First there was Rob who called me “Little Heather Locklear” because of my blond hair, six-inch heels, and newly acquired short skirts, which he thought were reminiscent of Melrose Place. The Locklear comparison earned him a month of dating until I met Stu, who asked all five feet of me if I had ever modeled. That got him sex the very first night and a month and a half of dating until I dumped him for Andy, who sought me out at a party introducing himself and saying I was “a vision in red leather pants and a gray tank in a sea of black.” That relationship only lasted two weeks, as I ran out of colorful clothes.
If I knew I was going to sleep with Bobby on the third-date take-out Chinese and DVD at his place, my outfit was always my slouchy Levi’s with my best Calvin Klein ribbed white tank (the one that was the same as all the others, but for some reason looked better).
“Your arms look amazing in this,” Bobby said as he slipped it off of me.
If it were a conservative guy, like Richard, I’d wear a black low-cut blouse, black cigarette pants, and pearls.
“The thing I like about you,” Richard said, “you’re conventional, but with a sexy edge.”
If we were going to a business function, like the one I went to with Leo, I wore my Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress for the I-just-came-from-work look, even though I’d secretly left work early to shower and put on my sexy wrap dress.
“There is no one sexier than you,” Leo whispered before introducing me to his boss.
If a cute guy happened to come into my office and asked if I wanted to grab a drink after work, I kept a drawer at my desk full of accessories, which came in handy when I met Oliver.
“You’re like an article in one of those fashion magazines,” he said, complimenting the scarf I’d fashionably tied around my neck as he quoted, “How to turn your daytime outfit into night in two simple steps.”
If it were a daytime activity date, like the time I went Rollerblading with Keith, I wore my black leggings, a white tank top, and my old gray long-sleeve Rolling Stones Steel Wheels Tour T-shirt that I stole from my brother David, which I wrapped around my waist.
“You’re a sexy tomboy,” Keith said as we skated off the cement path and fell into the grass. I had to give up that relationship the day he asked if I wanted to go swimming. He was cute, but not cute enough for me to get my hair wet.
Saturday night dates were all-embracing: my gold halter top with my Theory shiny black tight-fitting tuxedo pants. At a dinner party with Zach, Zach’s friend Leslie kept gushing over the top.
“I am dating the sexiest, best-dressed girl in town,” Zach boasted.
Black-tie events, like the one I went to with Al, called for my silk charmeuse slim-fitting white skirt and a black halter top with a V-shaped back.
“You look like someone Frank Sinatra would sing about,” Al said as he dipped me on the dance floor.
Sometimes relationships ended simply because I had nothing else to wear, like when my relationship with Nick ended because I had worn the same outfit on date two as I did on date seven.
“I love the way you dress,” Nick said when he picked me up for date two—dinner and a movie.
By the time date seven rolled around, I was out of the outfits that fit the criteria of the look he loved, so I put on date two’s outfit and hoped for the best. He said nothing when I answered the door. He kissed me hello and complained about the traffic. I felt dirty. I had failed. Before he could get to it, I broke it off the next day using the old “things at work have been crazy/its not you, it’s me/I’m really screwed up right now/I’m not in the right place” excuse.
Sometimes it wasn’t easy keeping up the sexy/ultraconfident sexscapade.
There was the time I got my six-inch heel stuck in a street grate. As I pulled the wedged heel from the grate, the force of the action made me knock into Gil, who in turn hit his head on a street pole and passed out on the sidewalk, his head bleeding profusely.
“Is there any way I can reimburse you for this?” I asked Gil as he lay in the ambulance on the way to the hospital after coming to consciousness with the paramedics finishing the stitches.
While Myles thought it was hysterical, trying to be playful and accidentally unhooking my halter top and leaving me topless for about three seconds, long enough for everyone within eye reach of our dinner table to catch a glimpse of my braless breasts, it was the last I saw of him.
