterness towards Manhattan veterinary care, promise). Although, there IS  belligerence bubbling just under the surface, don’t doubt that for a minute. Have I told you I don’t like to drive in or out of the city? I do it when I have to but if I can get one of my daughters to take the wheel, I’m golden. The girls regularly refer to this as “Driving Miss Daisy.” To. My. Face. Here’s how it sounds, “Seriously, Mom, does it always have to be Driving Miss Daisy?”

Driving-Miss-Daisy-1989

They really are the most retched creatures.

On this road trip as we passed Brooklyn, I noticed a church I’d seen before and struggled to remember the details of why it was familiar. Eventually it became clear. I’d walked past that church while on a date, during my year of online dating. It was one of those stories that never made the blog. I had plenty of over-the-top material to write about and this just wasn’t outrageous enough. Perplexing? Yes. But rather white bread when the competition was a little person following me on a date or a Robert De Niro impersonator with a roach-infested apartment. StANn'sdetailborder

This date was with an architect named Henrik who lived in Brooklyn.

Henrik and I went on two dates prior to the “walk past the church” outing. He took me to dinner twice and then asked if I’d like to see some projects he was working on—two brownstone renovations in Brooklyn. He also mentioned he’d completed gutted and then renovated his apartment and I could see that, too, if I was interested. I’m a do-it-yourselfer so the prospect of seeing what a pro could do was very enticing but the truth was simple and unfortunate. That mysterious “it” just wasn’t there with Henrik. We’d had two very nice dates, and he was interesting, smart and handsome. But Henrik was a serious guy and he never made me laugh. Not even once. I’m not sure if that was the reason I didn’t feel any attraction because normally it’s either there for me or not and I know it within ten minutes of meeting. But, remember (if you followed the blog), I was trying to be open to the possibility that it could grow over time. There was also this little thing that bothered me on both date one and two. Henrik had slight body odor. Now, this was not the “knock you to your knees” variety but more the “working all day and forgot deodorant” sort of funk. I couldn’t smell B.O. from across the table, but when he hugged me goodnight on date one and kissed me goodbye on date two, I caught a whiff.

I was going to tell him I just wasn’t feeling it but then he asked me to see his work. Talent turns me on and I thought, what the hell? Sure, he was a bit fragrant, but he was also European and it’s been my experience in certain countries, the natural body scent we all have sans antiperspirant is the preference when compared to the perfumed pits of an American. I figured if I saw his stuff, maybe it would trigger the feeling that was missing–then I’d work on his aroma.

imagesHenrik asked me to join him for brunch on a Saturday and later we’d walk to his projects. Brunch was pleasant and after he paid the bill we started out on foot. It was during the stroll that we passed the church (I mentioned at the beginning of this post). He took me through both brownstones and his work was A-MA-ZING. He was so talented and I loved every moment of exploring the construction in progress. We traversed from bottom to top, sometimes even using a ladder instead of stairs to reach the next floor. He was always a gentleman, taking my hand as we maneuvered around and through the rubble. Again, I caught the smell of his sweat a couple of times and it was stronger than usual—I guess with all the climbing we were doing.

After several hours of exploring, Henrik suggested we have a glass of wine and then head to his apartment so he could show me a finished project. I told him that sounded great but only if he’d let me pay. He agreed. We actually ended up getting something to eat, too, and I was glad to reciprocate since he paid for dinner twice and then brunch. I knew I wouldn’t see him again but I hoped we could be friends.

We had a couple of glasses of wine, some grub and then went to his place. It was spectacular–architecturally stunning and beautifully decorated. As he showed me from room to room I gushed appropriately, even making a spectacle of myself over his high-end dishwasher. Once the tour ended he asked if I would like another glass of wine. I told him I needed to get going as I had dinner plans with my daughters—true statement. He walked me to the subway and I noticed his attitude changed from the apartment to the sidewalk. He was cold and actually rather rude. I asked a couple of questions about the neighborhood and he could barely answer where as earlier it was as if he was auditioning for the guide on one of those red bus tours. Once we reached the subway, he simply turned and walked away without a word.

I was taken aback. Had I done something wrong? Was I not effusive enough about his apartment? IUnknown didn’t know how I could be more complementary unless I licked the walls or threw my body on his tasteful carpet and rolled around gleefully repeating, “Can’t get enough, just can’t get enough!”

