“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say until I notice Michael standing off to the side with his full lower lip curled in a pout. Approaching him, I ask, “Will you sit on my other side, Michael?” Michael’s eyes light up like a sparkler on the Fourth of July.
“I guess I’ll eat mine in the basement since no one wants to sit next to me,” Cheryl says with a frown.
“Mommy, you can sit on my othow side,” Cady says.
“I wanna sit next to Mommy too,” Michael wails.
“Oh, now I’m Miss Popular,” Cheryl says dramatically, and while the kids giggle, I wonder if I’ll ever have children of my own. Sometimes I’m positive I don’t want to be a mother, but other times, like when I witness the bond Cheryl shares with Cady and Michael, unique to mothers and their children, I ache for a little boy or girl to call me mommy and love me unconditionally.
After dinner, Cheryl and I give the kids their baths and get them ready for bed. I read them not one, but two bedtime stories, then find myself back on the living room couch with Cheryl and a tall glass of water.
“I’m reluctant to bring it up, but how are you holding up?” Cheryl asks, her eyebrows creased in concern.
As much as I hate what Cheryl is going through, it’s almost a relief to talk about her problems instead of mine for a change. “I’m trying not to think about it. Which means I think about it all of the time.” My mind wanders to the thought of Doug and Lindsay celebrating Valentine’s Day, and I blink my eyes to keep from crying.
“I’m sorry, Maggie. I honestly never thought he would find someone else so fast.”
Not ready to accept Doug replacing me so easily, I jump on the defensive. “He said it had nothing to do with Lindsay. Just because he’s dating her doesn’t mean he’s in love with her.”
Cheryl places her hand on mine. “Of course it doesn’t. I didn’t mean to suggest it did. I imagined Doug moping over you while zoning out to stupid videos on YouTube. I’m just surprised he’s even dating someone.”
“He’s a catch,” I whisper.
“He sure is,” Cheryl agrees. She pauses before saying, “To be honest, I never understood why you had doubts in the first place, Mags. What was the problem?”
“Doug asked me the same thing.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him I didn’t know. I could never put it into words, but I suppose it was lacking the oomph.”
Cheryl narrows her eyes. “Oomph?”
I give her a timid smile. “You know. Drama. Angst. Challenge.” I’m on a roll. “It was so easy.”
Cheryl gawks at me like I’m crazy. “That’s a bad thing, why?”
I stare back at her blankly. “I have no idea.”
“Were you bored?” she questions.
I shake my head. “No.” Doug and I always had fun, even when we were doing nothing. We were only bored when we wanted to be.
“Was the sex bad?”
“Not at all. It was good.” The sex wasn’t new and exciting, and we weren’t particularly experimental after the first year, but we knew what the other one liked, and it was always more than satisfying. I close my eyes, remembering the last time we were together. Way too long ago.
Cheryl sighs loudly. “Here’s what I think about challenges, drama, and angst.” She pauses dramatically and locks eyes with me. “If Doug was a challenge, you would constantly worry he’d dump you. You would be afraid every girl he spoke to would steal him away from you. You would spend your entire relationship anxious and paranoid. The drama would come from you accusing him of cheating on you and the angst would come from makeup sex. Makeup sex is fun, but not if it’s the only sex you ever have.” Cheryl’s face turns a shade of red as she shakes her head and regards me with something resembling disgust. Before I can defend myself, she continues. “Doug wasn’t a challenge because he was in love with you and committed to your relationship. There was no drama because you were compatible, and there was no angst because you didn’t need to constantly prove yourself worthy of his time and attention. It was easy because it was right. You have no idea how lucky you are…were.”
By the time she is finished, my body has shrunk into the couch and when I swipe my fingers across my cheek, there is dampness caused by tears I had no idea I’d shed. I struggle to find my voice and all I can manage is, “Okay.” Unable to meet Cheryl’s eyes, I stand up and say, “I’m going to bed. Work tomorrow. Sorry.” I hate being scolded, especially when I deserve it.
As I grab my overnight bag and head to her guest bathroom, Cheryl says, “I’m sorry, Magpie. You know I love you. I left two towels on top of the laundry machine in the bathroom, and there’s a fresh tube of toothpaste.”
I mumble, “I love you too,” and close the bathroom door behind me.
The wine I drank induces sleep, saving me from a restless night of tossing and turning while hearing Cheryl’s voice in my head telling me what an utter fool I am. I sleep uninterrupted until the sound of Cheryl trotting down the stairs and flicking on the light switch in the kitchen wakes me up. My first waking thought is: “Shit. I have to go speed dating tonight.”
After I shower and blow-dry my hair, I sit at the kitchen table silently drinking a cup of coffee. It is unnervingly quiet, and the only sounds are the kids chomping on their toast with peanut butter. I guess none of us are morning people. Must be genetic.
After breakfast, Cheryl drives me to the train back to the city. Out of the side of her mouth, presumably so the kids don’t hear, she says, “Are you mad at me?”
I stare at the line of cars ahead of us. “Only dogs get mad, remember?”
