Truth: A semi-date with a man two-and-a-half times your age, to whom you are not at all romantically attracted can be very awkward.
Tonight, the Aging Director brought me a pink rose: a late birthday gesture. Next to carnations, I like roses least. Showered with baby's breath and standing in a blue ceramic vase, the rose holds about as charm for me as an amateur production of The Glass Menagerie. Sentimental and dusty - a stand-in for the sloppily naïve.
But how could he possibly know which flower makes me heady? And really, why should I care? Tonight was "Date Number Two." In quotes, because I don't know what else to call an encounter where you don your navy blue jersey LaRok mini-dress, Frye Campus boots and Shi Fleather earrings, only to venture into the downpour of a west-coast night to meet a man old enough to be your father, who treats you to duck tapas and espresso martinis. And who, though he "does not want to intrude upon your young life," invites you to join him in New York whenever you please, and let money be no object.
Wobbly from the twist of three martinis amid a week of liver cleansing, I teeter from the Land Rover after planting two chaste bisous on the pads of his cheeks.
How do I manage to get myself into these things?
*All names have been changed to protect those Pipar has slept with, acted with, drank with, fasted with, prayed with, or all of the above.
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