The Dentist
The summer of '04 was a scary, unnerving, and sometimes exhilarating time for me, as I went through a divorce and started dating again after 10 years "off the market". People often say that you can't meet anyone at the grocery store; I beg to differ. And I wanted to share this dating story with you - circa June 2004. Just for fun.
* * * *
Tonight I’m out with The Dentist – a 42-year old with graying hair who is in the neighborhood of 5’10” and drives a navy blue BMW. I’m following my plan to date anyone who is semi-appealing to me, and is different. Hopefully with that in mind, I won’t make the same mistake twice.
We met at the grocery store - I had just walked in for some
dinner, starving and a little irritable.
Our eyes met in the deli aisle and I smiled at him, showing off my newly
bleached pearly whites. The aftermath
of the separation was making a lot of money for Victoria’s Secret, my dentist, my new
trainer, and my hairdresser. I tossed my
newly highlighted hair but it wasn’t making me feel any more secure or
beautiful. Or less like a woman that was
left by her husband not too long ago for someone ten years younger.
I shopped on, looking for something simple and quick to cook at home - cooking for one now. As I passed him in the next
aisle, he stopped and said to me, “You have a beautiful smile.” And I smiled again, wider this time. Ten minutes later, I stood in the checkout
line and he was heading out the door. He
turned around and walked up to my line, as I was running my debit card through
the card reader, and handed me his business card. I started to blush furiously as the checkout
girl regarded me with amusement. “I’m
Daniel,” he said. “I’m Kristin,” I
responded, looking back down and trying in vain to stop the flush from
spreading to my toes. “Nice to meet
you,” he said. “Call me sometime.” And walked away.
So I sent him an email, and he sends one back, and so on,
and now here I am, having dinner at an Italian place I am not familiar with but
love the ambiance already, with Daniel the Dentist. It’s my first date since the separation, and
I am nervous as hell. The subject of
relationships comes up over the pasta primavera, which he has proposed we
share. I retract a little, agreeable on
the outside. I don’t even know him – how can we share an entrée? He tells me his divorce story and asks me if I
have ever been married. “I’m divorced as
well,” I say, shifting in my chair. “How
long ago?” he asks, looking at me warily.
“April,” I hedge, not telling him that’s when He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named actually left, not
when the divorce will be final, a few months down the road. It is June and I'm jumping back into the pool - way too early, it seems.
The Dentist wears braces and I’m wondering how I didn’t
notice that when he introduced himself at the store. He
must have those super-high-tech quasi-invisible braces that don’t announce
themselves quite as loudly as the metallic, Wrigley-gum-wrapper brightness of
the braces my little sister wore as a kid.
Daniel grins with his invisible braces and a little piece of basil winks at me, stuck
in a side tooth.
After dinner, he suggests a walk, and so we stroll around the
square, peering into shop windows. One
gallery is open – we walk in and he tells me about the polished wood
sculptures, which is a hobby of his when he’s not fixing teeth. My vision is suddenly obscured with a pair of soft hands, and I hear a
familiar voice behind me; it’s my friend Stacy and her husband Terry, both of
whom I love and don’t get to see often.
“Hello, honey,” she says, removing her hands from my
eyes.
“Hey,” I say, starting to blush already. “This is Daniel. Daniel, this is Stacy and her husband Terry.”
Stacy’s eyebrows rise, silently saying that she’ll get the
details later. I told her all about the
divorce when I saw her last month, and she knows I am just starting to date
again.
Leaving the gallery, Daniel puts his arm around me
comfortably and meanwhile, my brain is short-circuiting. The moon is full and bright in the summer Atlanta sky, and we stop
and look up at a street corner. We’re so close to my car, I think, and
contemplate making a mad dash for the door, unlocking it, and jumping in,
locking the doors behind me. Just like I
did to poor Ross when I was 16 and so afraid that he would try to kiss me when
I didn’t know how. Instead I look at
him, and he takes my chin in one hand and kisses me briefly. It feels foreign.
I do see him once more, at the German biergarten down the
street on a random Tuesday night. I
think about how nice he is and how much he seems to enjoy my company, and I
tell myself to be open-minded. And then
we are talking about something controversial, and he uses the words “steaming
crap”, complete with hand gestures, in a sentence that completely revolts
me. I hate the word crap. As we say goodbye in the parking lot and he kisses
me for a second time, those two words and that mental image are all I can think
about, and I know I’ll never see him again.
Now I understand why one of my girlfriends won’t date guys who wear
sandals – it’s just another handy excuse to keep you from dating anyone too
seriously. A list of criteria is easy
to follow as long as it’s impossible.
Tonight, a friend is in town from DC, and we are at
dinner, talking about everything under the sun.
She’s the one whose criteria doesn’t include sandal-wearing. The topic of men comes up, as it always does,
and I tell her about the boyfriend I had in high school – Jim – a perfect
physical specimen with no brains in that beautiful head. I remember that he gave me a teddy bear and a
rose for Valentine’s Day, and drove a white Camaro – a high school junior’s
dream date in the late 80’s. And my
mother’s worst nightmare.
She says, “Wouldn’t you like to know what he’s doing
now?”
“I do know,” I say.
“He’s an exotic dancer in Chicago.
You’ll probably run into him when you move there next month… although I’m not
sure what his stage name is these days.
It’s probably Mango or something like that.”
She laughs, and I do too.
It feels so good to laugh that I can’t stop until I cry.