Page 6 of How to Date a Younger Man
Mostly, I’m excited to see Kristen. We met several years ago at a spin class and instantly hit it off. As a couple of single girls in their twenties trying to make it in Los Angeles, we instantly bonded over the horrors of the LA dating scene and the struggle of trying to fulfill our dreams in this town.
I wouldn’t have made it through my twenties without her, but once I quit my big fancy corporate job and opened my own firm, it became increasingly difficult for us to find the time to get together. To make matters even trickier, just as my schedule began to even itself out, she started a new job as a consultant for a handful of boutique firms downtown, helping them keep up with new trends while still maintaining their faithful clientele. She has an eye for that perfect balance between on trend and classic when it comes to fashion, and has been a godsend as I’ve worked on building my business wardrobe.
At this point, we haven’t seen each other in at least three months, so when she texted me last week to see if I could meet up for happy hour after work today, I jumped at the opportunity. We agreed to meet at our regular spot, a cute, low-lit bar a few blocks from my building where we used to down tequila shots and dance the night away in our twenties. Now in our thirties, we discovered it has a killer happy hour, complete with half-off cocktails and free bowls of popcorn.
By the time I walk through the door, I glance at my phone to check my timing. Five thirty. Lucky for me, Kristen knows my workaholic tendencies, so she won’t be surprised when I show up fifteen minutes late.
I scan the high-top wooden tables, quickly spotting Kristen’s signature auburn curls. She’s tucked them loosely behind her temples with gold bobby pins, coordinating with the small gold hoops hanging from her ears. As always, she looks on trend without being too trendy, her straight-legged light-wash jeans perfectly accentuating her waist, with a black-and-white striped sweater artfully half-tucked into the waistline. Her green eyes light up when she sees me.
I set my tote bag on the table, leaning it against the wall. “Sorry I’m late,” I say, pulling her in for a hug.
“Don’t worry about it. I haven’t been here long.”
She’s lying, based on the fact that all that’s left in her glass are a few cubes of ice and the remnants of a yummy-looking pale pink cocktail, but I’m grateful she’s so patient with me. Something tells me most people wouldn’t normally be quite so willing to wait around for a friend they only see a couple of times a year.
“All right, what are we drinking?”
She orders us a round of grapefruit palomas, and we get straight to catching up.
“So, last time we talked, the dating scene was looking pretty grim. How are things looking now? Have you met anyone interesting?” she asks, resting her elbows on the table and scrunching her freckled nose.
My mind immediately goes to the hot massage therapist from the other day. My birthday present. It’s like the harder I try to stop thinking about him, the more he seems to keep popping up. I keep replaying his attempt to get me to go out with him, and I can’t forget the feeling of my stomach becoming wishy washy every time his penetrating eyes collided with mine.
I’m a thirty-three-year-old woman with everything going for her. You’d think by now, my steamy daydreams would include something more substantial than rippling biceps and the faint outline of washboard abs through a thin cotton T-shirt. I should be weighing a man’s date-ability based on his more grown-up qualities, like the size of his 401k or how often he calls his mother and not on my fantasies of how his fingers would feel on other parts of my body
I push all thoughts of the hottie aside, determined to tuck the whole embarrassing scenario away for good because what could honestly come out of it?
“Ugh, I wish I had something good to report,” I say with a sigh, staring at my straw as I swirl it in the liquid in my glass.
“I’ll bet whatever you have is better than the guy who took me to his ‘favorite bar’ after dinner. It was a strip club.”
“At least he didn’t wait until the third date to tell you that he’s actually a polygamist and already has two wives.”
“You’re kidding me. Two wives? On the third date?” Her tone is filled with outrage.
Sing it, sister.
“Apparently, he wanted to clear his conscience before trying to take me to bed.”
“Wait, isn’t polygamy illegal?”
“Oh, it gets better. He’s not legally married to either of them. They took turns officiating their own ceremony as part of a sacred ritual of love and unity.”
