From her leather upholstered seat at the bar, Amanda says, “See anyone interesting?”
Jodie warned me there wouldn’t be many eligible bachelors in attendance, but I don’t mind. I’m in the mood for a no-pressure kind of night—yummy drinks with friends—nothing more, nothing less. Without even scoping out the attendees, I say, “Nope,” and take a sip of my drink.
“You didn’t even look.”
Cocking an eyebrow, I say, “What about you? See anyone you like?”
Instead of answering me, Amanda puts her drink on the dark wood bar and stands up. “I’ve gotta use the bathroom.”
With both amusement and relief, I glance over my shoulder and watch her saunter through the crowded restaurant until her long, wavy brown hair is out of sight before turning back around. I don’t want to talk about dating tonight, and a surefire way to motivate Amanda to change the subject is to turn the tables and ask about her own dating situation. And since I haven’t been out with anyone since Philip or made any effort to put myself out there, I have nothing worthwhile to share. The one thing I can add to the conversation is the one thing I’m not ready to admit out loud—I really miss Doug.
Since the night I remembered a boastful Doug dancing in my living room, memories of him haunt my every waking moment. But do I truly miss Doug, or is this newborn ache of losing him simply my heart’s reaction to being alone and my fear of staying that way? Before I can continue the self-analysis I’ve been conducting for the past week whenever I’m not otherwise occupied, one of Jodie’s friends from high school summons everyone to a table in the back for dinner, offering a temporary reprieve from flashbacks of Doug.
The next morning, the birthday girl insists on making chocolate chip pancakes for Amanda and me, even though I told her I’d be equally happy with a bowl of cereal. “You used to love my pancakes,” Jodie says with a frown.
“I still do. But it’s your birthday, and you deserve the day off. Especially since your kids are with their dad. Don’t you want to take it easy?” Offering to make breakfast for Jodie would be a nice gesture, but I don’t say anything. While I can fry a mean egg, Jodie can only stomach them as a hidden ingredient—not the main dish—and French toast and pancakes aren’t on the list of things I know how to make. I’m also pretty cozy sitting at Jodie’s kitchen table in my pajamas drinking a cup of Gevalia coffee. I curse myself for being lazy, but I don’t get up.
Removing flour and a bag of Nestlé Toll House morsels from her cabinet, Jodie says, “I enjoy preparing food for others. It relaxes me.” Unlike me, Jodie is already showered and her wet hair is held back from her face with a black cotton headband.
“Then go for it. I don’t want to get between you and your favorite mode of relaxation. And besides, I love your cooking.”
Jodie beams. “That’s more like it. For a minute there, I thought you were suggesting I no longer possessed the stamina to make you breakfast.”
I shake my head. “Not even. You won’t be hearing any forty jokes from me.” I’m way too sensitive about the subject, and the age difference between the two of us is not big enough for me to feel comfortable poking fun.
Amanda, who was still sleeping when I got out of bed, walks into the kitchen in the yoga pants and t-shirt she wore to bed. With a DVD in her right hand, she joins me at the table. “Me neither,” she says. “But I did bring the perfect movie for the occasion.”
“Yeah? What movie?” Jodie asks.
Smiling, Amanda holds up the DVD with Paul Rudd and Leslie Mann on the cover. This is 40.
My stomach plummets, and I immediately respond, “No way.”
Her eyebrows squishing together, Amanda says, “Why?”
“Because it will make me feel worse about myself than I already do.”
“I had no idea you felt bad about yourself,” Jodie says. Her lips twitching, she adds, “If you must know, I always thought you were a bit conceited.”
I grab the first non-breakable item I can find—a napkin—crumple it and toss it at her.
Laughing, Jodie ducks and barely evades being hit by the flying napkin.
Amanda ignores our antics. “Why would watching This is 40 make you feel bad about yourself? It’s supposedly hilarious and totally relatable.”
“Exactly. I’m almost forty, and it’s not at all relatable to me. Not even close,” I say assuredly.
“What’s the film about?” Jodie asks. “Not that it matters if it stars Paul Rudd. What a cutie.”
“Paul Rudd and Leslie Mann play a married couple who are both turning forty, and it’s a comedy about how their relationship has changed since they’ve gotten older, had kids, and are approaching middle age. Too depressing.”
“How is it depressing?” Amanda asks.
“Because it serves to remind me how backwards I am. My life is nothing like that.” I look down at myself. “This is thirty-nine?”
Placing a plate of pancakes on the table, Jodie says, “I don’t want to watch it either. I might have children, but I don’t have an adorable husband anymore. As a forty-year-old divorcée, this is not the movie for me right now.”
Amanda rolls her eyes. “Sorry I suggested it.”
Perking up, I say, “But speaking of adorable, time to spill about the guy at the bar last night. Goatee man?”
Jodie puts down her coffee cup and raises an eyebrow. “Charles?”
I cut into a piece of pancake and nod. “You completely ignored my note last night.” After observing Jodie giggle nonstop at Charles’s jokes all through dinner, I wrote “Who is this dude?” on a napkin and slipped it across the table to her. She never wrote back, and I forgot to follow through at the end of the night.