Once home I sent a thank-you email. He did not respond and I never heard from him again. Sure, I could’ve asked if I’d somehow offended him but I knew this wasn’t a good romantic match and I didn’t need to figure out his sullen behavior.

That is, until the recent Brooklyn drive by with my daughter Chelsea and her friend Chelsea. Yes, my daughter has a friend with the same name. Her friend actually has the same first and last name and even middle initial. I’ve heard about “Chelsea who has the same name” for quite some time. They met at CU. It’s not that I didn’t believe my daughter, per se, but it was highly suspect and for very good reason. She’s done this before so it might be a pattern of behavior. She had imaginary friends  as a child, my odd little duck. She constantly talked about her “Mommy and Daddy animals that let her do anything she wanted.” OK, I admit I was often annoyed with those make-believe indulgent hairy parents. They were, after all, competing for the kid’s affection. Since I had never met the elusive Chelsea I was skeptical. “Never trust your children no matter the age” has always been my parenting plan. But then last week Chelsea showed up when she moved to the East Coast after graduation. That’s how she ended up in the car with us on our trek to Staten Island and here’s the conversation.

Me: “I remember when I saw that church.” (Then I told them the story along with the confusion at the end.)

Chelsea 1: “He was pissed because you didn’t have sex.”

Chelsea 2: “Yeah, date three is usually sex.”

Me: “What? No way! He couldn’t have thought we’d have sex. We barely knew each other.”

Chelsea 1: “Of course he did. You went to his apartment. I’m gay and even I know that.”

Chelsea 2: “If I’m not ready for sex and I’m invited to their place, I make a joke and say something like, ‘OK, but we’re not fucking.’”

Me: (laughing) “Welp, you learn something new every day.”

Chelsea 1: “Yeah, Mom, third date, his apartment means sex for straight people.”

Chelsea 2: “And for lesbians third date means move in together.”

Chelsea 1 (laughing): “Shut up, Chelsea.”

So, mystery solved, almost two years later. Henrik expected sex and when it didn’t happen, he threw the dignified architect’s version of a temper tantrum. Good to know. It seems even an “expert” like me has stuff to learn. Therefore, I’ve made a decision in the interest of my continuing education. Until further notice (that will never come) I’ll keep asking my daughters to drive me to and fro.

And you can call me Miss Daisy.

“The minute that you’re not learning I believe you’re dead.” Jack Nicholson. 

Chemistry: Finale

April 28, 2014 by Melani 42 Comments

numero-3-letras-y-numeros-numeros-pintado-por-luisalfre-9772436Alrighty, let’s put a fork in this trilogy.

I felt awful as I got ready for my date with Rob. Sure, it was only one night of promise with Scott, but it meant something to me. I allowed myself—ever so briefly—to be hopeful. You’d think I would be jaded, considering my history of bad dates. Some might even suggest I should plan for the worst so if something good happens it will be a pleasant surprise.

That’s just not my nature.

Yes, in many ways I’m a realist, perhaps even a cynic, but when it comes to love, I’m a dreamer.

Pedro Superdoorman called to let me know Rob was in the lobby so I took a deep breath, put on a perky face and repeated half-full-isms as I rode the elevator down to meet him.

He looked great. In fact, that’s an understatement. He looked like he stepped off the page of a Brooks Brothers catalog. The man was practically wrapped in cellophane and there’s nothing that makes meUnknown worry more about an errant hair or spinach in my teeth, than a guy who’s that fastidious. And you know I love a well-groomed man but have to say, I draw the line at Felix Unger.

Even his shoes shined like a mirror and the streets were a slushy mess after a recent snowstorm.

Did he walk over with trash bags on his feet?

We headed out to Dakota Bar where he’d made a reservation. The place was crowded and noisy—filled with a bunch of hipsters. What is it about that ironic mustached bunch that leads them to believe they’re so w7WE1Aeclever? That everyone (even those seated two tables away) can’t wait to hear what they have to say? Could it be all those trophies for participation?

OK, back to Rob.

