Recently, one of my friends tried to fix me up with a man she worked with. "It's not really a 'fix-up,' per se." Famous last words.
"It will just be a get-together amongst friends. That way there's no stress and if you two hit it off, then great, he'll think he masterminded the whole affair and then maybe after you're living happily ever after we'll tell him that it was actually my brilliant idea all along."
Living happily ever after? What a concept. I've been single so long that sometimes even the idea of finding a soul mate to share the rest of my life with—or hell, at this point, someone with whom I can stomach the idea of spending more than 90 days, for just a few laughs and some sincere, intimate moments—seems like the un-gettable get.
But being the die-hard romantic that I am, just the thought gave me butterflies. Besides, I hadn't had a boyfriend for months and I was terribly lonely. Ever since I made the rash decision to break up with ... never mind. I wasn't about to revisit that terrible decision. No, I was ready to move forward, ready to be fixed up.
Although, as we all know, fix-ups can be dodgy. Usually the only thing you find out when being fixed up by a friend is how little your friend actually thinks of you. Or that she assumes that at your age you are desperate enough to settle for any oily beau-hunk with a pulse who can carry on a conversation, even if only to talk about his fascinating career as a flypaper salesman.
But alas, she promises that this won't be the case with Pete, and at your age you're just desperate enough to believe her. She said that Pete was nothing short of amazing, inside and out. That he was a divorced, 45-year-old single father who was fun-loving, spiritual, and—of great importance to me—has a respectful and solid relationship with his ex-wife, a trait I look for whenever I date a divorced man. I mean, he doesn't have to like his ex, but if he can't respect the mother of his children, regardless of their differences for the sake of the children, then in my book he's no damn good.
"And," she added, as if she hadn't done a good enough job selling him to me, "he's a triathlete! He's ripped to shreds, and did I mention his gorgeous baby blues? I can't wait to introduce you two. I just know you'll be perfect together."
OK, I have to admit that her sales pitch scared the stink right out of me. I mean, hello? Who amongst us actually wants to get naked with a guy with a lower body-fat index than ours? I sucked in my pooch and immediately felt insecure. I let my mind wander ...
After several dates and plenty of time getting to know each other, Pete and I were standing face to face, illuminated by candlelight in the middle of my bedroom, which was chock-full of laundry that needed to be folded, furniture that needed to be dusted and books that needed to be read. Hmmm ... no, we were in a suite at the new Wynn Resort, lying side by side, in pitch darkness so that the slight dimples of my backside couldn't be seen. His strong arms were wrapped protectively around me and he whispers in my ear ...
"Sonja."
My reverie was interrupted.
"This is Pete."
He was beautiful. I wanted to throw caution to the wind and rip off his shirt and lick whipped cream off of his perfectly sculpted pecs. OK, so not only was I lonely, I was incredibly horny. I got the thigh sweats just looking at him. It was as if I hadn't eaten in a week and he was standing there in a giant lamb-chop suit, all drippy and juicy. I opened my mouth to speak.
"I, I, I, I love, uuuuh, I mean, yes ... I, I, um, lamb chops are good."
I stuttered. What an idiot! He smiled in spite of the fact that I couldn't form a sentence. Perfect teeth. Oh, how I wanted him.
"And this is Chrissy," said my girlfriend, motioning toward the leggy yellow-haired girl.
What? What's she doing here? As soon as their matching baby blues met, I knew I'd lost him. I could have licked my own nipples, juggled babies and set my hair on fire and he wouldn't have noticed. It was like a music montage in the movies.
"Hi," said Chrissy in her sultry tone.
"I've been really tryin' baby, tryin' to hold back this feelin' for so long ..."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Pete."
"And if you feel like I feel, baby then come on ..."
"Nice to meet you, too."
"Oh, come on ..."
"Can I get you a drink?"
"Let's get it on ..."
And with that, they walked off arm in arm. Finally, I had experienced love at first sight. Unfortunately, it hadn't happened to me. Fortunately, there were tons of the demon alcohol to numb my pain. Unfortunately, I had my cell phone with me.
Can somebody please explain why it is that with all of the advanced technology in the world today that someone has yet to invent a cellular telephone with a breathalizer that can measure your blood-alcohol level and keep you from dialing out at your drunkest and most vulnerable moments?
Fortunately, I knew exactly whom I wanted to talk to, whom I had been missing terribly but had been too afraid to call after I broke his heart a few months ago. Unfortunately, he answered the phone.
Fortunately, the last strawberry margarita I'd inhaled had hit me full force and before I took a digger into the shrubbery, throwing up my potato salad, I knew I would never remember anything I said to him.
Unfortunately, he would remember every word.
Sonja is a writer who covers the ins and outs of relationships. Or is it the ups and downs?