It seems like a lifetime ago that I was granted my divorce. At the time I assumed that my life would morph into a male version of Sex and the City. I envisioned friends who would help reintroduce me to the dating scene and scads of women who would be interested in me.
Six years later I can report that Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte never materialized and that mid-life dating is similar to a course in crisis management.
Last week I had a coffee date with a woman who works in financial services. I was particularly nervous beforehand, because based on our profiles, we were a good match. During the day of the date I called several friends to get their reassurance that I was, indeed, worthy of meeting someone nice, supportive and emotionally available.
I arrived at the coffee shop about 45 minutes early [A tad anxious?]
Our date was scheduled for 7:00, and when I finally looked at my watch it read 7:15. It was clear that I had been stood up. In all the years that I’d been dating, this was a first.
When I got home, I fired off an email to Ms. Standupper pointing out that it would have been nice if she had bothered to text me. She replied instantly with a simple, “We’re meeting tomorrow.”
Now didn’t I feel stupid?
The next day both of us arrived at the same time. Thank goodness there wasn’t a long, awkward wait.
We exchanged pleasantries and asked how each other’s day had gone. I lied, of course, by saying it was great, and I got a lot accomplished. By now I’m on autopilot with this question. Someone could read the Warren Commission to me and I’d probably smile every minute or two.
About 20 minutes into the conversation I learned she was the proud owner of 20 chickens and three roosters. It was unclear to me what I was supposed to do with this information, but I felt compelled to ask some follow-up questions.
“What do you do with these chickens?”
“They lay eggs, and I eat them.”
“Do you have a coop?”
“No, they’re free range.”
“Don’t your roosters make a lot of noise?”
Bad question. It appears as if she’s over the city limit for roosters. She’s allowed to have only one, and she has three. I asked, “So what will you do?”
Another bad question. The answer was that two were going to get turned into soup. She then proceeded to tell me exactly how the roosters would meet their untimely death and how to make her special chicken soup.
Somehow, I didn’t envision my dating life including a discussion about rooster headcount. I thought that my life would be exciting enough that I could become the male Carrie Bradshaw and write about memorable experiences. Maybe my experiences would be interesting enough to be turned into a movie, or at least a book.
Alas, chicken lady demonstrated that I have a long way to go before becoming Carrie.