We ordered wine and shouted across the table to each other. I learned that he was in the process of a divorce, but not single yet. His parting was taking longer than usual because he had a very difficult situation with his wife—one I’m not going into. That he shared it with me was brave and I respected and admired his willingness to be upfront. He talked about his job and what he enjoyed doing when not working. He was a triathlete and competed often in ironman competitions. He started running many years earlier as stress-relief from his marriage. He mentioned that he’d been unable to run outside because of all the snow and working out in the gym didn’t give him the results he must have.

Now, when I say this man had a perfect body I want you to understand I’m not comparing it to the average in shape fifty-ish male physique. Rob could hold his own with Olympic athletes and I told him as much. Then he mentioned his BMI was that of a fit twenty year old. He wasn’t bragging, either, just stating a fact. He also said he was hoping that the next day (Sunday) would be clear weather so he could get up at 5am and go for a run. A fifteen fucking mile run or some god-awful distance like that.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

Let the over-sharing begin.

“I put on weight this winter. I’ve been sedentary, trying to finish my book.”

“You have a great body, I don’t see anywhere you need to lose weight.”

OK, Rob got big points for that one but he didn’t understand. I was wrapped in shape wear that would eventually come off. When I bid adieu to my little spandex friend—shit would get real.

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At that point I knew two things: There was someone at our table who looked head-to-toe airbrushed AND one of us could strip down, walk naked to the bathroom and receive mad hipster applause. Neither, was the blonde wearing Spanx.

After a second glass of wine I was ready to go. Rob walked me home and apologized for choosing such a noisy place.

“Next time I’ll make sure we can hear each other if you’ll see me again,” he said.

I struggled to see the point. I could probably push through the impossible hardship of dating a physically PERFECT specimen, but Rob didn’t make me laugh. Not once. He was smart, had beautiful manners, and seemed incredible decent but I was kind of bored. Nonetheless, after the recent Scott debacle, “decent” won and I told Rob I would enjoy getting to know him better.

“I need to clarify that I’m not ever going to run. If you’re looking for a woman who’s willing to lace up her sneakers for a Sunday morning togetherness jog, that’s not me.”

I didn’t add that I was hoping for Sunday mornings in bed with the Times, a bacon, egg and cheese bagel sandwich, strong coffee and an even stronger man because, well, some things are best saved for the second date.

We said goodbye in front of my building with a chaste peck and over the next several days, Rob and I sent a few texts back and forth. He said he’d like to arrange a dinner date for the weekend and he’d get back to me once he had figured out his schedule.

Good ole reliable Rob. I was all snuggled up, safe in his steadfastness.

Welp, that weekend passed and another and another and I never heard from Rob. I didn’t text him, either, and wasn’t bothered a bit. Sure, it was weird, but no biggie. I just wasn’t that into him and obviously he felt the same.

A month later my neighbors and I were just about to head over to that same bistro for dinner when I got a text.

I’m at [bistro name] and haven’t been here since the night we met. Would you be interested in meeting for a drink?

Funny you should be there. I’m having dinner with friends in less than an hour.

We met up with Rob as we waited for our table. He ordered drinks for all of us and we chatted until our table was ready. I asked if he’d like to join us. He declined and instead asked if I would be interested in going to dinner the next night. I knew Rob was a good man and probably had a logical explanation as to why he disappeared. I was willing to hear him out. He said he’d call in the morning with a time and place and asked if there was any food I didn’t like. I told him I was really watching what I ate and I would appreciate a place with fish on the menu. I didn’t add that I’d lost five pounds and wasn’t wearing shape wear because who shares that kind of information anyway?

Steady Eddie called the next morning to let me know he’d made a reservation at Ocean Grill and would meet me there. Dinner was absolutely delicious–the conversation, painfully predictable. Rob didn’t mention his disappearance so I did. He apologized and then explained. He realized after our date that he had to push forward with the divorce—a messy situation. He’d also been approached about a job in another state and he’d traveled there, first for an interview, and then twice to assess the area. Both were valid reasons for being unavailable but still not justification for his lack of communication.

“I get it. Totally understandable that you’ve got a lot going on. You still should’ve told me.”

“You’re right. I got caught up in everything but should’ve reached out.”

“Ok, but I want you to understand. You disappear again, I disappear forever.”

