Dating Story # 4 a/k/a...

Something New

F is a handsome, fifty-something man, the type of guy the word robust was created to describe. He practically glows good health with his trim, muscled physique, golden tan, gleaming white teeth and outgoing demeanor. He's the type of man you can easily imagine on the tennis courts in the Hamptons, lobbing a few with his good friends the Schwarzeneggers before retiring poolside with a gin and tonic for some witty repartee. He's Cary Grant charm mixed with Noel Coward wit and topped off with the smile of Mario Lopez. In other words, F is exactly the type of man who, without doing anything other than breathing, can cause me to feel totally inferior as a human being.

F and I, after meeting at yet another dating event I attended, are having dinner. He recommended this Italian restaurant in the West Village. It's the perfect location for a first date. It's just pricey enough to let you know they take their food seriously, without being extravagant. It's tastefully decorated with the lights dimmed to the perfect setting, suggesting possibilities to every hopeless romantic who crosses the threshold. The tables are placed just far enough apart to offer diners their privacy, yet close enough to allow you to get a mouth-watering glimpse of the warm chocolate souffle being served to the table in the corner.

When the waiter takes our orders for cocktails F, of course, orders a martini. Not a vodka martini like so many of the masses might order, and certainly not one of the overly-sweet flavored martinis like Lemon Drop or something doused in sixteen flavors of chocolate. F doesn't have a thirst for these over-the-top-come-to-the-carnival-its-all-in-the-presentation types of cocktails. His is the classic martini: gin, vermouth and an olive. Sitting on my side of the table, I wouldn't have been at all surprised to hear him voice his preference for having it 'shaken, not stirred" in his best Sean Connery as James Bond voice. F is so perfect, it makes you want to either toss a drink in his face or drag him off to a Las Vegas wedding chapel after convincing him there is absolutely no need for anyone to be mentioning a pre-nup.

F is a New England transplant, having moved to Manhattan in just the past few months. He apparently had sold off a fairly substantial amount of real estate, invested a chunk of money and realized he had more than enough to retire to New York. He recently purchased an apartment overlooking Central Park and had hired a contractor to do a complete floor to ceiling renovation. Coincidentally, my own recently purchased house is also in need of renovation. I don't mention it though, because while F is reviewing blueprints with his contractor and discussing the advantages of a sub-zero stainless steel refrigerator as he, no doubt, dresses in a tailor-made suit to head out the door to a tony Upper East Side cocktail party, I was at home with the rain pouring through my leaky bedroom ceiling, wondering if there was such a thing as a house-sized umbrella, while sleeping underneath a blue waterproof tarp and praying for mercy.

I don't remember saying very much during dinner. I was too intimidated. He was the let's-fly-to-the-Riviera-for-lunch-type and I'm more of a lets-get-some-more-of-those-dollar-ninety-nine-Swedish-meatballs-at-the-Ikea-cafeteria kind. He was retired with a Central Park view and I was wondering if anyone would notice if I stuffed the bread from the table into my jacket pockets so I wouldn't have to pay for lunch the next day. E-Harmony would never have mistaken us for a match.

The conversation eventually turned to men we had dated in the past. He told me that for the majority of the previous twenty five years, he had only been involved with men in their 20's. He couldn't recall even one date with a man over the age of 30, until tonight. "But" he said, "I thought is was time to try something new." You can't ask for more irony that that. Here I was, something new because, in actuality, I was something old. Looking down at my blue shirt, I realized that if one of us leaned over to the next table and asked to borrow their salt shaker, we'd be just one minister shy of starting a wedding ceremony.

F went on to talk about the challenges of dating young men. How they, while being pretty to look at, could be difficult to talk to. He said it was hard to be sure with someone so much younger, if they were more interested in him or his wrap-around terrace. F was tired of all that. He longed for something deeper and more meaningful with someone who had the same ideals and goals. It was all very touching. It would have been easier to believe however, if he hadn't cried out "Hot damn, would you look at that!" at the bubble butt belonging to the 20-something Cuban busboy as he passed our table.

I realized that I wasn't the only one feeling inferior. While I obviously had my issues with F's financial success or, more accurately, my lack of it, F had struggles of his own. Instead of simply trusting his own charm, he seemed to use his acquisitons to help attract the younger men he desired. It was too bad for both of us. F was a very nice man. But we were both too locked into our roles with neither of us knowing how to change course. I didn't know how to be Park Avenue. He didn't know how not to be.

F and I ended up having dinner a second time, but it was clear it wasn't going further than that. Other than both hoping to find a good relationship we didn't have anything in common. Well, except one thing. Because when F called out 'look at that!"about the busboy's butt, the truth was, I already had. And F was right. Hot damn, indeed.