That story went along the same lines as my date with Lawrence. I went to grab my water glass and inadvertently knocked a full glass of red wine onto my lap. Since I was wearing a pair of extra-tight white pants and had decided to go sans underwear, it is my belief that I will never experience a more self-inflicted source of mortification than when I had to walk out of the restaurant with a tablecloth wrapped around my waist. Worse, Lawrence had light-cream-colored seats in his car and insisted that I sit on some plastic bags he found in his trunk. I never ordered red wine ever again and always decline it if it’s ever offered. Some wine-snob dates have haughtily disapproved when I’ve ordered a Pinot Grigio with steak. If they only knew.
Tale of the Underwear from Target
hen you’re in the dating world, there is so much work in order to fake perfection. If you’re not careful, you might miss something crucial along the way. Gone is the idea of not putting on a little lipstick, even if you’re going to the 7-Eleven to pick up some Doritos for a late-night munch fest. Back is mascara at midnight. Gone is wearing the oversized sweats that don’t show off your body when you’re going to the gym. Back are the tight, uncomfortable leggings that make your butt look sexy (albeit giving you a wedgie) while gliding on the elliptical machine. Gone are the easy cotton Calvin Klein pullover sports bras for everyday use. Back are the lace bras with the underwire, which have a strong possibility of stabbing you in the boob should the protective covering fray. Gone are the days of wearing your glasses when you drive. Back is the inability to see the pedestrian crossing the street so the cute guy in the Porsche next to you will caution you with a beep, causing you to stop, smile a thank-you, get a number, get married, have kids, and get a dog and name him “ ‘Stigmatism” (Stiggy for short)—your little joke, of course, referencing the first time you met.
Felicia had fixed me up with this guy Mick. We had gone on a few dates and had a great time. When we went for sushi and he confessed his inability to use chopsticks, I claimed it was “adorable,” thus leading us into a comfortable zone.
One Sunday, Mick needed a fold-up card table and chairs, so we decided to head to the Target in the San Fernando Valley. We stopped at Krispy Kreme, contemplated a Wendy’s hamburger, but settled on fries and a Frosty. As our sugar highs deepened to schizoid proportions, we raced through the parking lot toward the Target store like wild boars stoned on crystal meth.
“Oh, remind me to get some underwear,” I casually requested.
Mick halted in mid-sugar freakout.
“Hold on. You buy your underwear at Target?” Mick rhetorically chided.
I stopped, shuddered, and tried to cover it—badly. “No, of course not. What, are you nuts? I was just kidding. All this sugar is making me say crazy things.”
We cruised the fold-up table section, contemplated an oak one, settled for plastic, but my mind was someplace else. It was a few yards away, in the Target lingerie section. My true bliss was hanging on a rack, albeit somewhat haphazardly, by the lucky ladies who had gotten there before me. So close and yet so far. My secret cheap thrill—Gilligan &r O‘Malley brand to be exact, 100% cotton, low-cut bikini with a full seat—comes in a pack of three. I’m wearing a pair right now (though 1 didn’t get them that day).
Later that week, Mick and I went on a double date with Felicia and her boyfriend, Hal.
“I wish Felicia would wear sexier underwear,” Hal thought out loud so Felicia would hear.
“How’s this for sexy,” Mick sarcastically commented. “Adena gets her underwear from Target!”
“No, I don‘t!” I cried, shocked and ashamed.
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Later that night, I told Mick it was over. Mick had crossed the line. Now everyone would know. Felicia was always a big talker.
Heidi called me at eight the next morning.
“Felicia says you got this great underwear from Target. Which one is it?”
“Gilligan & O‘Malley brand, 100% cotton, low-cut bikini with a full seat. Comes in a pack of three.”
Later that week at a dinner party, Susan mouthed these words: “They are so comfortable.” Next to her was her husband, Robert. “Thanks a lot,” he deadpanned.
I had started a revolution.
A month later, Mick came to my house.
