First date, post-divorce.

I'd be more worried he dated your mom ...

 

Just had THE first date story to end all stories from Friday night.

That’s coming up…

 

“Coming up”

 

I want that story more than I want you betting for me, and I’d give a little toe for that to happen.

 

Holy fuck, if it's better than this first date, we are all in for a good time. Ex's first date post here is a top-3 a/t SJ post (behind Khartoum's Growing Pains haiku and probably a Double Down j-post).

 

Sorry, I thought it would show up in my quote post. Here's Ex's classic first date post! From six-plus fucking years ago, how?

 

Stated like a guy who’s done a few promos and teasers over the years …

 

It's not even sweeps month, @exmediahack, cut the shit and give it to us now!

 

Cliffhanger!

 

I’m waiting for the video podcast. Or maybe not.

 

Dude, post it now or I'll shoot this dog.


​

 

In the seven years since we last left the newly-divorced ex, much has changed.

The kids are now grown. I’ve moved twice. My friend who was the inspiration for this in 2017 moved on and married someone else back in the original city we met.

So I’m back on the market and enjoying this stage quite a bit. The party never ends. The downside is that people feel disposable, including myself. The moment someone has an “off night” on a date - the night I’m not throwing deep into the 6th and only scattering two hits - they move on. It’s like in the dating app world.

Two weeks ago, I start chatting with a woman on Hinge. We’ll call her Sandi. She is 50 but looks incredible for her age, except her pictures all have sunglasses so I can’t really tell.

Sandi has the most high-maintenance profile ever. None of this “I want to meet my partner in life”-flowery prose.

This profile is Wilson’s Fourteen Points to end World War I. A list of what she will NOT tolerate. However, “for the man I love, that man will get all of me and not want to even fantasize about another woman.”

Whoa.

I admit I sort of admire it. It’s a dash intimidating, which is rare for me.

I hit “like” and forget about it. Move on with my life of doing the news at night and hanging out with the other women that I’m dating.

Then Sandi responds at 6 a.m. last Wednesday.

“Hi! I’m at my 50th in (a neighboring state) and I’m the only one awake. All the girls are still sleeping.”

We message for a few hours and it turns out we’re fairly aligned. She explains her painfully long profile is designed to weed out hundreds of guys who don’t have a shot for whatever reason, lack of confidence being among them.

We end up messaging all day and I push ahead to see if she would have lunch with me Friday (last Friday).

“Yes! I’d love to!”

I ask if there’s a place where she’s feel most comfortable and she tells me to pick a place, as long as there is “no sushi” (allergies).

“I’ll see you at 11:35 p.m. at (Italian restaurant named after a city).”

(As a note, I set all first dates at :05 or :35 after the hour, paying homage to WTBS. The dates never know. They just think I care about details and never being late.)

Friday. 11:35 a.m. I get a text that she’s running a few minutes late. I’m not too bothered by it as this is the RARE Friday where I’m not working at night. I have left two tables this year on dates who were more than 15 minutes late.

But I’ll stay for Sandi.

11:46 a.m. Sandi walks in. Holy F. This woman is an 11.

Here’s what you want to know, boys:

White sundress. About 5’8” in her heels, tan, blonde hair, slim figure, I’m assuming augmentation (no judgment here — just describing), beautiful gold nails, a megawatt smile, bright blue eyes hidden behind her gold, wire-rim glasses.

This is her “smart causal”. She looks incredible. I’m thankful that I ironed my clothes.

Sandi goes into her story. At this age, I welcome a date who unloads the clip on her life/trauma/accomplishments right away. I’ll do the same if she goes first. Give me your life Carfax.

Sandi licks around the edges of what has been a wild life. I already knew she has five grandkids — all 8 and younger. The bullet points of her life: grew up in an abusive home, sexually targeted by an uncle, parents didn’t care. She emancipated herself at 14, was “on the streets” while still going to high school for a time. Pregnant at 16. Mom at 16. Mom again at 19.

Spent her 20s modeling in California and that paid well. Then into high-end real estate in San Diego. Modeled until 31 and then moved back to (our city). Once they were “grown”, did another tour around the country for real estate.

Six years ago, she develops a blood cancer. (I won’t get specific here on the type — but it’s serious). Hence, the medical dog tag necklace she wears.

“The clinical trials have had me in remission for two years. But I don’t assume I’ll make it past 53 and it’s drained nearly all of my assets.”

She owns a cleaning business in town and I admire the work she puts in. Goes to houses and makes them spotless for staging. Does the same with cars for selling them. That’s what she does. Has two employees but is also “running cars” most days from dealerships to her place — clean em and get em back.

Yet there is something about her. A passion for the moment. For not wasting a day. I often hear from the 50+ women whom I date that I’m too intense. I’m not for everyone.

Yet I think Sandi might be for me.

Our 90-minute is full of laughs, eye contact, she’s a “hand toucher” when making a point. Lunch is delightful and I walk her to her ride.

I kiss her on the forehead and then we lock eyes and I lean in for a soft kiss on the lips. She is fantastically responsive.

“I hope to see you again,” I say.

“Definitely.”

Six hours later, I text. She tells me about her workday. Picked up a truck way out of town but said it was near a lake that she’s familiar with.

“I always keep a swimsuit in my car,” she writes.

I have a pool. Now I’m thinking.

“For a rare Friday night, would you like to meet me at my happy place?” I throw it out there.

“Where is this happy place?”

“Jazz club.”

“I’d love to.”

(That’s Episode 2.)