The Prescription
Welcome to My Dating Prescription. This is how this all began... I'm sitting cross-legged on my therapist's couch 4 months after my husband's announcement that he wants a divorce when my therapist informs me that he thinks I should start dating again.
Seriously??
I had told myself and others that I was going to take time off to concentrate on myself for once. Between a husband and three boys, I didn't know who I was anymore. I just wanted to hang out with my girlfriends, drink martinis like a fish, and let the hair grow long on my legs if I wanted. I had even gone so far as to announce to my friends that I was going to take a full year off from any kind of relationship.
Read more here.
Man #42, The International Player and Minor Celebrity
My sons drove me to SeaTac Airport after K2′s game, helped me get my bag out of the car, gave me hugs, and left me at the curb for departures. It was a little after 8 p.m., so I checked in to my flight and proceeded through the maze of other travelers going through the scanners.
Once through, I still had an hour to kill before my flight took off, so I wandered around browsing shops I would never step foot in were in not for the fact that I was now a captive of the Port of Seattle and the Transportation Security Administration. I bought a copy of Bossypants, and finally decided that, since I hadn’t eaten before my son’s game, I should grab a bite before boarding my plane. I settled on fish and chips from Ivar’s, found a table, and sat down to eat and kill time on my phone. I checked in at SeaTac International Airport on my Facebook page, and within minutes I had a text message from Sam.
“Where are you going?”
“The Bahamas.”
“What?!”
“I have a date.”
“What? Who are you with? The Stalker?”
“You mean The Talker, as in all talk, no action? No, The International Player.”
“Who?”
“Man #42.”
“How long will you be gone? And when will you be back so we can interrogate you properly?”
“Three days. I’ll be back Monday night, late.”
“Ok. Have fun. Be safe, and you have to tell us all about it when you get home.”
“Ok. I will.”
And that was that. As I sat there eating my airport food and playing with my phone, I started thinking about how surreal this all seemed. Who would have ever thought that in following my therapist’s prescription I would end up going on a date with a stranger in The Bahamas? Blogging is a lonely business. Most of the time I don’t feel like anybody’s reading what I write, but I’ve been fielding more and more requests for guest posts and fighting off content thieves lately. At one point, Lauren had warned me, “I don’t think you realize this. To me, you’re just one of my friends, but to other people, you’re THE AUTHOR of My Dating Prescription!” One woman, newly introduced to me by a friend, during a conversation about dating, told me I HAD to read my blog. She did not know I was the author. ”That’s my blog,” I said, “I write that.”
“No way! My Dating Prescription?,” she asked, as she started pulling it up on her phone and reading it to me. “Are these your legs?”
“Yes, those are my legs.” Let’s just say; it’s pretty strange to have a stranger tell you that you HAVE to read your own writing and then proceed to read it to you.
Another friend, Paula, said women at her gym were talking about one of my posts in the locker room. When she mentioned that she knew me, they wanted to know all about me. Was I really as outspoken and sarcastic in real life as I am in my blog?
Pretty much.
Anyway, I was reflecting on these conversations and thinking about how I now found myself headed to The Bahamas to meet a total stranger. The International Player had simply contacted me through the email address I have on the blog. He could be an ax murderer for all I know. I had to keep my wits about me, but it was all part of a much bigger issue. I’m not prepared for celebrity. If Man #42 could contact me, then so could anyone else. Would that be ok? I don’t know. Did I have safety concerns? Absolutely. Men seem to either love or hate my blog, and the ones who hate it make up a very scary demographic. What should I do about my security as my blog becomes more popular? What if people start to recognize me? I’ve already had people come up to me out of nowhere and ask if I’m “the blogger.” It’s a very startling thing when it happens. I wondered if this is how Kurt Cobain felt when Nirvana blew up with the release of Nevermind.
But for the moment, I was alone and anonymous in the food court at SeaTac Airport. I decided that, regarding the perils of being a minor celebrity, I would respond by making sure I always wear makeup to the grocery store. No more sliding on my slippers and rolling down to the store for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in a ponytail and my University of Washington sweatspants. Maybe college freshman can get away with that, but as a snarky critic of male daters in Seattle, I can’t.
And as far as my date in The Bahamas…I would go and have a good time. As nervous as I was, I didn’t think I was headed for anything I couldn’t handle.
Man #42, The International Player, Uh Oh
As soon as I said yes to The International Player’s invitation for a date in The Bahamas he flew into action booking my flight and my hotel. What dates would work? Did I care what time the flight left Seattle? Did I have any must-haves in a hotel room?
The first weekend in February. (Yes, people. As always I am dreadfully behind in my blogging.)
A red-eye would probably work best.
No major must-haves. I never plan to spend much time in a hotel room when I’m on vacation, so I just need it to be clean and functional.
The arrangements began. Man #42 looked into flights and sent me a selection from which to choose. I knew my son was playing his last high school basketball game on the Friday I planned to leave, so I had to plan around that. I love watching him play, and I had to be there for his last game. I would get some work done Friday during the day, do any last minute packing, go to my son’s basketball game at 5 p.m., and then have my eldest son drive me directly from the game to the airport.
Then came the questions. “I need your name as it appears on your passport, your passport number, date of birth, phone number and the email address you want to use.”
Uh oh. This suddenly seemed like a lot of personal information to be giving to someone I didn’t really know. I weighed the consequences. My book club recently read Where’d You Go, Bernadette: A Novel
Man #42 booked me on a flight leaving Seattle at 9:50 p.m., transferring at the butt crack of dawn in Atlanta, and arriving in Nassau around noon on Saturday. Hopefully, I’d get some sleep on the plane.
He also sent confirmation that he had booked a room for me at the Nassau Palms Hotel, about a ten minute walk from where he was staying in downtown Nassau. I actually saw this as a good sign, and when I told K2, he agreed that he liked the fact that Man #42 had not booked a room in the same hotel where he was staying. It seemed less shady and more respectful. It felt as though he was making an effort to make me feel as comfortable as possible in coming down there to see him.
It wasn’t until after my flight was booked and my hotel room was reserved that I thought to ask how old he was. In all of our email correspondence it had never come up.
“22.”
What?! Oh my fucking god.
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