We finished our meal while continuing to talk. I made him laugh and hoped he could do the same for me. Didn’t happen. It wasn’t as boring as watching paint dry, but it was pretty dull. I didn’t think I was up for a third date and after another chaste kiss goodnight I was sure of it. If he’d really kissed me I might’ve known if we had a drop of physical chemistry.

The next day he texted to let me know he’d enjoyed our night. He had some divorce stuff going on that week but would keep in touch and was looking forward to seeing me again. Over the next few days we exchanged texts. I didn’t want to go on a third date with Rob but I also didn’t want to reject him in the midst of what he was dealing with. I spent a lot of time thinking about a nice way to tell him. I wanted it to be the perfect blend of flattery and kindness—to let him down softly, that decent, considerate and consistent man.

UNNECESSARY.

After a few days that radio went silent and I never heard from Rob again.

Good Ole Reliable Rob.

“A man’s kiss is his signature.” Mae West

Chemistry: Part Two

April 16, 2014 by Melani 73 Comments

loveOK, here we go.

 With my back to Rob and deep in conversation with Scott it did occur to me that I was being rude. After all, I approached him with the Cheek’d card and my friend was forced to compensate for my bad manners by making small with Rob.

I turned back around and joined their conversation.

“I’d like to take you out tomorrow night,” said Rob.

“Um, OK,” I said, kind of surprised at how quickly he made that statement.

I had very little interest but was also aware that a dose of healthy competition between two males was nature at its best. The truth: Scott had attempted to cock-block Rob with his statement about Rob’s stupid comment so it was obvious (at least in his mind) that it was Game On.

“Can I get your number or do you want me to go through this site?” Rob said, pointing to the Cheek’d card.

I gave him my number and he told me he’d call the next morning with time and location. He left soon after, and I turned back to Scott. I wasn’t ignoring my friend as she’d turned towards the woman next to her and they continued the conversation they’d started before Rob approached.

Scott ordered a second drink for the three of us and put his to-go order in as our conversation continued. I article-1224022-07062664000005DC-98_468x284learned that he was divorced with a ten-year-old daughter. Not exactly what I was hoping to hear but given his age (45) and location, it was to be expected. With the freakishly successful fertility doctors in New York City it’s not uncommon for men in their fifties to have a set of twins still breastfeeding. I guess a fifth grader wasn’t so bad.

The conversation was stimulating and I found myself fantasizing about many more with him in the future. My friend joined in and mentioned that I was an exceptional cook. Scott asked if I would cook for him and I was already creating the menu in my mind. I imagined inviting him over and dining al fresco on the terrace. I pictured lots of candles, a great bottle of wine and the decedent meal I would prepare. I also imagined what might follow the feast—something even more delicious.

The bartender eventually arrived with his order—all boxed up and bagged. Scott handed him his credit card and then asked for my number. He suggested I text him when I got home as he hated to cut the evening short but had to deliver the meal to his relatives. Then he left but not before sharing how glad he was that we’d met and how much he was looking forward to knowing me better.

I’d say it was a pretty amazing night and there hadn’t been a time recently where I felt so belle of the ball-ish. Two men who were interested in one night? It wasn’t quite the days from my roaring thirties on Friday nights at Gordon Biersch, but close.

Gordon Biersch Las VegasBack then I would strategically talk to four men (one per side of the square bar) looping around all night. I did that often and it was easy. Now it was a big night if someone called me “Miss” instead of “Ma’am.”

We stayed a little longer, finished our second martini and then asked for the bill.

“You’re all taken care of. The gentleman paid for your drinks,” said the bartender.

“All taken care of” was something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Even better? Scott took care of my drinks AND my friend’s and did so without fanfare. He was both generous and courtly. A keeper, for sure.

We swayed home—normally one martini is my limit—and I couldn’t wait to text Scott once in my apartment all PJed up, makeup washed off.

For the next hour we exchanged texts that grew increasingly flirty. He was a digital wordsmith and I loved the banter. Scott was leading our conversation down the path to sexting and although I was absolutely sexually attracted to him, I was wise enough to know I’d had too much to drink and would regret flying the freak flag with the sober sunrise illuminating my cyber slut-isms. article-2297474-18DC8B3B000005DC-628_308x425Instead I told him I needed to get some sleep but before we signed off, I asked his last name. He gave it and then reiterated how happy he was and how lucky he felt that we met. I replied:

Me too, Scott. I’m really glad I met you.