“You are a special person,” he said. “Last night I took this girl out. We went back to her place Things started to heat up. When she took off her skirt and I saw her underwear, I started to think, ‘Why mess around with a knockoff when you might be lucky enough to be able to have the original?’ I left right then and there.”
“Was it Gilligan & O‘Malley brand, 100% cotton?” I asked him.
“Low-cut bikini with a full seat. Comes in a pack of three,” Mick said, adding, “do you think we could give it another try?”
“Why not,” I told him.
A week later he showed up at my house for a date wearing a leather vest with no shirt on underneath.
I said nothing, claimed pneumonia, and stopped taking his calls.
A Democrat in Republican’s Clothing
had decided to wear my beige shift dress with my six-inch-heeled snakeskin slingbacks on my blind date with Evan in early August 1998. I was fast approaching my thirtieth birthday, and the thought of not having anyone permanent in my life was starting to jolt the countdown on my spinster clock. The bigger problem was, there was no one who I really liked. I was fortunate enough to have been asked out on a lot of dates and had an active enough social life to have met all different kinds of guys. Still, there was no one. So when my friend Ian called and said that he wanted to fix me up with Evan, I was more than keyed up to go.
Evan was an investment banker. Ian said that he was exactly the kind of guy I would like—smart, confident, Jewish, funny, and most important, had the one quality I’ve always been attracted to: He could really wear a suit. If I stop to really ask myself why this has always been a plus for me, I know it can be attributed to the early mornings I’d watch my dad go off to the hospital in one of his gray, blue, or chocolate brown suits. It was six in the morning, and my father was headed off to perform one of his early morning surgeries, but he always wore a suit to work—gray or blue or chocolate brown with a white or blue oxford dress shirt and one of his many blue ties with varied prints of tiny polka dots or plaids. He’d come into my room while I was still sleeping; I could smell his hair spray—the Dry Look for Men—a scent I remain fond of for this reason. He’d lean over my bed, give me a kiss, and wish me a good day, and I’d find the energy to open my eyes just as he walked into my brothers’ room, wishing them good days. There I’d see my daddy for the first time that day—crisp, clean, and more handsome than I’d ever see him at any other time in my life.
The same goes for my grandfather Frank when I would go to visit him at his accounting firm. I would run into his office to find my “Pop-pop” Frank, whose suits and dress shirts he had tailor-made in the finest fabrics, and there he was. The only thing about him that wasn’t dapper and elegant was the wonderfully ecstatic smile on his face and his arms flailing at me just waiting to get his hands on me for a hug. I’d jump into his arms, and he hugged me tight as I’d play with the handkerchief neatly folded in his breast pocket. He’d carry me from office to office, proudly showing off his “littlest princess,” as he called me.
So call it a daddy thing, call it what you will. I’m a huge sucker for a guy in a suit.
I thought the beige shift dress was a really good idea. Evan told me he’d be coming from his office and to please excuse his suit. I felt incredibly comfortable talking to him on the phone, and that in turn made me feel a little negligent in sexy attire. Also, I figured we’d match well if I wore something more conservative. After all, he did claim on the phone to be a “Democrat in Republican’s clothing.” Would a conservative investment banker appreciate my usual date look—tight cigarette pants, a flimsy halter top, and six-inch heels? Maybe if I was a gift some client had sent him as a thank-you. He’d want a woman to be as traditional- and sophisticated-looking as he was. That, and my usual conservative black-cigarette-pants-with-pearls outfit had a loose cuff on one of the legs, and I had sworn off my own sewing since prom night years before.
At eight o‘clock that evening, Evan rang my doorbell. I undid the locks and began my ritual in opening the door for a blind date—asking God, Allah, Mother Nature, and Santa Claus, “Please let this he someone I might like.” Everything was happening in slow motion as I opened the door and saw the arm of his gray suit, then his jacket lapel, his blue tie, his blue dress shirt, his deep green eyes. With the door pulled open, seeing him in full view, my very first thought was “a hot Democrat in Republican’s clothing!” I didn’t let on, though, as I gave him a warm smile. It was what he did next that, in all honesty, opened my bottle of crush. The guy gasped at me like he had never seen a vision of beauty so true and so meant to be.
