“Uh…okay. And where are you heading home from?” I’m white knuckling the phone. If she says anything other than an all-nighter at the office or saving a small child from a burning building, I may jump through the phone and strangle her skinny, swan-like throat.
In a voice barely above a whisper, she says, “Bex, please don’t judge, okay?”
“Fine.” I’m hoping she might have a reasonable explanation.
She doesn’t.
“So, there’s this guy that I met a few months ago at this art thing and we’ve been texting and…”
“What?” I sit up abruptly, accidentally knocking my wineglass into shards as it clinks against my bedside lamp. “Damn it,” I mutter. Thank God the glass was empty. Hate to waste wine if I can help it.
“What’s that noise? Are you drinking in bed?”
“Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you.” I put the broken bits into a pile on my Real Simple magazine. “Are you telling me you’re heading home from a night with some random dude?” As stunned as I am by this revelation, I’m only human, which means I do love a bit of scandal.
“Well, yes and no. Yes, I’m heading home and no, he’s not random…and look, it’s not that big of a deal. This is like, a onetime thing. I just needed to get it out of my system.”
“Uh-huh.” My voice rings with doubt. Noticing she didn’t really answer my question, I persist. “So, are you sleeping with this guy?”
Liv, ever the evader, ignores the question. “I’ve just been feeling so trapped and Ethan is out of town, again. And, um, the opportunity…presented itself.”
If eye rolling made a sound, Liv would be temporarily deaf right now. I pick up the magazine with the wineglass shards and head to the wastebasket in the bathroom while saying with as much authority as I can, “Liv, you must be out of your mind right now. You’ve always said that Ethan is perfect for you. So, please, if that’s true, don’t mess it up. Take it from me, the single life ain’t a walk in the park.” I take a deep breath as the glass clatters into the metal bin. “Get your shit together.”
I’m feeling pretty good about my lecture, seeing how she hasn’t interrupted me once. I continue with vigor. “Delete all texts from Mr. Art-thing. In fact, delete him from your phone, your brain, and definitely your vagina and go back to your real life.” I don’t want to sound too preachy, so I soften up a bit. “You’ve made a mistake, and that’s okay. Just don’t do it again.”
After an extended silence, I check my phone to make sure we’re still connected.
“Yeah, okay, you’re right. My husband is…perfect. That’s what everyone seems to think,” Liv says under her breath. “I said it was just a onetime thing and it is. I’ll delete Francois.”
Mr. Art-thing is named Francois? Oh boy. But, as much as I love hearing I’m right, I feel kinda bad for Liv. She’s obviously going through something.
“How’d that date go last Wednesday with what’s his name, Sean? It was Wednesday, wasn’t it?” She’s trying to change the subject again and this time I let her.
I burrow under my comforter and turn out the light. Where do I even start? Tell her I drove there, parked, and bailed? Even though I just gave her a lecture, I don’t feel like one from Liv right now.
Fact is, there really isn’t much to report on my dating life. I’m on Tinder, Match, Bumble, Plenty of Fish, and OkCupid. I’ve even contemplated signing up for JDate but I’m not Jewish, so there’s that. When it comes to dating apps, I’m agnostic. I’m on all these apps, but I never actually go on dates. I’m on a predictable cycle of non-dating dating which goes something like this:
Phase 1 – Get excited and hopeful. I download all my previously deleted apps, ready to give this relationship thing a shot. For real this time!
Phase 2 – Swiping, matching, messaging, liking, and spending an exorbitant amount of time on my phone. I inevitably see some of the same guys that I matched with on other apps and realize there really aren’t plenty of fish in the sea.
Phase 3 – Determined not to be derailed by the mundane bios (wine tasting, hiking, golf, and fine dining), the gym rats (flexing in the mirror is such a turn-off) and the downright appalling profile pics (was that guy in the bathtub!), I carry on, hoping there are some quality guys out there I might have missed the previous go-rounds.
Phase 4 – I’m in a messaging relationship with a few guys when one of five things inevitably happens.
1) Both of us are “too busy” to meet up.
2) A dick pic.
3) He tells me he’s not looking for a relationship.
4) Another dick pic.
5) I decide I want to meet a man organically and that this whole thing is a waste of my time.
Phase 5 – Throw my hands up, yell “F this!” and delete all the apps from my phone. Again.
Phase 6 – See Phase 1.
Liv is well aware of this, yet she is eternally optimistic when it comes to my dating life. She says I self-sabotage, that I’m too picky, that I’ve never given anyone a chance. But she just doesn’t get it. She’s got the perfect relationship. At least, I thought she did, until this phone call.
I let out a huge sigh after reliving the trauma of Phases 1 - 6 in my mind and finally respond, “How was my date on Wednesday? I didn’t go. I canceled.”
Here we go—let the lecture commence. Liv takes a breath then cranks into high gear. “This is getting ridiculous, Bex! You say no to anyone that asks you out! You need to start saying yes. Be a yes person. No gets you nowhere.”
I groan into my pillow, tired of this subject already. “I know. I’m just tired. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m freaking old, I’m a single mom. What do I have to offer?” I’m eyeing forty with disdain. It’s one thing to be single in your thirties. At thirty-nine, at least I can say I’m still in my thirties, still youthful but with a certain appealing maturity. But forty, ugh. I’m crossing into being a real adult. I should have my life together and still look fit, stylish and “great for my age.” Living in Los Angeles has done a number on my self-worth and I’m not even in “the business.”
The jangle of Liv’s keys distracts me from my depressing thoughts and with genuine kindness Liv says, “You’re nuts, you know that? You are amazing. A total catch. And stop with this old crap. You’re not old.” Liv continues, on a roll, “Hell, you’re not Blanche Devereaux yet. Stop with the pity party and just say yes for once.” She pauses and I hear the click-clack of her high heels on the hardwood floors of her Chelsea flat. “I’m gonna come up with a plan,” she says with such determination that I almost believe her. Almost.
“Bollocks!” she says and I hear a thud, then the muffled sounds of feet, fabric, and the clatter of her phone being picked up.
“Liv? You okay?”
“Yeah, shit, sorry, I dropped the phone. I’m kind of a hot mess right now.” She giggles.
Is she drunk? I think to myself.
“What’s with this ‘bollocks’ stuff? You’ve been living in London for too long,” I say, the softness of my pillow lulling me into near sleep.