He responded by telling me he HAD to see me soon. We’d make plans.

The next morning I woke up smiling even with a hangover. I scrolled through the text conversation again before getting out of bed. I knew I’d hear from Scott once he’d awakened I figured we might even meet for brunch.

Like clockwork, Rob called as he said he would at 10am. I couldn’t have been less interested but I tried to remember not to put all my eggs in one bin—as hard as that was. He suggested drinks and appetizers at a new wine bar on the Upper West Side on 72nd and Columbus, the Dakota Bar and insisted he would pick me up in the lobby of my building. Normally I would’ve been impressed with his follow through and gallantry but Scott occupied my brain and I was surprised I’d not heard from him.

By mid afternoon the radio silence continued. I didn’t reach out to him either, though, and here’s why. Scott is Alpha. He had no issue going after what he wanted the night before. He didn’t hesitate even when I repeatedly brushed him off while pursuing another man. He was very comfortable in that role and I knew if he wanted me, he’d make it happen.

But he hadn’t, yet.

LET THE CYBERSTALKING BEGIN!

I Googled Scott’s full name and nothing came up. Weird. I searched the firm he worked for and his name and nothing came up. Really weird. Then I simply searched his first name and his firm. Bingo! A company event and a photo of Scott. Except his last name was spelled much differently than what he’d texted. Seems Scott had given me the phonetic spelling of his name. Without outing him by giving you the two names, what he did was spell a part of his name with an “F” when a “PH” was how it was actually spelled. Obviously not a typo. What the hell?

LET THE “I THINK HE’S AN ASSHOLE” FRENZIED SEARCH PROCEED!

A few seconds later I had a pit in my stomach as I stared at a photo of Scott, his wife and little girl at a children’s charity event. It was only a few month old so not only did he lie about being married, he also added several years to his daughter’s age—probably because I’d told him my daughters were adults. His child was no more than four. He wasn’t bringing food to his brother and sister-in-law. While he chatted me up for almost two hours, his wife and child waited for him to bring home their dinner.

Wow, did I feel foolish. Thank God we didn’t sext.

I have no idea why Scott did what he did. Perhaps he gets off on playing women. Maybe it’s the thrill of the pursuit and the knowledge that he still has it? Possibly his marriage is boring? No matter the reason, he’s a scumbag. Halfway through our conversation at the bar he asked if I was divorced. I told him I was a widow and he expressed how sorry he was and then asked several questions about how I recovered from the loss. He KNEW the hardest thing I’d done after losing my husband was to attempt to make a new life and find love again. He knew I was certainly more vulnerable and maybe even more fragile than the average divorcee and, yet, he still pursued me with the knowledge that he was going to disappear back into his marriage without even a backward glance.

When you break it down, it’s truly twisted.

I never let Scott know I was onto him and deleted his number from my phone. He only lives a few blocks away and maybe one of these days I’ll pass him and his family on the street. I would never say anything. His wife will find out eventually whom she’s married to if she doesn’t already know. But I will take pleasure in looking him in the eye with an expression that reflects that I’m aware of who he is underneath that unassuming, exceedingly average exterior.

1114-closeWell played, Scott, but one day you’ll pick the wrong woman, she won’t exit as quietly and might even be a bunny boiler.

 

 

My date(s) with Rob in the next installment.

To be continued…

“I’ve told Billy if I ever caught him cheating, I wouldn’t kill him because I love his children and they need a dad. But I would beat him up. I know where all of his sports injuries are.” Angelina Jolie

A Spa Day

January 17, 2014 by Melani 23 Comments

crowdedsidewalk_wide-8ba68b00c818f0f3ebd5a67e42398cc9dbe9f864-s6-c30If you’ve moved to New York City from a more suburban setting you will occasionally reach a state of mind that is not of the New York variety. I know, Billy Joel sings a persuasive anthem but there’s sometimes a yearning for a simpler life in this complicated place. The pace can be overwhelming for those who would like to read a label in the grocery store or even linger for a moment at the selection of canned tomatoes. Not possible here. Know exactly what you want, get in, get your stuff and don’t you dare use a shopping cart that clogs the already congested aisles. Carry everything in a basket and keep it tucked close to your body—along with those elbows. Then lug those heavy bags home on crowded sidewalks with pedestrians moving at a frenetic pace. Don’t even think about slowing your gait and if you need to shift the bag to the other hand, pull to the side. Proceed quickly, do not stop or you’ll certainly be told by one of the locals, “What the fuck are you doing?” or “Hey, dumbass, you can’t block the sidewalk.” OK, I admit I’ve corrected my share of tourists. I’m a little bit kinder—but not much.

