How Do You Feel About Nudity?

I had been someone’s wife.

When he died, I was someone’s widow. I could hardly breathe, carrying the weight of us in me. One pint at a time, Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra soothed, but the feeling of longing took me down, longing for us and longing now for me. In the mirror, I’d watch for Dianne, but she never showed up. Instead, the shadow of a couple looked back, the couple we were. It was time to take a chance on finding me.

So, I dressed up my sixty-something, slightly overweight round self, fluffed my hair, added mascara and lipstick, and then slogged through those first awkward steps of dating. Damn, it was exhausting.

“No, I’m serious, if you know a guy who might want to meet for coffee or a drink, call me.” Not only did friends get this news but also my doctor, hair stylist, UPS delivery man, and a cab driver in New York City, but he didn’t speak English so that may not count.

Arthur, introduced through a neighbor, had almost nothing to say at Starbuck’s the morning I met him. Twenty minutes early, I waited, refilled my coffee, and adjusted my hair.

He approached the table, “I guess you’re Dianne.”

It felt as if he were paying a debt by agreeing to meet me. I crossed my legs back and forth in discomfort with quick jagged sentences, “I’m widowed. Did Gary tell you I’m widowed? Gary said you work for IBM. What’s it like? Wha’da you do for them?”

“I work for them,” barely audible.

I looked around the room smiling at strangers, hoping to appear confident in an I-don’t-care sort of way. After fifteen minutes, Arthur stood to leave. He told me to have a good day.

I stood behind a man in line at the dry cleaners. A quick left-hand review spied a wedding ring. Shoot. But he’s a man. He must know other men. That was enough for me to break the silence with, “Know any single men?” I chattered about wanting to meet someone and mentioned my “late husband” several times, trying to control the nervous and too loud laughter. He shifted his weight left and right. The line was five deep. I kept talking.

In defense, he reached in his coat for pen and paper. “Mario’s a client of mine. Wait a few days then call him at this number. It’s his home; I’m sure he’ll be interested after I tell him about you.”

I added ‘Call Mario’ to my calendar with a burst of hopefulness. Three days later I called the number. Someone answered, yelling, “Murray’s Bagels.”

I hesitated, then took a chance, “May I speak to Mario?”

“Nobody here by that name. You want bagels?”

“No…”

Two months passed before I would try again or eat bagels. Fixups and capturing the attention of strangers were called off in lieu of online dating.

“No, Mom, you need to write a profile that will make men want to meet you. Starting with “I’m a slightly overweight widow,” reads like you’re gonna eat a lot and talk about your dead husband.” My daughters crafted something that sounded like the person I want to be, confident in a hair-flicking, I-don’t need-you fashion.

The man who replied to my Match.com post said he was a restaurateur.

Happy to have received interest, I clicked the reply button. Yes, I’d like to meet for breakfast, careful not to type “widow.”

I called my girls, “I accepted the first date!”

“You didn’t give him your phone number, did you? He doesn’t have your address, right? You aren’t meeting him somewhere close to your house, are you? Be sure you’re not followed home.”

 “Ok,” undeterred.

A tall nice-looking grey-haired man in a coat and tie waved at me from near the host’s podium. We were seated and he opened with, “You’re real pretty. I can’t believe you accepted my date. Tell me something about yourself.” It didn’t feel like a compliment for either of us.

A rigidness in my body told me I was hitting below my weight class but sadly I had no idea what that number was anymore. For a moment I was that fifteen-year-old girl thrilled at a boy, any boy, flirting with me.

 “Well, I’m widowed. Do you eat here at Village Inn often? You said you’re a restaurateur. What’s that like?” I asked. I sat with my coat on, still covering whoever I was trying to be. My hands shook, so I busied them by folding the paper napkin into triangles, repeatedly, my elbows tight against my body, stiff.

“Yeah. I was on the crew that painted this place, back in the day. I work for a company that paints restaurants.”

The next twenty minutes he told me about the prostitutes he’s dated, the men he’s kept in contact with from his off-again-on-again days in prison, and a rousing story about a guy who owed him money. “I kicked in the deadbeat’s door to collect, just like on TV. Ya should ‘a seen it. So, I told the loser, ‘I’m not gonna jack you. I just want my f…’n money!’”

I had never heard the term, “jack you,” I guess I don’t watch enough TV. Maybe when I think all I have going for me is “I’m widowed,” this is the sort of guy who shows up.

In a flash, I heard my daughters’ warnings. My hands were sweating in fear. I wiped them on my slacks. Put my left hand on my chest. I said, “Something I’ve just eaten has made me sick. I need to get home.”

