A Toe in the Water

Settling in to my new life in Philadelphia, I had the basics covered. The three of us were fully entrenched in our new home-- the rented house billed as a “charming cottage” in real estate lingo translated to “architecturally interesting about a hundred years ago—currently falling down around you”. The boy was signed up for preschool and the girl was adjusting to her new room. The newspaper arrived daily. The mail was being forwarded.

It’s hard to be depressed in September. It’s a time for new beginnings. School starts, routines change and productivity reigns. I felt pretty good. After all, I had a healthy boy and girl so the biological clock had at least gone from a clanging gong to a subtle tick. One more would be nice but…if not, I would live. I still thought I was pretty cute. For me, being “thin” versus “fat” is the greatest measure of how I feel about myself. The difference is twelve pounds. I have a happiness ratio for every pound between 133 (lowest post-baby weigh) and 145 (highest and most depression current weight). I have never been above or below those two weights since high school. Logically, I know I'm not fat, but the happiness ratio remains. The stress of the marriage had somehow worked about eight pounds off me so, at 135, I was at close to the top of my game in the “looks” department.

I was going to date, godammit! Quickly. My best friend’s husband fixed me up with a guy he knew from high school. I was ready. I bought a whole new outfit at the Gap. French blue blouse, low slung khakis: size 8, not 10. Little pale pink scarf with matching French blue flowers—I swear it was “in” at the time.

It was to be a double date. We all met at the restaurant—a tiny Italian BYOB called Audrey Claire. He was standing by the front door. Not completely my type, but not bad, either. Athletic build, nice Irish face, recovering alcoholic (oh, well, can’t have everything!) Our boisterous mutual friends were there to ease the discomfort—it helped. We even went out for dessert afterward. “OK, I still got it.” I thought at the end of the evening.

Next week, next date. This time, dinner alone. Still pretty nice. Easy conversation, Some awkwardness, but not bad. Taking it slow.

Next week, date three: working out together at the gym. Like I said, I was at my fighting weight so I was reticent, but confident. “Went well” I concluded.

The guy never called me again. I waited a week. And then another.

At this point, most of my friends would have tried to figure out where they went wrong. Might’ve figured a thirty-five-year- old single Mom with two kids under the age of four might be a turn-off. Might’ve thought that a woman who had been separated for a month was a little too raw. Might've decided the guy must've met someone else.

What did I do? I checked the obituaries. I kid you not. I actually assumed the guy must’ve died. Either that, or he thought I was too fat. Those were the only two possibilities.