Every few months I long for the lavishness of a huge shopping cart, opulence of wide aisles, and, of course, the decadence of a car filled with groceries to be carried the briefest few steps from the trunk to the home. That’s when I schedule my spa day—at Costco.

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A friend of mine has a membership. Well, actually her father in Texas does and I can’t remember how we got on the subject but once I knew she was a “legacy in the making” I suggested she ask to be added to his account. A couple of days ago I picked her up (in my car!) and we headed to the Harlem Costco. I love these trips. My friend has lived in the city for most of her adult life but occasionally longs for the simplicity the suburbia of her youth provided. We like to meander down every single aisle while discussing earthshaking topics such as the “The Real Housewives” of whatever city is currently on Bravo, or the undeniable need for 100 plastic storage containers with color-coded lids.  My shopping list was short, cat litter and Diet Coke, but I brought three hundred cash because one never knows when the perfect memory foam/cool gel pillow or cozy pair of slippers might materialize. Bought both. We also look forward to the samples. We’ll try just about anything—especially if it’s highly caloric or carb-packed. Unfortunately on this trip, Costco decided to go all healthy. Greek yogurt spread on pita chips and veggie/fruit smoothies—chock full of Omega this and that. Spare me.

We always catch up during our wanderings and she asked about the New Year’s Eve party I was going to attend. It started out with promise—a big party at a private residence in Chelsea. Then it transitioned. First was the email instructing guests to bring their favorite libation. OK, I planned to take a bottle of good champagne for the hostess so that wasn’t too annoying, but still, it felt a little frat party BYOB and the only role I could play these days at a fraternity is House Mother.  Next, a second email instructed guests to sign up to bring some sort of snack. That note closed with the guidance to come dressed in “cocktail attire.” Really? You want me to put on fancy clothes then schlep guacamole and chips? The party had transitioned into a potluck—not that there’s anything wrong with potlucks. I just wouldn’t show up to one in sequins and four-inch heels carrying a platter of Rumaki. My friend was equally appalled—one of the things I love about her. I didn’t attend that soiree but instead took the bottle of Perrier-Jouet downstairs and shared it with my favorite neighbors. They provided caviar—my kind of potluck.

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I was giving serious consideration to hosting a party next New Year’s Eve, I told my friend. She thought that was a great idea and reminded me that by the end of 2014 I’d be married.  Yes, you read that right. I’m getting married this year. Now don’t get uppity. I’ve not been holding out and hiding the engagement ring. I, um, haven’t met my husband yet. A psychic (friend of a friend) who said she’s never wrong, told me over a glass of wine that I would meet a man so right and we’ll have a whirlwind courtship ending in marriage this year! Have I ever told you I don’t have any desire to get married again? None.

We walked a few more aisles and segued into wedding plans, which we agreed could be seamlessly combined with the party. I’d invite all my closest friends to a New Year’s Eve celebration and surprise them by getting hitched. Costco, not Disneyland, is the happiest place on earth. Where else can a person plan a lifetime of joy AND buy Charmin in bulk?

Two hours later we headed to the checkout line—the ultimate consumers, it took both of us to push the overflowing shopping cart. I had to run back and snag a plush rug for my bathroom–a last minute must have–even though I already have plenty. You can never have enough plush rugs, though. I think Yoda said that.

Yoda

We finished as we always do with a quick stop at the snack bar because there’s nothing like a Costco dog. It is at this stage that we, without fail, misplace our receipts and will later dig through our handbags at the door while security looks on patiently. We could never get away with this level of lameness in our neighborhood grocery stores. We’d be physically tossed to the curb and banned for life.

At the end of the spa day I’m relaxed even as I struggle to find space in my small apartment for the stuff I just bought. The chocolate muffin purchase adds to the Zen-like atmosphere and gives me a way to finish the perfect day with the final fistful of luxury. Seriously, try them.