And I knew he was full of crap.
And I loved that he was so full of crap.
Lets face the facts. Yes, I will admit that I looked attractive ... for a job interview. My hair was slicked hack into a severe ponytail. The beige shift did nothing for my figure Why I didn’t spend a little more time perfecting my makeup with the addition of even a dab of lipstick is still beyond me. To put it harshly, I was not gasp worthy
So I outwardly ignored it.
“I actually just got home from work,” I lied, knowing full well that told him I was home already when he called on my cell two hours before. “Would you mind if I put on something more comfortable?” I asked him as I mentally surveyed my closet and quickly decided on my black Theory stretch cigarette pants and red ribbed tank.
“You look gorgeous!” he lied. “We’re late for our reservation anyway. ”
I grabbed my mini backpack purse (as if I wasn’t pathetic enough) and locked the door to my apartment. Evan and I walked to his car, a beat-up green Saab convertible, which looked exactly like my beat-up Saab, only mine had a hard top—an obvious sign if I ever saw one. I suddenly knew why I loved that he fake gasped. It was something that I would have done myself at the time had I been the guy at the door. He was the male Adena. And for that very reason, even though I had only known him for about five minutes tops, he was a potential finalist in the Mr. Adena Halpern contest.
He told me that he was taking me to the hot new sushi restaurant, the one I was dying to go to, the one he couldn’t wait to try. As we drove over to the restaurant and the wind from the open top blew my severe ponytail into a spunkier up-do, Evan took moments throughout the five-minute drive to reenact his gasp, never saying anything, like he was stunned speechless from my splendor. Again, I worked feverishly to outwardly ignore it, but the more he fake gasped, the more my crush deepened and the more insecure I got.
What I really should have been doing all this time was telling him that I had already been to the hot new sushi restaurant and maybe we could think of another place. As we entered the restaurant, I had suddenly remembered the main attraction of hot new restaurants: hot young babes—model babes, babes in cigarette pants, flimsy halter tops, and long flowing hair. As the six-foot model/hostess with the black leather miniskirt and flawless body showed us to our table, my shift dress got baggier, my six-inch heels got shorter. When the gorgeous redhead at the table next to ours dropped her chopsticks and went to pick them up, both Evan and I took the opportunity to look down her V-neck shirt, which was giving way to her perfectly sculpted (only by genetics and not by a plastic surgeon) breasts, I could feel my own breasts bobbing against my knees.
“There are some really pretty women in here,” I casual
ly remarked to try to make him think I was the one woman in the entire world who didn’t have a problem with other women who were better-looking than me.
“But I’m sitting with the prettiest,” he said and smiled.
The ultimate bullshit artist. This was the man of my dreams!
I watched Evan pay the bill for our edamame appetizer, tuna roll, and eel sushi, and I thanked him with a kiss on the cheek. He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me in to him as we left the restaurant.
“Do you think we could do this again?” he slightly begged, leaning in as we pulled up to my apartment.
“I think that’s possible,” I said as I leaned in too.
The two “conservative” Jews kissed passionately, then got out of the beat-up green Saab convertible, his hand in hers.
“Good night,” she said as she took her keys out to open her apartment door.
“Good night,” he sighed as though he might have buttoned up his suit jacket, thrown on a fedora, and gone singing in the rain had there even been a slight drizzle when she shut the door.
And as I closed the door to my apartment, I contemplated the next move while throwing off the beige monstrosity, taking my hair out of the ponytail, and figuring out the sexiest outfit I had for the next date. If I had used my brain, I could have figured out that I didn’t have to contemplate anything so fast. Knowing who I was at that time in my life, and he being the male Adena, I should have known it was going to take Evan six months before he finally called me for a second date.
Target Underwear and a Vera Wang Gown Page 10