I live in two cities and last year, I invited a dear friend from City #1 to City #2 to go Husband Hunting. She’s early 60s, I’m late 60s and I met my partner of (now) seven years in an upscale restaurant bar in City #1. She served as my wingman then, though neither of us knew it at the time.
We were planted at said upscale restaurant bar because we were tired. We were in the midst of our separate, large-scale home renovations, and we own and run our own businesses. We’ve been long-time single mothers, long-time single women.
Our lives take up a lot. We needed a glass of wine.
But we’re friendly and soon, she’s jabbering at a nice guy next to us and voila – seven years later, I’m with said nice-bar-guy. Why not flip the script?
The idea came to me as I sat in another upscale restaurant bar in City #2 with my nice guy. I watched golfing men yak and drink. City #2 ain’t cheap. Most of those golfers didn’t wear wedding bands. I deduced, with my razor-sharp detective skills that these sans-wedding-banded men might also be catches: Single, age-appropriate, financially sound and they appreciate an upscale bar.
Despite concluding all that about strangers (they might be bankrupt, they might be married, they mighta got drug to the bar by another golfing buddy and can’t wait to leave) – despite all that, she agreed to hop on a plane and over a weekend, we hopped into five fancy bars and met seven men.
We dressed well and my nice-guy partner (let’s call him “Eustace”), having no choice in the matter, came with us, though she and I left him in peace as we assessed our hunting grounds and struck up stupid conversations with men who are gay (she’s not), men chasing girls one-third their age (she’s not that) and men from the Hamptons who buy $1,000 bottles of wine for themselves and incessantly brag and boast, ‘til we nearly took a nap from the tedium.
No husbands were found.
The truth is that we’re not hunting for a husband or for anyone, for that matter. We’re having fun. We’re making fun of ourselves and if we meet new people in the process, all the better. We gave Eustace provided something to shake his head about, to chuckle at, to wonder who lost which screw first and how (he’s nice, quiet) he managed to come up against the likes of us.
But here’s the thing. The headlines would have us all believe that the world’s coming to an end and the only sane reaction is despair – and the headlines have a point.
Yet what if we had fun somewhere in the despair? What if we laughed at our folly and drug another guy (Eustace appreciates a good laugh) into the escapades. And what if a cute sir sat next to me and I asked for the upscaley, fancy pepper grinder there on the bar in front of him – and HE TOO came into our little orbit because he, too, knows nice people and a good time when he sees it?
It ain’t much, but it’s funny when we exaggerate the stories and it’s fun when we meet new people.
And that’s the heartbeat of this missive.
Life, particularly headlines, are often despair-making.
Laughing and having fun and being funny in our choices of entertainment need not be.
That’s the theme, the long-and-the-short of this communique’.
And no one’s found a husband. And no one cares.