“He’s a new friend,” Jodie says nonchalantly.
“How did you meet?” Amanda asks, motioning toward the container of Aunt Jemima. “Can you please pass the syrup?”
Jodie slides the syrup across the table. “I met him at the supermarket. Olivia pulled a box of cereal from the middle of the shelf, causing about twenty other boxes to tumble down with it, and Charles helped clean up my daughter’s mess.” A flush creeps across Jodie’s cheeks.
“You like him,” I tease.
Jodie blushes. “He’s a nice guy. Most men would have run away from the commotion, but he stopped to help the lady with the troublemaking kid.” As the rising sun shines through the window, she gets up and closes the shade.
I point at her and repeat. “You like him. Jodie and Charles sitting in a tree,” I sing.
Amanda jabs me in the elbow. “Leave her alone.”
“Ouch,” I say, sliding my chair out of touching distance from Amanda. “I’m giving it to her the way she always gave it to me when I started liking a guy. You get what you give.”
Sitting down again, Jodie says, “In any event, when I casually brought up my divorced status in conversation, he asked for my number, so I asked him to come last night. We haven’t been on an official date yet.”
“Yet is the operative word,” Amanda says.
Smiling, I agree. “I’m so happy for you.” This is the first time Jodie has shown any interest in dating since separating from her ex, despite my frequent prodding. I was beginning to wonder if she was giving up on men completely.
Waving her hand in dismissal, Jodie says, “Let’s not get too excited. Like I said, we haven’t even gone on a real date. But, yes, I like him.” She points at me. “And it supports the possibility of meeting guys who are neither jailbait nor senior citizens after turning forty. My experience should make you feel more optimistic about meeting someone new, right?”
“Right.” Except I’m no longer interested in meeting someone new and would much prefer to reconcile with someone old.
“What’s wrong, Mags? You don’t seem too enthusiastic,” Jodie says.
“Of course, I am. I’m totally excited for you.
” Truth.
Narrowing her eyes at me, Jodie says, “But you’re sad.”
“I’m not sad.” Lie.
Amanda cocks her head to the side and studies me. “You do seem sad.”
“Spill,” Jodie says.
I exhale deeply. “I miss Doug.”
“I knew it,” Amanda exclaims in glee.
Rolling my eyes, I say, “I’m so glad my despair makes you giddy, Amanda.”
A blush creeps across Amanda’s cheeks. “I’m not deriving pleasure from your pain, I swear. But I’m glad you figured it out before it’s too late. You need to call him.”
Holding her hand up, Jodie says, “Simmer down. We need to discuss this. No reason to do anything hasty.”
“What is there to discuss? Maggie realizes she made a horrible mistake breaking up with Doug. Don’t you think she should tell him?”
“Maggie didn’t break up with Doug; she asked him for a break. He broke up with her,” Jodie argues.
“Ahem. Maggie’s here. Please refrain from talking about me like I’m not in the room,” I say as my pulse races.
Frowning, Jodie says, “Sorry, Mags. How long have you felt this way?”
I press my fingers to my now throbbing temples and shake my head. “I’m not sure. A few weeks?”
Raising an eyebrow, Jodie says, “Like around the time Philip ended things?”
“What are you getting at?” Amanda asks.
“I’m thinking maybe Maggie doesn’t miss Doug per se. Maybe what she misses is having someone. People often romanticize old relationships when they’re lonely. What do you think, Magpie? Could I be on to something?”
Having asked myself the same question at least a thousand times in the last couple of weeks, I sigh. “I don’t know, but I guess it’s possible you’re right.” I flash back to the way Doug used to lick the trail of freckles from my ankles all the way up to my inner thighs until I begged him to put me out of my misery.
Interrupting my X-rated daydream, Amanda says, “I think Maggie missed Doug before things ended with Philip. You should have seen the way she hightailed it out of The Apple Store in October.”
“I’m merely suggesting you think long and hard about the source of your feelings before you do anything rash,” Jodie says.
“But don’t think too long,” Amanda mutters.
Jodie ignores her. “You already hurt Doug once. If you guys get back together and your old concerns come back, it will kill him. And then I’ll have to kill you.”
Jerking my head back, I say, “Why would you kill me?”
“Because Doug is one of the good guys.”
“But I’m your friend,” I argue even though I agree wholeheartedly with Jodie. The last thing I want to do is hurt Doug again.
“Maybe you should join Match.com or something. Get your dating juices flowing,” Jodie says.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Amanda says. “I can almost guarantee there is no one online who will be better than Doug.”
I force out a chuckle. “Let’s change the subject. I promise to think about what you’ve said.” I focus my gaze on Jodie for a moment and then on Amanda. “Both of you.”
When I get back to my apartment, I immediately turn on the television in the living room. Then I drop my overnight bag in the bedroom before returning to the couch. Scrolling the channels, I regretfully deduce there is nothing on except repeats of Law & Order: SVU which, for the first time since Doug and I spent a winter of Sundays binge-watching seasons one through ten, I’m not in the mood to watch. I turn off the television and call Cheryl. I get her voicemail and tell her to call me back. We still haven’t discussed what’s going on with her and Jim and her avoidance of the conversation is concerning.