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“I love to take things that are everyday and comforting and make them into the most luxurious things in the world.” Marc Jacobs

Why Didn’t I Think of That?

June 4, 2013 by Melani 20 Comments

On Memorial Day I hosted a barbecue and invited eight guests. If movies and books are to be believed, New Yorkers have the most stimulating dinner conversations covering a wide range of topics such as: politics, literature, cool restaurants and art. I think that’s a fairly accurate portrayal. This city is filled to the brim with smart people and that took some adjusting when I first arrived.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. It’s not that I’m giving Einstein any competition but I do feel I’m fairly intelligent or at least did until landing in 10023.

einstein1-e1295937841431

Reality?

I’m barely a C student here.

BUT, I’ve found, no matter the zip code, the chat always, and I mean always comes around to relationships. Who’s in one, who’s still looking. Inevitably there will be someone who offers suggestions to the singletons at the table. Perhaps sharing a successful formula for finding a match.

That happened during my dinner party.

A recently engaged guest suggested (to the single ladies) that we make a commitment to meet at least once a week, preferably twice weekly, at different happy hour spots in the city. We should gather from 5:30 pm to 7:30 pm as a group in different neighborhoods to meet different kinds of guys. She said she’d join us and be our wingwoman, initiating conversations with the men we found interesting. “What do I have to lose?” she asked. Her fiancé said he’d occasionally come too.

I thought it was a brilliant strategy and one that would work perfectly with something NEW I’d stumbled upon, Cheek’d.

Here’s how Cheek’d works. You sign up and create a basic profile. You order a set of Cheek’d cards that you keep with you at all times. If you happen to see someone you are interested in you walk up, hand them a card and walk away. Simple, painless and no risk of rejection and the next move is theirs. The information on the card tells them where they can find you. They go to the cheekd.com and enter a code that takes them to your profile where they can send you a message.

How ingenious is that?

Now, instead of perusing profiles and ending up disappointed with the person once you’re face to face, you’ve already determined there’s an attraction. No more missed opportunities, either. How many times have you seen someone and wished for the courage to make contact? It happens to me often and once they’re gone the chances are almost zero that I’ll see then again. I even wrote a post about missed opportunities during my year of online dating.

The cards are clever. Here are some examples:

look up. you might miss something.

this is your lucky day.

you can thank me later.

shouldn’t you be asleep at this hour?

i’m a keeper.

this leads to someone you should meet.

don’t let me get away.

your move.

where have i been all your life?

this card is good for finding me again.

i’m totally cooler than your date.

i’m hitting on you.

So, I’m going to combine the weekly happy hour gatherings with the cards and see what happens. I’ll let you know how it goes. I’m also keeping them with me every single time I leave the apartment. You never know who you might see walking down the street or at the deli counter at Fairway Market, right?

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UPDATE: Within fifteen minutes of this post going live, Lori Cheek of Cheek’d found me on Facebook and offered 50% off your card order. Use the promo code: SUMMERLOVIN. Thank you so much, Ms. Cheek!

Insanity Update: I should be almost finished with my 60-day challenge. Unfortunately, I fell a couple of weeks ago (totally sober and with an audience), and bruised my coccyx. I wrote a blog post called “Coccyx Blocked” but my “editor” told me it was quite boring so I scrapped it. The details aren’t important. Suffice to say that I took two weeks off to let my tailbone heal and started back on Insanity this week. UGH, it was too soon so I’m giving myself a little more time to recover and then I’ll get back to cursing Shaun T and that perky chick on the DVD who smiles through the torture. I’ll let you know the outcome and am still committed to wearing a bikini if the results are good.

“Opportunities are never lost; someone will take the one you miss.” Author Unknown

Are You Insane?

April 16, 2013 by Melani 35 Comments

This morning I crawled to Central Park.

OK, “crawled” is probably the wrong word. I slowly and painfully maneuvered the streets from my apartment to doggie paradise with a stiff-legged hitch-y walk that should only be described as strange. Even Nigel was embarrassed to be seen with me.

Albina Photos 341

“I’m so ashamed. All the dogs are laughing at us.”

Kate just pretended I was her dog walker. 