“Why ow you mad at Mommy, Aunt Maggie?”
I shift to face Cady. “I’m not angry at your mommy, sweetie.” Turning back to Cheryl, I say, “I’m not mad. It stung, but you were right.”
Gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles have turned white, Cheryl whispers, “I’m sorry. It’s challenging for me to empathize with you when I would do anything to be as happy with Jim as you were with Doug. We’re in therapy hoping to recapture what you guys had all along.”
“I get it, but it’s not fair to compare my three-year pre-marriage relationship with Doug to your relationship with Jim. You’ve been married for a decade. Things change. Ebb and flow, right?”
Cheryl glances through the rearview mirror at the kids, who are both bopping along to a One Direction song playing out of the back speakers of the car. “I sometimes wonder if we were ever truly compatible. Even at the start. Getting married later in life is not such a bad idea. At least you’re fully developed.”
I look down at my breasts. “Darn it. I was hoping I was still developing.”
At the same time, we chant, “I must, I must, I must increase my bust” from our favorite Judy Blume novel and burst out laughing.
That evening, after moaning to Melanie again about being suckered into going speed dating (I complained all through lunch too), she wishes me good luck and promises to send positive romantic vibes my way. I tell her to save her vibes for Amanda, since I’m only going for moral support and have no interest in finding my own love connection.
An hour later, Amanda and I walk into the World Bar in the United Nations after enjoying a pre-event drink at Press Box, a dive Irish pub a few blocks away, to calm our nerves. A peppy woman sitting at a desk by the entrance signs us in and hands over name tags and a pink piece of note paper. She then encourages us to go to the bar and mingle before the official event commences in approximately twenty minutes. I have no desire to mingle, but would like to get another drink in my hands as soon as possible. I express this to Amanda, and she chuckles nervously.
“After you,” she says, straightening her above-the-knee black pencil skirt. She paired it with a simple black and white striped shirt, and with her hair flowing in waves well past her shoulders, I’m certain she looks sex
ier than she realizes.
After I order us both a significantly more expensive drink in the World Bar than the ones we purchased at Press Box, we take small sips and casually glance around the dimly-lit room for a sneak peek at who we will be meeting for six minutes a pop, as well as our competition. So far, there are significantly more women in the room than men, and it reminds me of an episode of The Bachelor with pockets of multiple women vying for the attention of a single man. Only the people are far less attractive than those on The Bachelor, I think. Then I mentally scold myself for pre-judging the men before the mini-dates, but it’s difficult not to notice how many men are bald, chubby, and shorter than me. I’m having trouble believing some of them are not well over the age of forty, even though they’re supposed to be between thirty and forty. Most of the women, on the other hand, are cute and in shape. The green pleated skirt I’m wearing with a black fitted sweater is comfortable, but very slimming, and even though a part of me wishes I could blend into the crowd unnoticed, I’m glad I had the foresight to pack a flattering outfit in the overnight bag I brought to Cheryl’s house.
I plant on a smile, determined to make this a positive experience for Amanda. “You ready for this?” I ask her.
“I guess.” Leaning in closer to me, she whispers, “I’m only using this as practice. I seriously doubt I’ll like any of these guys.”
“Keep an open mind,” I advise, even though I’m thinking exactly the same thing.
Waving her pink piece of paper at me, she says, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
Before I can respond, the peppy hostess (“PH”) taps her microphone and asks for our attention. The room goes silent as she welcomes us all to the event and explains how it will work—the women will remain at their assigned table for the entire evening, and the men will join the women for the six-minute dates and rotate around the room until every man has met every woman. According to my pink paper, I am assigned to table nine, which is by the window. Amanda is assigned to table eleven, which is directly opposite table nine. I’m not sure if this is a good thing, as I’m afraid eye contact with Amanda in the middle of a date will result in a giggling fit.
Besides providing the pertinent seating information, the pink paper also contains a chart we can use to take notes on each guy we meet. PH gives us examples such as “has bad breath, funny, wearing orange sweater, looks like George Clooney.” In response to the last example, I catch another girl’s eye and we exchange a knowing look. Then PH explains that beginning tomorrow morning, we will be able to login to the website and complete an online form indicating which guys, if any, we are interested in (a) going out with again, (b) pursuing a platonic friendship with, or (c) networking with on a professional level. We are told if two people choose each other for the same type of relationship, and only the same type of relationship, the dating service will provide the other’s contact information. Upon hearing about option (c), I allow my hopes to soar at the possibility of coming out of this night, perhaps not with a potential love interest, but with new job prospects.
I wish Amanda good luck and head over to table nine. I attempt to make myself comfortable on the couch as I wait for my first date. When he stands above me, the first thing I do is glance at his name tag. It says, “Dave R.”
“Hi, Dave R.,” I say. “Have a seat.”
After he sits down, he glances at my name tag and scribbles on his blue piece of paper. I assume he’s writing “Maggie P.” and hope he’s not including a comment about how unattractive he finds me. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m not at all attracted to him either. He has brown wavy hair, dark eyes, a very fair complexion, and is average height with a lanky body. He’s not bad looking, but his baby face suggests he’s young—so young that if I brought him home with me, I wouldn’t know whether to take him to bed or tuck him in. I write, “Dave R. baby face” on my pink paper.
