Dating at the Speed Limit, or the Good News

By Lisa

The good is that dating at my age can be as fun as dating when I was sixteen years old. It’s still thrilling to kiss someone new, though it’s equally surprising to find myself, even at my age, worrying about it all through dinner.

Part of the problem is logistics. Most of my dates involve meeting someone at a restaurant, so that means there’ll be a goodnight kiss in some guaranteed-awkward location. Namely, a suburban parking lot.

Good night, Irene.

I freeze up. I don’t like it. Families are walking by, and nobody feels sexy around minivans.

Worse, some of the restaurants have valets, usually a bright-eyed young man who has nowhere to go after he opens the car door for you. The last time this happened on a date, I gave my date a peck and almost gave one to the valet, standing next to him like an earnest son.

And there was another time when my date walked me to my car, which was parked around the back of the restaurant. As we approached my car, I saw a group of busboys taking their cigarette breaks in front of my grille. Again, I stiffened, but my date was fine with it, like a host in front of a studio audience. He went to kiss me, and I recoiled.

“Really?” I asked.

Which is not the kind of thing that most men like to hear when they’re zooming in for the smooch. But this guy took it in stride.

“Just ignore them,” he said, but I couldn’t, then oddly, as if on cue, the busboys put out their cigarettes and shuffled inside the kitchen, evidently following the secret rules of some Guy Code. But by then, the air was filled with carcinogens, and the moment had gone up in a puff of smoke.

The truth is, that all of this is an excuse. Because I’m worrying that I forget how to kiss.

I know, it’s embarrassing to admit this in print, but we know I tell the truth in these essays, and why stop now.

I can’t be the only one who forgets how to kiss.

A guy I mean.

I can kiss a dog, no problem. I kiss their lips, heads, ears, and paws. Easy as pie. Piece a cake.

Also cats. I’m a great cat kisser. They keep coming back for more.

As long as I hold them down.

I kiss horses, too, and their noses are all big and velvety.

So you would think I can kiss a guy, because they’re not as big as a horse, as feisty as a cat, or as sloppy as a dog.

But no.

I forget.

It’s not like riding a bike; it’s like learning a language. If you don’t use it, you lose it. In other words, if you don’t practice your French, you forget how to French.

Which brings me to the subject of tongues.

Just when I thought I was getting the hang of the good-night kiss, someone tried to slip me the tongue. On our first kiss ever. In his car.

I jumped back so far it almost qualified as a secondary collision.

Dude, only my dogs get tongue.

Which brings me to an even more personal subject.

Sex.

You’ve heard the folklore that it’s okay to sleep with someone after three dates, but I think that’s crazy.

Unless he’s George Clooney.

For a normal guy, three dates is too soon. I don’t sleep with someone until I’m in love, and I haven’t been in love for a long time, if you follow. The odd thing is, to be completely honest, I’ve gotten some pushback on the issue.

As in whining.

By which I mean, I recall one date where the guy was miffed that I wouldn’t sleep with him, saying, “Come on, it’s not like we’re kids anymore.”

Really?

I’m not sure I follow. I may be in my fifties, but I still have feelings. And there has to be a better line than telling a woman she should sleep with you because she’s too old to matter.

I still link sex with love, maybe even more than when I was younger. I value everything more these days, and yes, I value myself more.

Funny, in a way, that guy was right.

I’m not a kid anymore, dude.

And that’s why I’m not sleeping with you.