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“I don’t even know her name. She gets paid to walk us.”

Was I out partying the night before with an amazing man? Did the evening end with bedroom gymnastics that wreaked havoc on my middle-aged bod?

Don’t I wish.

I haven’t been on a date since ending my year of blogging. The highlight of my weekend was buying a new sofa and these days I’m buying flowers for myself.

photo-250The reason people on the streets were looking at me oddly as I winced my way east is because I started the Insanity Workout. Yesterday was simply the fitness test portion and I can only assume, by the level of agony I’m experiencing, I failed miserably. Shaun T asked if I was ready to dig deep. “Shut up, Shaun. I’ll be lucky to scratch around the surface for forty minutes.” It took me all of sixty seconds for the perky little six pack abs chick to get on my nerves. She was all bubbly and smiley as I groaned and panted through the process. 

Insanity claims that if you do the workout for 60 days you’ll have the beach body that would normally take a year to achieve. Um, we’ll see. I’ve been gearing up for this for about a month. I even bought new shoes and I hate to spend money on footwear that won’t contribute a thing to my wardrobe.

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My daughter Morgan has a couple of friends who’ve had amazing results. Granted, they’re twenty-somethings and their nimble bodies spring back much quicker. I’m well aware my lissome days are over, but do I have one more bikini body summer lurking under the aftermath of a sedentary winter?

I’ve let myself go over the last several months and the result is a seven-pound weight gain. I kept it together during my year of online dating. “Put your best ass forward,” and all that. I also had great motivation to stay on top of the weight with the appearances on The Steve Harvey Show.

ladies & steve

All it takes is to see one television personality in the flesh to understand just how skinny one must be to appear normal. Believe me, if someone looks slightly chubby on the small screen, they’re probably in need of IV nutrition.

At one time I had a hot body and it wasn’t in my twenties, but my thirties. I’m not saying that to brag. It’s the truth.

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My friend Rick took me to see Rod Stewart on a dateless Valentine’s Day. I call this the “illusive collarbone shot.”

I wore a size two and NOTHING jiggled. Sure, I worked out but it was easy back then. I’d go to the gym, lift some lighter weights, take an aerobics class a few times a week and voilà my body rocked. As I’ve said before, the thirties were my glory years for a number of reasons. It was when I discovered the woman buried under the bad marriage and (much too young) motherhood of my twenties. It didn’t hurt to have the outside package to accompany the good stuff going on beneath the surface.  

The quality is awful because I’ve often held it and cried.

Why the hell didn’t I take nude photos?

I swear I’d have them up in my living room today. In fact, I’d probably forgo any other form of wall adornment for poster-size birthday suit pics anywhere the eye could see.

“Yeah, Time Warner cable guy, those are my lady bits right there on the wall. Give ’em a good look.”

I took the recommended photos of my before body. It is suggested that those participating in the Insanity program download them to the site for everyone to see and so after sixty days you can get the “I’ve Earned It” t-shirt.

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Are they out of their fucking minds?

If I’m showing anyone this muffin top he’d better be liquored up, buck naked and ready to tell all kinds of lies. I wouldn’t walk down a flight of stairs for a goddamn t-shirt. Maybe a spoonful of Skippy Natural Creamy with Honey, though.

BUT, I will promise you this. If I make it through the challenge AND I think my body looks reasonably acceptable in a bikini, I’ll post a photo on the blog. So far one day in and I’m ready to quit. Who knew the fat on the side of one’s knees could be so sore? Those bat wing thingamajigs at the back of my armpits, too?

UGH, aging.

This morning as I staggered back from Central Park and into the building my doorman Frank asked about my unusual gait. He’s wanted to try Insanity and quizzed me about it. I have no doubt he’ll have a much easier time than me and when I finally made it to the elevator, Frank yelled one final question my way,

“Are you sure you’re ready for all the attention you’ll have if you get that beach body?”

Now that was snicker-worthy. If I can rock a bikini for one more summer, this time around I’ll be grateful for any second glance I might receive. I’ll savor every moment because today I’m acutely aware of just how fleeting those experiences can be.

BRING IT ON, BITCHES.

“The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.” Robert Frost

My name is Melani Robinson and I’m a writer/blogger, and online dating expert living in New York City on the Upper West Side. READ MORE

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