I log onto my computer and after updating my search for job openings on the Legal Marketing Association’s job bank, I shoot off my resume along with a tailored cover letter for two legal marketing positions—one for a marketing and business development coordinator and one for a marketing communications manager. True to his word, Philip has made things as comfortable for me at work as possible, starting with making Brendan the go-to person for the logo project. We still have an ongoing email exchange regarding the concepts, but Philip manages to be pleasant without being phony. He has somehow found a way to pretend nothing happened between us while fully acknowledging that something did indeed happen, and I am grateful for his sensitive demeanor. Still, much of the splendor of my current position—one I’d formerly been passionate about—was lost in our breakup. With a milestone birthday staring me in the face, the timing is perfect to start fresh.
My self-imposed hour a day of job searching completed, I tap my fingers on the keyboard aimlessly. I glance at my tiny kitchenette and contemplate making dinner, but I’m not at all hungry. I aim my mouse at the browser and begin to type. I stop after “www” and bite my cheek. Then I peer over my shoulder as if someone can see what I’m about to do. I clasp my hands together, intertwine my fingers, and stretch my arms out in front of me. Then I finish entering the complete URL and find myself on the home page of Match.com.
I’m immediately invited to see photos of singles near me, so I click on “Woman Seeking a Man” in zip code 10016 and hold my breath. I did online dating in my early thirties before I met Doug, but I never took it very seriously. I met a few nice guys and several not-so-nice guys, but I don’t recall being overly disappointed when a guy’s profile picture didn’t match his in-person appearance, or when he didn’t call me for a second date. It was merely fun. Today, as I stare at the screen in horror, I wish for even a smidgen of my younger self’s nonchalance.
The site won’t let me view the results until I provide my email address and birthday, and states that providing the information signifies my agreement to receive promotional emails from Match.com. I’m tempted to close the browser until I read the part about opting out of emails at any time. After providing the requested information, I shield my eyes with my hands as if somehow protecting myself from the profiles I’m about to see. Or maybe I’m hiding myself so the men in the profiles can’t see me. I take a deep breath and remove my hand. Staring back at me are rows and rows of pictures of male members of Match.com. I click on a photo of forty-two-year-old Matthew. He’s cute with short brown hair and five o’clock shadow. According to his profile, he has no trouble getting dates, but meeting one special woman to settle down with is proving to be challenging. He is a long-suffering Mets and Jets fan, and Key West is his favorite place in the world. He’s hoping to meet an attractive, intelligent, and interesting woman with her own opinions and passions.
So far so good. I read further down his profile and freeze—he is searching for a woman between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. Seriously? He’s a forty-two-year-old man, but wants to meet a twenty-five-year-old girl? And he won’t even consider dating a woman who is over thirty-five, even though she’s still several years younger than him.
I close out his profile and continue my casual searching. After about fifteen minutes, I shut down my computer, wishing I hadn’t bothered. Of the ten or so decent men in my age range, almost all of them are searching for women who are several years younger than them, and the others included women up to their own age but not even a year or two older.
Not only does it confirm one of my biggest fears about getting older, but it makes me miss Doug even more for never giving my age a second thought. Amanda is absolutely right—I will never meet a guy online who is better than Doug.
I exit the dating website and do a search for indoor rock climbing classes in New York City. I might not be able to freeze time or control what men are looking for, but I’m not completely powerless. I wince when I see the price of the four-week climbing school offered by Chelsea Piers is two hundred and fifty dollars. I chew on a finger nail in contemplation for a moment. Then I reach for the credit card in my wallet, and sign
up for the January classes.
Over the edamame we are sharing at Mizu Sushi, my favorite neighborhood Japanese restaurant, Amanda asks me, “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
“I’m positive. I truly hate New Year’s Eve, Amanda. I have no desire to spend twice as much money for half as much fun.” I intend to stay at home with a bottle of Prosecco and a delicious assortment of cheese and crackers and chips and dip.
Amanda frowns. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. I’m sure Regina can get you another ticket.” One of Regina’s friends has rented out the top floor of a bar in midtown. “There will be a controlled number of people, so it won’t be like The Culture Club, I swear.”
I shudder at the memory of paying a hundred and twenty dollars for the privilege of waiting in line outside of the club in below-freezing temperatures for close to an hour before the cocky bouncer let us in, and then tipping twenty dollars to get the bartender’s attention at the so-called “open bar” event. I vowed never to attend an open bar party on New Year’s Eve again. The following year, I met Doug, who was more than happy to help me keep my promise.
When I was in a relationship, I never realized how few single friends I had. If I wanted to really party for New Year’s Eve, it wouldn’t be possible without my connection to Amanda. I smile at her. “I do appreciate you being so inclusive though.”
“Of course. I worry about you.” She glances at the almost empty plate of edamame. “You mind if I take the last one?”
“Go for it,” I say. “Why do you worry about me? I’m choosing to stay at home because I honestly detest going out on New Year’s Eve. It’s not like I’m suicidal or anything.”
How Do You Know? Page 12