It's a Saturday afternoon and I'm in my favorite place on Earth, the mall, with my favorite man on Earth, my son. Mini Me, my 9-year-old daughter and my other reason for living, is enjoying a day with her best friend so my super-hunky teenager and I are combing the mall looking for pants suitable enough for him to wear to go golfing with his dad.
"How about these?" I say, holding up a pair of khaki slacks at Express for Men.
"Yeah, right," he answers, barely glancing at the pants.
"Um, these?" I ask hopefully, holding up a second pair of neat and tidy-looking trousers.
"You're so cute," he says, rolling his eyes and vetoing my selection. Wow! It seems like only yesterday that I was roaming around the mall, pushing him in his stroller as he ate Cheerios and flirted with the salesgirls. As I look at him, my heart is so full of love I think it might burst. He is growing up so fast. He's not my little boy anymore. Suddenly I feel robbed. Where has the time gone?
"Excuse me?" says another young man on the other side of the pants rack, interrupting my reverie. "Were you on News-3 recently talking about the dangers of online dating?"
His question catches me off guard so I just stand there looking like a middle-aged deer caught in his hot, young headlights.
My son elbows me. "Oh, um, yeah ...," I stutter lamely.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to thank you for having the courage to share your story," he says.
"Oh, thanks, um, I ... yeah, I thought it was an important message. I, well ..." I'm at a loss for words. Me! He is gorgeous and I'm old enough to be his ... great aunt. But, man oh man, even in his backwards baseball cap, the kid gives me the thigh sweats. He can't be more than two dozen. I'm going to prison.
"I'm Sonja," I say, offering my hand. "And this is my son." I motion to the man-boy standing next to me who I suddenly notice is almost taller than me. What in the hell am I doing? Flirting with a kid who is probably closer to my son's age than mine. Walk away, Sonja, just walk away, I think.
"Darin," he says, smiling. "You have a pretty amazing mother, you know?" he says to my son, who in turn answers with a smile, "Yeah, I do know."
"Well, thank you again, Sonja. I'm sure your story helped a lot of people who are trying the online thing. Take care of yourself." And just as fast as he comes into my life, he is gone. Talk about Express.
I sigh. "That guy was class," says my son. Yeah, I think, class of 1999! "You should have asked for his contact information." What the ...?
"I'm here to shop for my son, not shop for another son—I'm way too old for a guy like that," I say. "Besides, I didn't come here to cruise dudes." I'm blushing and my little man has caught me.
"Mom, look at me," he says, seriously. "You are a beautiful, intelligent, single lady. Darin saw that, I see it, why can't you? And, hello? You're not old. He obviously wasn't bothered by your age, why should you be?" Suddenly the student has become the teacher. "What are you always saying to me and Sis? If you see something you want, go for it, don't let the opportunity pass, you may not get another one." And with that, he slings his arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. Is it any wonder why I adore him so?
A few days later, I'm sitting at my desk when my Blackberry vibrates, signaling a new e-mail message. I scramble to find my glasses so I can read the tiny print. Getting old is a bitch.
It reads: "Dear Sonja, I don't know if you remember me, but I had the pleasure of meeting you and your son at the mall last week ..."
Oh. My. God.
"Blah, blah, blah, blah ... here is my contact information if you ever need anything ... blah, blah." My old eyes strain to find some hidden meaning in his cryptic note. Does he want me to call so he can ask me out? Does he want me to buy beer for him and his friends? It is signed "Darin, Financial Consultant" for a very well-known firm. I'm impressed. For a fleeting second I hope you have to be at least 21 to take your Series Seven.
Before I know what I'm doing, I dial his number. As it rings, my heart is pounding. Hang up, Sonja. This is ridiculous. Besides, what are you going to do? Invite him for a sleepover at Motherland Ranch? You're too old for him—hang up!
"This is Darin," says the sexy voice on the other end of the phone.
I put my finger on the disconnect button but before I can push it, my son's words course through my mind: "He obviously wasn't bothered by your age, why should you be?"
"Hi, this is Sonja," I say.
"Hi!" he says enthusiastically. "How are you?"
"Great. I got your message and ..." wanted to ask if you would put together a retirement plan for me? ... "And was wondering if you'd like to have lunch?" Now I'd done it.
"I'd love to, when?" How about after the kegger at your frat house on Saturday?
"Tomorrow, noon, Gordon Biersch," I say with a false air of confidence.
"I look forward to it, Sonja. I'll see you tomorrow."
Gulp.
I hang up the phone and take a sip of warm milk—shut up, it relaxes me—and decide to stop feeling guilty about Darin. If he wants to see me then I should be flattered. And with that, I raise my cup and propose a silent toast:
"Here's to you ... Mrs. Robinson."
Sonja is a writer who covers the ins and outs of relationships. Or is it the ups and downs?