“Right now?” he asked.

“Yes, I think I’m gonna be sick – you know d…………” That’s right, the first Match.com date ended with my playing the diarrhea card.

My next try at online dating was with a man who had a broad smile and a goofy look in his profile picture. He had teeth, so I replied. One coffee date with him was not terrible, and I said yes to dinner the next week. He chose an Ethiopian restaurant in a strip mall.

“So, you haven’t said much about yourself yet. What do you do?” He asked.

“I’m a writer and a widow. We were married twenty-five years.” That was all I said. It was all I had to give. He offered no response, no request for more. I tugged up and down at my blouse, up to cover cleavage down to disguise the midriff roll. My purse sat on my lap, I adjusted it and daydreamed about the pint of ice cream waiting for me at home. My coat slipped off the right shoulder. I pulled it back in place.

He spent the remainder of time chatting about his successful business, his properties, his cars, and his lavish home office. It didn’t matter to me. None of his dribble mattered to me. My body shifted in the chair, and I pretended to listen with head nods. I read the dessert menu like a short story, imaging eating all of it. My left leg bounced up and down. My mind was cluttered with thoughts of my late husband, oh, it was so easy with you.

I looked up to hear the man with the broad smile say, “You know, I’m very well set, as you can tell. If you’d like to come live with me and run my company’s office, I’d take good care of you, and you’d still have time to write your little books in the evening.” I imagined me in his home, me in his bed, me sinking into his life. Me disappearing. A shiver moved across my shoulder blade.

 I felt instantly hot. Not hot-for-you hot but I’d-like-to-punch-you-in-the-gut hot. My butt scooched to the edge of the chair. With a stiff posture, I stood and snatched my jacket around my chest. To protect any bit of me he saw, I tied the belt – hard. I could hear myself breathing, forcefully.

In the car, I yanked my phone from the charger and slammed my index finger on “delete” to remove him from my Match list.

Often, I’d accept breakfast, lunch, and dinner dates on the same day. If I’m doing full-on hair, makeup, and accessories – let’s do this. Honestly, I didn’t feel desperate at the time, but…

After about a month of reviewing profiles the way I did shoes on Zappos, that heel’s too high, that toe’s too pointed, I found a man who said he liked fine wine. As if stretching the possibility that if he liked fine wine, he might be a fine match, I accepted a date. His face looked outdoorsy and rugged. I imagined the two of us on a fall picnic with crusty bread, fine French cheese, a bottle of wine he’d selected just for me. In my thoughts, my hair is casually wind-blown and my skin glows in the sunlight.

At the upscale wine bar, I settled in to watch him. As if in a courtship display, he asked too many questions of the sommelier. Showoff. My shoulders drooped in boredom. My turn, “I’ll have a red, low tannin, around twelve dollars a glass, your choice.” She smiled and nodded. When she left the table, he bragged about his knowledge of wine and dragged me through the names of his wine cellar treasures. My mind wandered to how happy I’d be when this lecture ended. Slumped into the table, holding my chin in the palm of my left hand, I suppose he got it. He abruptly changed the subject.

 “Is your home paid for? Do you receive a monthly annuity or are you still employed? If you’re employed, do you have a professional position? Are you divorced or widowed? Either way, were you left well-off?” He pulled in a deep breath – and sipped wine.

I locked my jaw in vivid thought of sixty-some years of surviving, of self-success. A woman who never, never gives up. Always the main breadwinner. I said nothing. Except to myself – Bite me! Unwilling to leave the last bit of my twelve-dollar wine, I stood. Took the final gulp of Pinot Noir and strutted out – without paying.

Weary, but still open to possibilities, for the next date, I moved my geographic parameter even farther out, to the next county, hoping for a better catch in the net. I found a man who looked normal. Brown, thinning hair, glasses, slight smile, not handsome – just normal. His description said he was self-employed, widowed, loves to travel – normal.

“You must be Dianne. Wow, you look just like your picture.”

“Thanks?” He looked a bit tweedy in his corduroys and sweater vest. Not the bad-boy type I usually crave.

At a hotel bar, we ordered drinks. “I’d like a vodka tonic,” I said.

 “I’ll have what she’s having.” Emphasis on “she’s.” He was trying to be “that guy” and I squirmed at the thought of him getting too close too soon, or ever.

