My Date with a Girl: A Valentine’s Day Tale

I divorced twice, back in the days when nice little Latinas didn't move out on their parents unless they were safely married. To do otherwise was disreputable, so I married both times to get away from my parents--specifically, my mother, a creature straight out of Joan Crawford's meanest maternal exploits (Read "Mami, dearest", April 2021). So, I never really enjoyed one of those idyllic, Hallmark relationships of mutual adoration so celebrated in song and poetry. I've had the dubious privilege of having my heart broken, of feeling that sort of temporaty insanity that typically washes over the lovestruck, and that has to be enough for me. Because mostly, I've loved men who didn't love me back and vice versa. I suspect that many other women are in the same boat though they would never confess it, because all these years after "spinster" became an outdated term to describe a single lady, it's still shameful for a woman not to be someone's object of desire. Like it or not, a woman's value is still largely measured by whether some man wants her, so we tend to choose loveless liaisons rather than being alone. I've seen gorgeous, accomplished women marry wretches just so they can be married. It's been said that if you can't get what you like, you better like what you can get, but I say it's more dignified to be alone than to hook up with some freak. Yes, it's always possible for just about anyone to scrape the bottom of the barrel and come up with some reject to marry. (And if calling undesirable men "wretches", "rejects" and "freaks" seems cruel, remember how cruel men can be when discussing females among themselves). I'm reminded of the stories about women sitting outside prison gates, waiting to take home newly-freed strangers. Likewise, if I wanted a partner badly enough, I could head over to Manhattan's Roosevelt Hotel and pick out a new arrival from the stream of indigents crossing the border. Or I could pair off with my adoring roommate, a dwarf with a yarmulka and a leer. Or with one of the psychos who board at the local hospital (I once had a suitor like that). Or I could try to steal my ugly neighbor's handsome artist boyfriend (he's willing)--and support him, like she gladly does. But I'd rather hold out for someone who doesn't look like Quasimodo, is in reasonable mental and physical health, unattached, straight, respectful and solvent. Age is no problem--I don't mind younger guys and they don't seem to mind me (the love of my life is 18 years younger). And anyway, I'm approaching the time when men my age or older start dropping like flies. My requirements may seem like a low bar for older single women, but they're really a tall order in today's seller's market of mature dudes, also pursued by younger women looking for sugar daddies. So I'm still waiting for my prince. Point being, anyone can get a guy if she's willing to pay any

price. Even knowing this, Valentine's Day is still my most hated holiday besides New Year's Eve (which I call "Compulsory Be Happy Night"). Valentine's still depresses me, making me feel like a loser, as though I'm missing out on something vital, as though I've been excluded from some important club. On this note, I have to wonder why merchants never bothered to expand the concept of Valentine's Day beyond sexual love into all kinds of affection, say, love for your siblings, or your favorite old teacher, or the unfortunates you help when you do volunteer work. That would be more lucrative for the economy and more pallatable for people who are not coupled off. But back to me. I have found a way around my anemic romantic history, I may not have the memory of a great forever love to my credit, but I do have the memory of some single, magical evenings with wonderful people I never saw again. By "people", I mean men, of course. A friend once said that becoming a lesbian is like "giving up". Anyway, I'm not attracted to women and have never been with one, which is what makes this next Valentine's Day Tale so weird. It was a Friday or Saturday evening, and I was drinking alone in a semi-seedy bar accross from the Roosevelt Island Tramway station on 2nd Avenue. Two stools away from me was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen, with straight, shoulder length black hair and a navy blue business suit. Her voice was low and smooth, her demeanor poised and intense-- I don't remember her smiling once during the whole evening. And I don't remember what we talked about, but at some point, she said something along the lines of "let's get out of here", and I accepted. We drove to Greenwich Village, to a little blues club much in vogue at the time. We sat at the bar and she slid her arm accross the back of my seat, without touching me. She was paying for everything and I let her. I realized that she had adopted the role of the man, though there was nothing masculine about her. It was more like like play-acting; I don't think she was gay, and there were no sexual overtones to her attitude. She was just being a gentleman and I felt strangely comfortable with that. Eventually, my mystery woman drove us back to the place where we had first met; our goodbyes were brief and curt, no mention was made of ever meeting again. But if she had proposed it, to this day I really don't know what I would have said.