Once we’ve both jotted down our notes, we lock eyes and greet each other at the same time before chuckling. His face turns red, and I’m sure mine does too.
“Have you done one of these events before, Maggie P.?” he asks once we stop laughing.
“This is my first time,” I confess. “What about you?”
“Mine too. We can pop our speed dating cherries together.”
Struggling not to spit out the drink I haven’t finished swallowing, I snort. “Sounds like a plan. Be gentle with me, okay?”
“Of course. So, Maggie P., what do you do for fun?”
“I spend a lot of time with my friends—going out for dinner, having a few drinks. I’ve recently taken up indoor rock climbing. And I’m not ashamed to admit that television is the love of my life.”
“Oh, I’m a major television junkie too. What’s your top show?”
“There are so many shows I like, it’s difficult to choose. The Following was up there before it was cancelled.”
Dave’s eyes brighten. “One of my favorites too. Seriously creepy but addictive.”
“To be honest, I originally watched it only because Kevin Bacon was in it.”
Dave touches his finger to his chin contemplatively. “What movie is he famous for again?”
“Footloose,” I say without hesitation.
“Never saw it, but I think it came out the year I was born.”
According to my calculations, if I’m barely young enough to qualify for this event, Dave is barely old enough. I let this sink in as a bell rings, and PH calls out, “Time’s up.”
Dave stands up and holds out his hand. “Thank you for a terrific first experience. It was a pleasure.”
I shake his hand. “Same here.” It was not a bad way to spend six minutes, and I’m hopeful the rest of my dates will be equally pleasant.
The next several dates leave me feeling more or less the same. I don’t find myself longing to extend my six minutes with any of the three guys, but they are all easy to talk to and the time passes swiftly.
When John K. sits down, I write “John K. Tall, bushy eyebrows, The Office” since he resembles a less attractive John Krasinski and even has the same initials.
John leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “How’s your evening coming along, Maggie?”
“I’m enjoying myself so far,” I respond, truthfully. “How about you?”
“Not bad.” He leans forward. “Where are you from originally?”
“Westchester. Peekskill, specifically,” I say. “How about you?”
“Also from Westchester. Rye Brook. I think we were football rivals,” he says with a twinkle in his dark blue eyes.
“I don’t think Peekskill had an official rival, but I suppose any team we played was technically the enemy.”
“Were you a cheerleader, by any chance?”
“Nope. But I did go to all of the games.” My high school boyfriend was on the football team.
Cocking his head to the side, John says, “I’m surprised.”
Mirroring his body language, I say, “Yeah, why’s that?”
“You’re a cutie. I bet you would have made a great addition to the squad.” He leers at me.
Even though my gut says John is a bit of a douche bag, my face heats up at his compliment. “Why thank you. I’m not sure I was quite as cute back in the early nineties.”
John squints his eyes. “Early nineties? When did you graduate high school?”
Estimating John at close to my age, I answer without any shame. “1995.”
Jerking his head back, John says, “So you’re almost forty?”
“I’m thirty-nine.”
Leaning against his chair again, John says, “Oh, wow.”
Taken aback by his strong reaction, I say, “When did you graduate?”
“1993,” he says before blatantly checking out the rest of the room.
“Making you…?”
Focusing on me
again, John says, “Forty-one.”
“I see.” Older than me and technically too old for this event.
John inches closer to me. His face serious, he says, “Listen, we’re almost out of time, but can I give you a piece of unsolicited advice?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Go for it.”
“You seem like a nice girl, Maggie. And very attractive. But you might want to focus on an older age range. Guys in their fifties would flock to you like alcoholics at an open bar. I’m not sure how much luck you’ll have here.”
I’m attempting to pick my jaw off of the floor when the bell rings, and PM yells, “Time.” Saved by the bell.
“Nice meeting you,” I mutter, still in a semi-state of shock.
John has already stood up, but he turns around and absently says, “Yeah, you too.” Then heads to the next table. I give his current date the once-over and hope for both of their sakes she’s younger than she looks. I write “Asshole” on my paper by John K.’s name.
Two dates later, I have mostly wiped the memory of John’s insensitive comments out of my mind. I try to convince myself his ageist attitude is the exception rather than the norm, but find myself flashing back to the many profiles I read on Match.com with the same mindset.
I snap out of it as the next, and thankfully last, guy sits down across from me. I take note of his name, “Ben C.,” and write it down on my paper. Then I focus my gaze on him and smile softly. “Hi. I’m Maggie.”
Ben returns my greeting with a wide grin before taking a sip of red wine. As he carefully places the glass back on the table, I inspect him more closely. He has freckles like me and eyes the same color as mine. I wonder if I would look like him as a man.
“I can’t believe this is the last date,” he says.
“Are you happy it’s almost over?” I ask.
“Not happy, exactly. But it’s exhausting, you know?”
How Do You Know? Page 16