We snacked on a few small plates. I didn’t wait for him to ask about me. I sat relaxed, legs crossed, left arm slung over the low-back stuffed chair, and said, “I’m a writer, widowed, with two grown daughters, and two teenage grandsons who all live nearby.” It felt like I was reading a teleprompter. My body went numb, and my mind stumbled over a question. Why are you doing this?

He replied with about the same amount of demographics but with an uneasy excitement. Thirty minutes into the conversation he leaned in and spoke quietly with a gravel to his voice. He looked left over his shoulder, “How do you feel about nudity? I belong to a nudist colony, and I’d love to get you there this weekend.” He winked. My face felt flush. My casual slouch switched to a rigid back and my arms crossed over my chest. With a deep draw of breath, I gripped the cocktail glass too tightly. I wanted to shower. In a different county.

A sudden strength filled the space in me that had felt hollow. A new definition of me was forming. All the while on this journey I’d been looking for someone who might like me – enough. This guy’s question about nudity slapped me awake. I deserve someone who is good enough – for me. Something in my sudden body shift scared him. He pulled back, crossed his arms, and looked away. I ended the evening with one arm raised, “Check, please!” to any server in earshot.

After waiting a couple of months and still grappling with loneliness, I accepted a date. A handsome 70-year-old messaged me and requested a coffee date. His profile stated he was athletic and toned, hoping to find a kind loving person with whom he might spend “the rest of my life.” Spend the rest of my life lingered like the stench of yesterday’s spent coffee grounds. From the start, I thought I was looking for a new partner, but “the rest of my life” stuck in my throat. I could feel the rest of my life stuck there too, competing with the sour taste of loneliness. I tossed my phone on the sofa like a too-hot pan out of the oven.

More than a year into sporadic online dating, this profile appeared, “A 66-year-old man, retired Navy….” I imagined a kind trustworthy sort, a movie version of a man. In the profile photo, he was handsome with a regal pose in a US Naval Officer’s uniform. I’m a sucker for a uniform. I draw the line at the Terminix guy. Though, in a pinch…

We met at the hipster restaurant he selected. The club music didn’t fit me, but I’d come this far and wanted a drink. He was unrecognizable from his online picture, with a floppy neck, badly died wisps of combed-over hair, and a far-too-tight black tee shirt. I sat across from him, squinting to find the man I thought I’d meet tonight. I hadn’t expected him to show up in uniform, but really! The latch on my purse was wearing out as I opened and closed it, irritated with his dishonesty. I deserve better. I moved to the outside edge of the booth’s seat, ready to flee.

The server approached, “I’ll have a martini, gin…any gin, dry, up, two olives, very chilly” I said before he asked. The Commander ordered an old fashion and two appetizers.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said, leaning toward me.

Leaning away from him, “I’m a writer, the mother of two girls, and a grandma of two teenage boys.” I stopped. I didn’t say widow. I didn’t. It just didn’t come out of my mouth! I crossed my legs under the table with authority and sat taller, shoulders back, boobs forward, chin up.

“I want to be perfectly honest right up front,” he spoke loudly over the pounding music, leaned in, and slapped both hands on the table. “My friends tell me I look and act much younger than I am, so on the website, I said I was sixty-six.”

“Well, how old are you?” My voice raised and took on the tone of an angry mom.

The waiter arrived with the drinks.

“My friends made me say sixty-six. I’m actually seventy-five.” I turned to swing one leg outside of the booth, with a how-dare-you attitude.

I had enough swagger to tip the martini glass to my lips gulp, gulp, gulp ’till it was empty.

He prattled on about how nobody can keep up with him, and he’s so strong, and he can dead-lift…

The waiter approached the table with the appetizers. “I’ll take that one to go,” I said, pointing to the crisp Brussels sprouts.

 “They’re my favorite,” I said to no one.

 “Oh, can’t we dine together?” Mr. 75 asked.

I left $30.00 on the table and scooted out of the booth. “Nope.”

I stood still for a moment and thought, look at me in all my vulnerability, strength, emotional nudity – see me.

Outside, the sound of my heels clicking on the pavement made me smile. Smile that my throat had opened, and I could taste the sweetness of the rest of my own life. Smile about the epiphany – I found myself.

A few months passed and at a business event, I caught the sound of my voice, familiar but with greater confidence. I added to the conversation that yes, I had traveled to Italy several times. Not we. I have two grandsons. Not we. Automatic, like taking in crisp air on a cold morning and wanting it to fill my lungs, clean them out.

“Oh, you’re single?” A stranger at the table asked. “I may have someone for you…”

“No, I’m not interested in dating, but thanks,” I told her. “I’m good.”

Photo by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash