I open my closet and look for clothing that will be flattering. I haven’t cared about my appearance in years. After my divorce two years ago, I decided not to date until my younger son went to college. There was too much to focus on. Plus, it was a good excuse to lie in bed in front of the T.V. most nights with a pint of ice cream. Chubby Hubby.
It also allowed me to focus on my son’s sports games and college aspirations. I became that mom. I didn’t bother to die my roots or put on anything other than leggings and sweatshirts. It was all about Adam, my son. Adam’s baseball game and his football game and his recruitment to colleges. I threw myself into that full force, like those tiger moms I loathed. It was just easier than focusing on myself.
But now! Here we are. Adam is away at college, and so is his older brother Josh, and it’s just me in the house. I finally got my act together, joined a gym, dieted, and lost twenty pounds. I got my roots died and my friends dragged me to buy clothing without an elastic band. Shit! This is scary and fun. And horrifying. A 54-year-old woman dating!
So far, I’ve gone on a few blind dates. But it’s never gone beyond a second date at most. The whole thing just feels so uncomfortable, and I find myself wishing I was home in front of the T.V., back in my sweats. After years of sitting in restaurants, not caring if there’s food stuck in my teeth or whether my lipstick shade is off, I suddenly have to figure that out and also how to text in a subtle, not pathetic way. Looking forward to our date!! . Apparently, that’s too much. But when I don’t use the emojis and exclamation points, I’m abrupt. Am I busy next Saturday night? No, I’m not. Apparently, that’s not nice enough, and I sound bored and uninterested. Too exhausting! It was much easier when guys called you and you just . . . spoke. Or you just stayed in a loveless marriage because it was easier than getting divorced.
I had an embarrassing situation a few weeks ago with the only date that got sexual. We started fooling around, and the guy had his hands down my pants.
“Wow, you are quite retro,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Still sporting a full rug down there, huh?”
“What?” I had just waxed my bikini line at home. Just in case.
“Most women get Brazilians or at least a French wax. But this is cool. Very 90s.”
I felt like an ape after that comment and couldn’t get into it. I said I had to wake up early for work and haven’t returned his texts.
I also notice that older single men think I am too old for them! They want women in their 30s and 40s. I am amazed at that chutzpah, but it seems to be just the way it is. Who the fuck do they think they are?! I was shocked the other day when I met an older man at my synagogue, and I was debating if he was too old for me. He didn’t so much as look at me after we were introduced. I caught him flirting at kiddush with a woman at least ten years younger than I am. And she seemed into him!
And the single men my age who are nothing special are in high demand. If a man has hair and is not obese, he is a prize. If he’s also employed, then wait in line, ladies! When did this happen? Men I meet at parties I never would have dated when I was single are now considered the hot ones?! When did all this change? The new reality is dizzying.
Sometimes I think I should be grateful for the meaningful relationships I’ve had and the good sex. Maybe now it’s time to just say Enough! Lie down with a bag of chips and forget the dating nonsense. I have a vibrator; is all this really necessary?
****
Two days ago, right before spin class started, I had just adjusted my bike and wiped it down. Clicked my spin shoes in the pedals and started to pull my hair in a bun when this woman, dressed in matching baby blue leggings and a sports bra approached me.
“Um, I signed up for this bike?” There were at least seventy empty bikes in the room.
“What? Really?”
“Yeah, I signed up for this one. I don’t want anyone telling me I’m on their bike.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen. Class starts in two minutes. Look, I just settled in. Can you just—”
“But I signed up for this.” She has a straight face, and she actually looks worried.
I take a deep breath, as my meditation app advised, and get off the bike. Without looking at the smurf lady, I move a couple of rows back.
“Wow, you are bad. A real rule breaker.” The guy next to me is smirking.
“Could you believe that? I thought it was a joke.”
“She was totally serious. She never cracks a smile, so I knew it wasn’t a joke. And she’ll be on her phone the entire class. It drives me nuts.”
Sure enough, she reads and types away on her phone the whole class. The blue light from her phone distracts me, and I can’t help but glance over to the guy next to me several times during the class as I shake my head and roll my eyes.
After class he comes up to me as I stretch my hamstrings. “What’d I tell you?” he says with a laugh.
“You weren’t kidding. Wow.” I stretch a little longer than necessary, showing off my flexibility.
We both pick up coffee at the gym’s café on our way out. The rich, bold smell of the coffee invigorates me, and I sprinkle in some cinnamon, which makes it smell even better.
“You put cinnamon in your coffee? Let me try that.” He sprinkles some cinnamon into his coffee, and his face lights up. “Wow, nice touch!”
“I’m Mark, by the way.”
“Jenna. Nice to meet you.”
After we joked around some more about the spin class, he said, “So . . . I don’t want to be that creepy guy, but I have to ask. Are you married? I don’t see a wedding band, but—”
“No, divorced.” I obsessed later that I had said this too quickly.
“Me too. Are you single? Can I call you?”
–
Date One: Orbit Mint Gum
And that was last week. Here I am figuring out an outfit. I first choose a pair of new jeans that feels just a little tight in the waist. I’m not used to a non-elastic waist, but my friend Rebecca told me I look younger in jeans. But is that the goal? Shouldn’t I be proud of the hard-earned wisdom I’ve obtained?
Who am I kidding? Of course I want to look younger.
I decide on the jeans and a fitted black sweater to show off my weight loss.
Not like he knew me before, but still. I’m confident with how I look. But I’m ready early, and don’t know what to do with myself. I feel nauseous from nerves, and I want to take a shot of tequila to take off the edge. But I worry he’ll smell it on my breath and think I’m an alcoholic. Besides, I’ll have a drink at the restaurant. After a short mental tug of war, I just give in. I stick four pieces of Orbit mint gum in my mouth to kill the smell and wait for it to kick in.
He rings the bell, and I spit out the wad of gum into the trash can.
“Hi,” he says. There’s something boyish about his smile, and it makes me feel like we’re two teenagers on a date.
“Hey.”
“You look nice.”
“You too. You clean up good.” He laughs. “I mean the last time we saw each other we were drenched in sweat in workout clothes. So this has to be an improvement.” He laughs again.
“Are you hungry?”
We sit at the restaurant, and I feel my belly roll over the waistband of my jeans. I know the jeans are flattering, but my stomach is hurting from the pressure. This can’t be good for my internal organs. Are any jeans really comfortable? Even if women say they are, who enjoys the feel of stiff, thick, cold denim fabric pushing against their waist? Give me elastic pants any day over this! When I was a kid, my mother had a magnet on the fridge: A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. How many moments caused this belly bulge?
The waiter brings us a basket of sliced bread and its scent drifts into my nostrils. I can’t help but inhale it and let it settle deep inside of me. The bread is crunchy and flaky on the outside and the inside looks like soft fluffy clouds. My mouth waters, and I imagine taking a piece and letting it sit on my mouth as it gets soft. I can’t resist. I take a thick slice from the middle and dip it in the golden olive oil that rests in a small bowl on the table.
“Mmmm!” I can’t help but exclaim as it settles in my mouth. “That’s good.”
“What is better than warm freshly baked bread?” he asks me. “It smells heavenly.”
“I always say, I won’t have the bread. I’ll ruin my appetite, but it’s sooo good.”
“It’s not ruining your appetite if it’s what you enjoy eating.” He smiles at me.
After we finish our appetizers, I glance at the napkin that rests on my lap and notice the red blotches of lipstick. Am I supposed to reapply lipstick now? I haven’t reapplied when at dinner for over twenty years. But I did bring the lipstick along because I thought that’s what I’m supposed to do. Still, the conversation is going smoothly, and I don’t want to ruin the flow. I wonder if there’s food stuck between my teeth. But I try to forget it.
“A penny for your thoughts,” he says.
“What?”
“You look deep in thought. Where’d you just go?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, please,” he says with a smile.
“I’m feeling awkward and not sure how to . . . be on a date. I’m wondering if I’m supposed to reapply lipstick or check my teeth.
“Please don’t,” he says as he looks me in the eyes and shakes his head. “Sounds like too much work.” His eyes are kind.
“Thanks. It just feels odd.”
“Let’s just talk. As friends. Forget we’re on a date. We’re just hanging out.”
“I like that.”
“It feels strange, doing this when you’re not in your 20’s. I get that.”
I take a sip of wine and smile – my bare lips devoid of lipstick with G-d-knows-what food stuck between my teeth. I like this guy. He’s kind and real. That’s all I know for now.
He opens the door for me when we get to the car, and I smile to myself that he’s that kind of man.
We get to my house, sit on the couch, and begin to make out. I feel my stomach bulge over my jeans. Mark’s hands touch my waist, and all I can think is whether he’s feeling the roll of fat. The last time I made out with anyone I was interested in was with my husband. Pre-kids. Pre mom pouch. My stomach was flat as a washboard (what exactly is a washboard?). Now, not so much. I suck in my stomach and pretend I’m doing Pilates. But I don’t want to be doing Pilates! I want to be right here, kissing this man. I somehow ignore that critical voice in my head and begin to enjoy the sensation. Then he undoes my bra, and my boobs drop. They literally fall from the wire that held them up. They fall many inches. Shit. That can’t be a turn on, I tell myself. But Mark says nothing and seems into it. So I try to tune out the running commentary in my head. I treat it as background noise and focus on the sensations I’m enjoying. And it somehow works.
It feels nice as he gently pinches my nipples. He’s grabbing me with urgency, and I feel hot and sexy. Desired. He unzips my jeans and runs his hands over my underwear, on my vagina. He’s about to go under, and I want him to. It feels so good. But I wonder if people still finger fuck, which would make this just foreplay – third base, if I remember correctly – or am I indicating that I’m ready to have actual sex, the final act. Because I’m not. I want to take this slow. It occurs to me that I don’t want this to be just physical. I want to see where this goes. I don’t have to do this so fast. But I feel silly: stopping him when neither of us are adolescent virgins. When I don’t have to be a challenge and make him wait, when he won’t lose respect for me or think I’m easy. All the old codes I used to follow when I was younger. Because we’re in our 50’s now: middle-aged adults. Still, I know it’s too soon for this part of our story. He likes me; I know it. He can wait, I can wait until the time is ripe.
“Let’s slow down.”
“What? No . . .” he whines as he laughs. He moans with exaggerated frustration and then hugs me tight. “Of course. I understand . . . but this is hot, no? I mean wow!” he says.
I laugh and we continue to hug for a while. I am safe and warm.
****
I wake up the next morning with an unfamiliar giddiness. I can’t help but smile as I brush my teeth and get dressed. I know last night went well. I never feel this way after a first date. I’m not second guessing everything I said, imagining what I should have said. I don’t overthink. I don’t worry that I looked fat in my outfit, that I should have worn something, that I seemed too interested or not interested enough. I enjoy the high and head to work. For a second a cloud descends on me, and I wonder how long I’ll have to wait for him to call. But I push it away and enjoy the feeling of the sun on my face as I walk up the street. I’m feeling good about the day, and I’m excited to Facetime my sons to catch up. I pass a small Italian bakery and see Hamantaschen in the window. I think how cool it is that the Italian bakery embraces the Jewish culture. I smile, reminded of the upcoming Purim holiday next week. I immediately think of my late mother, of the nights we spent baking hamantaschen, using a small glass to form the circles in the dough. We’d fill them with apricot and prune jelly and we’d make a few with chocolate chips, just for me. We inevitably burnt some of the bottoms and ate those hot out of the oven because, thankfully, we couldn’t give those away for the custom of Mishloach Manot.
I smile at the memory, walk into the bakery, and buy an apricot one. I want to eat it right there out of the bag, but I save it so I can eat it at my desk at work, to give it its due respect, to have a moment with my mother and fully savor the memory.
As I walk to work, I feel my mother’s presence. I am warm and comforted. I am light.
I sit at my desk, close the door, and slowly eat the hamantaschen. Each bite brings me closer to my mother who had died two years earlier. The dough is soft, more buttery than the ones me and my mother made. But it’s good. I take a small bit of the apricot jelly and let it sit on my tongue until it turns to liquid. I have a Proustian moment where I’m back in the warm, wood-pannelled kitchen with the buttery yellow cabinets, forming circles with the glass, adding flour to the gooey dough, feeling the sticky jelly on my fingers. My mother has flour on her cheeks and she’s smiling at me. I smell her perfume scent and want to touch her. And I know she’d tell me to just call Mark. To go for it. Because how often does something like this come around? She never just waited for things to happen. She raised me and my brother as a single working mom after my dad died suddenly of a heart attack when I was only two and my brother four. She was a civil rights activist before that was even cool and went to protests and marches on weekends when she wasn’t shuttling us to sports games.
I pick up the phone to call Mark, but I hit his number too soon. I need a minute to plan what I’m going to say. But he’ll see a missed call, and I know I need to call back right away or it will look weird. So I do. He’s kind and warm and immediately asks me out. I’m grateful he says nothing of the missed call. I’m light all day.
–
Date Two: Spanx or no Spanx
The next time we go out, I decide to wear a dress that looks great on me, rather than uncomfortable stiff, cold, tight jeans. It’s new. But. There are some bulges that need Spanx. So I squeeze my way into a pair, and it makes all the difference! Sucks me in and takes off ten pounds instantly. Smooths it all out. And I’m walking tall, standing straight.
We go to a vegetarian Ethiopian restaurant Mark chooses. We eat with our hands, the injera—a fluffy crepe-like bread—our only utensil. We scoop up the pureed split peas and ginger, the red lentil stew, the cabbage and carrots, the collard greens from the shared platter with the fluffy injera. It’s fun to scoop the food with the bread, using nothing but our hands. It connects us directly to the food. No barriers. It feels like a more authentic connection and a little naughty. The food rests on more of the injera, and we eat that too. We sip Eritrean beer and get the perfect amount of tipsy.
When we get back to my house, I realize I don’t want him seeing and feeling the Spanx. After a couple of drinks, I almost forget I am wearing them. Spanx did not exist when I was single. And I wonder what’s the etiquette here? Is it socially acceptable because it’s not like an old-fashioned girdle, right? I’m not sure. I think I need to take them off before we fool around. But once I do, will he notice the bulges in the dress? Not if I dim the lights.
In the bathroom, I pull myself out of the contraption, and there are deep red, angry lines all over my stomach and thighs from where the elastic dug into me. I remember Kate Moss’s motto: Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. I used to tell myself that when the 3:00 cravings hit. That was a huge lie. I feel a thousand per cent better now without the Spanx. I can breathe. This feels wonderful. Definitely better than skinny!
The truth is, I never even believed in that motto. Because skinny comes from a lack of something, rather than something affirmative, positive. I cringe as I remember the Jane Fonda videos my friends and I used to do as penance for indulging in ice cream. Jane smiling in her tights and body suit with a belt, her headband perfectly set on her forehead. I remember the Slim Fast powder my college roommates stacked in our kitchen cabinet. They became so skinny that I tried it. But it made my stomach churn all day and made me so nauseous that I couldn’t concentrate on anything but the fantasy of biting into real food and actually chewing it.
What’s better than my mother’s greasy latkes on Chanukah, the oil dripping down my fingers and chin as I catch up with my cousins? What’s better than picking leftover mac and cheese straight from the pot with my sons late on a Saturday night when they’re back from college, after a night out with their friends? As we each dig for our favorite parts—me the crunchy corners, my sons the gooey congealed bottom—and they update me on the details of their lives and friends. What’s better than going out for a girls’ night out with your best friends, laughing so hard that your belly hurts, sharing Tapas as you sip on margaritas?
“You have to taste this!” you tell your friends as you grab them by the arms, and together you savor the silky softness of the tuna tartare, the salty creaminess of the guacamole with its occasional gift of a leaf of cilantro, the contrast of its texture with that of the chips.
Hey, Brooke Shields? I’m fine with all of this coming between me and my Calvins! Thrilled, actually.
Now, I can breathe without the Spanx and rather than feeling empty, I feel full. Full of delicious food and happiness from having had a fun night with a kind and smart man.
–
Date 3: Italian
I refuse to wear anything too tight to this date. I’m wearing black comfortable slacks and a V-neck sweater that shows just the right amount of cleavage. I feel sexy. I bought the pants at Chicos. After passing the cruise wear, I found these pants that didn’t dig into my stomach. Pants with a zipper and button, that are NOT elastic waist. And I liked the sizing. No double digits appeared on those tags displaying my usual size: 10 or 12. Instead, they call me a size two. I don’t think I have ever worn a size two.
At dinner, the waiter sits us next to each other, so our elbows graze. Neither of us moves away. He eats his pasta with gusto and uses the bread to wipe up the leftover tomato sauce.
“Look! My plate is clean. Not a trace of anyone having eaten. They don’t even have to wash it. Fucking delicious pasta! Mmmm. This is why I’ll never get rid of my middle,” he says with a laugh as he pats his belly with pride. “I love to eat. I appreciate amazing food.” He shrugs. “So I’m a little doughy in the middle. It’s worth it,” he ways as he leans back with satisfaction, sighs, and rests his arms on the back of my chair.
I think back to my college boyfriend who used to call chubby girls “fatties.” And I wonder, where was Mark all this time or guys like Mark? My ex-husband never said anything to me about my weight, but I’d sometimes catch him looking at me with a look I couldn’t quite place. I couldn’t figure out what he was thinking.
Now, I look at Mark leaning back on his chair, resting one arm on the back of mine, and I grab his other hand, hold it, and laugh. I didn’t mean to do this; it just happened. And for a second I worry I overstepped, but then he lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses it.
–
Date 4: Pasta Puttanesca and Chicken Piccatta
I tell him I want to cook him dinner for our next date, instead of going out. We both love Italian (who doesn’t?), so I google “classic Italian recipes.” I spend hours online pouring over recipes. I want to create something delicious, but also beautiful. I want it to look like it can be in a magazine. Like Art. It should be something we look at and appreciate before we eat. I want to nourish us with delicious food.
I can’t decide on Chicken Picatta or Pasta Puttanesca. I want to serve a filling protein, but the pasta is my killer dish; so I choose both. I figure we’ll eat like Italians and have pasta as our appetizer. I don’t look at the calories per serving or at prep time either. I want to relish the whole meal.
I go to the market and choose kalamata olives from the olive bar; they are dark purple and smooth, and they are soaking in golden yellow olive oil. I select bright fresh lemons and fresh parsley for the chicken Piccata, organic local greens, satiny endives, fresh warm bread from the bakery that smells of what I can only imagine heaven smells like. I buy capers and anchovy fillets, fresh garlic, San Marzano tomatoes. They have a nice selection of wine and I take a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. I go to the ice cream section, pass by the frozen yogurt and choose chocolate Haagen Dazs. I think of all the times I ate triple the amount of frozen yogurt than I would have compared to a scoop of ice cream. The Fro Yo never satisfied despite all the toppings I put on and the large quantities I ate. It made me nauseas and frustrated. One scoop of the real stuff instead. That’s what I choose for us.
I get home and put on Andrea Bocelli. I start the sauce. I warm the anchovies in olive oil and toss in the tomatoes, olives and capers. I peel and smash the garlic and throw it in the sauce. The aroma fills the room, and my mouth waters. The sauce is colorful from all the ingredients: purple from the olives, red from the tomato sauce, green from the capers and olive oil. An explosion of color and scent. I can’t wait to pour it over the pasta. I just know the sauce will cling to the long tendrils of spaghetti. I’ll sprinkle fresh parsley and dried oregano on top just before I serve us.
I then cook the chicken piccatta sauce: capers, butter, white wine and lemon juice create a rich aroma that is too good, I have to open the windows to dilute its beauty. It’s too much to take.
I’m so busy cooking dinner that I don’t think about what to wear. I open my closet and grab a pair of stretched out, comfortable jeans that I wore twenty pounds ago. I put on a brown distressed-looking belt to accentuate my waist, a fitted emerald-green sweater, and a pair of chunky and comfy boots. I look at myself in the mirror. My boobs look a little too big and not very perky. But fuck it!, I say aloud. They still look pretty good. I’ve given birth to two baby boys and nursed them each for eight months. And my waist looks pretty damn small for someone who has pushed out two humans from her vagina: my greatest accomplishments. So what if my stomach isn’t flat? It’s my badge of honor. I fix my makeup and notice a few gray roots growing in, but I don’t use my color spray. It looks natural. I look how I should: like a 54-year-old woman who is living her life.
–
Tamar Gribetz’s short stories have appeared in The Hunger, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Poetica Magazine, 3cents Magazine, and Manifest Station. Tamar teaches writing and advocacy at Pace Law, where she also serves as the Writing Specialist. She lives in Westchester, New York, where she is at work on other short fiction and a novel.
© 2023, Tamar Gribetz
Halfway Down the Stairs 