My Date With A Director
Five months after my husband moved out I went on my first real date. A friend set me up with a director I admired, we’d talked for a week by text and hit it off. We decided to meet on a Thursday at a cocktail bar on Ventura Blvd in the Valley. I was so nervous that the nerves turned into excitement. I hadn’t been on a date since the 1900s.
The day of the date we had a few flirty text exchanges. Late afternoon, we had one final back and forth:
Director: What are you going to be wearing?
Me: I was thinking thick white cotton pants and a maroon t-shirt with white sneakers.
Director: I will wear a maroon t-shirt, too.
An hour before the date, I tried on the outfit. I looked at myself. Sideways. Both sides. I adjusted the waist of my pants and decided this was a terrible outfit. Not the vibe I was feeling. I slipped a semi-sheer camisole and fuzzy cardigan–both cropped and black–over my body, left the thick white cotton pants on, slipped my feet into my black leather Repettos and looked in the mirror. Sideways. Both sides. I might have looked like a restaurant hostess, but this was right. I made my way directly into the kitchen, opened the freezer, pulled out the Tito’s vodka and drank it straight from the bottle for five long seconds.
I got to the bar fifteen minutes early. I was less stressed than I had been pre-Tito’s, but still incredibly nervous. I was nineteen when I met my ex-husband; we’d been together for seventeen years. I wondered if this was technically my first real date ever, in my life. I had no idea what people talked about on dates. And then he walked in, carrying a “Thank You” plastic bag and wearing a maroon t-shirt.