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 a 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?”

Did 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 then 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

“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

Chemistry: Part Two

April 16, 2014 by Melani 73 Comments

OK, 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 learned 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.

Back 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. Instead 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 72^nd 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.

Well 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

Chemistry: Part One

April 10, 2014 by Melani 33 Comments

Chemistry is tricky. Most of the time we think of it as an instant attraction. You know, the certain feeling one gets during that first encounter. The “I think I’d like to have sex with you. Maybe not today, but eventually,” sort of vibe.

BUT, that’s chemistry with a small c and there’s no doubt we’ve all experienced it more than once. What I’m talking about is the tricky Chemistry. That’s the feeling of “I think I’d like to have sex with you. Maybe not today, but eventually, and then afterwards I’d like to talk—for hours.”

As you know, I made a decision after a year of online dating to kick it old school. No more cyber-augmented love for me. I also decided I’d keep my love life to myself after that year of over sharing.

Well, I’m going to break that second rule now and tell you about one night in my traditional dating world.

About two months ago a friend and I were having cocktails at a neighborhood bistro. We both love a perfectly prepared martini and the bartender makes a mean one.

It was a Friday night and we arrived around 7:30pm. The place was packed but we eventually got two seats at the bar. She’s in a committed relationship but is often my wingwoman and we immediately began looking around for eligible men of a certain age—for me.

We both zeroed in on a man seated at the opposite end of the bar.

“Do you see that good looking guy at the end of the bar?”

“Just spotted him,” I replied.

Kind of sounds like hunters preparing to chamber a bullet, right? Here’s why. The guy was the black rhino of single men fifty or older. Extremely good looking, well-dressed, fit, no wedding ring, and confident. I knew he was confident because as I looked at him he boldly looked back, smiled, nodded and raised his glass to me.

I told you about using Cheek’d cards in a previous post. I’d slipped a few into my evening bag that night and my friend and I quickly began looking for the right clever greeting to give to the gorgeous stranger. Let me tell you, I was not going to let him leave without one. As we debated about the selection, the man seated next to me interjected by asking about what we were doing. We’d been there for about thirty minutes by then and I could tell two minutes after we sat down, he wanted to join our conversation.

I also thought he might be interested in me–just a feeling I got–and that feeling wasn’t mutual. He was not my type. At. All. Early to mid-forties, chubby, an expensive but rumpled suit, and hair that was in need of a trim, nothing like the other man I had my sights on but I answered his questions and turned back to my friend. He butted in again and I brushed him off. I was too distracted to even hear what he said because the other man was paying his check and I had to make a move. Grabbing the card I headed over to him and said, “I didn’t want you to leave without this.”

“I was just getting ready to come over and talk to you on my way out. Just waiting to sign the bill.”

Dammit! I could’ve been coy but instead went all Alpha Chick.

“Great, see you soon.”

Back in my seat, the pest next to me asked how it went. My friend was in a conversation with the woman next to her and this time I turned towards him and actually answered. He officially introduced himself, told me his name (Scott) and we chatted for a minute until the perfect man from across the bar walked up. His name, I learned, was Rob.

I introduced my girlfriend to Rob and we turned our stools away from the bar since he was standing behind us. The three of us made small talk but a few minutes in he said something that annoyed me. It was about our new mayor, Bill de Blasio, and it was a typical smartass and uninformed statement from someone less “progressive” and aware than is normal in this city.

“That was a dumb thing to say,” said Scott quietly for my ears only. I turned back towards him and agreed.

“I think he might be Republican,” I sighed and Scott told me that although he worked on Wall Street, he was a liberal Democrat. We started talking politics—both local and national–and he was very knowledgeable.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Forty-five.”

“I’m fifty-two.”

“I would’ve never guessed. I noticed you the moment you walked in and when you sat down next to me I told the bartender to hold off on my to-go order. I am supposed to be bringing dinner to my brother and sister-in-law’s, but then I saw you.”

Ding, ding, ding. Chemistry with a capital C smacked me in the face.

I wasn’t sure I even felt little c with Rob after his stupid remark.

This story is lengthy and gets more interesting as the night wears on.

To be continued…

“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” C. G. Jung

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.

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

Kate just pretended I was her dog walker.

“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.

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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