Chortling

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I’m an optimist. I want things to work out. I want to see people as I hope them to be. But the downfall of my optimistic mind is that reality rarely captures the romantic visions and rarified scenarios that swirl in my head. But this time, with Heather, it was going to be different. I was sure about that.

The pre-date phone conversation went well. It was simple and carefree and left us wanting more. That’s always a good sign. We wanted to see if the person we were speaking to was the person in our head. Whether it was for curiosity or legitimate want, we both decided to get together in person.

I learn from my mistakes, my most recent being Samantha. And truthfully, I make more mistakes than the average person. But, because of that, I have been able to rectify things the second round. And it's not because someone is holding my hand and coaching me, but because I can see firsthand the effects of my actions. Change comes from within, and no matter how much someone tries to give me advice, if I don’t try it my way and fail, it was never really my way. If I accept advice with blind faith, I do so regrettably, enabling behavior that is inorganic. And thanks to my neurotic dress rehearsal with the last younger woman, I am in much better control of the situation for opening day with Heather.

The magic day was Sunday afternoon. No Saturday date night, no popcorn. No expectations. This would be the end cap of the weekend, a simple getting to know each other to see if we clicked in person. Judging by our 45-minute phone conversation, this part of the equation was merely academic. But I didn’t want to enter with an agenda. In the course of our phone call I went from a dirty old skin hound looking for a piece of ass to a guy just wanting some company. If I fucked her, I fucked her. Whatever.

Heather lived in Calabasas, in a townhouse just off Malibu Canyon Road she shared with a few other girls. She was in her last year at Pepperdine, studying econ and Spanish. She was the typical California girl, volleyball player, and by her own admission, a pretty good skateboarder. At face value, we were diametrically opposed, but after those initial labels were peeled off, we realized we were more alike than we thought. For instance, we both are slightly obsessed with Harry Dean Stanton and prefer Twizzlers to Red Vines.

Sunday is a great day for a date. It is such a mental snow day, a slow downward spiral to Monday’s reality. It is the sunset of the weekend, laying open the unstable hope and havoc of the week ahead. Even as a kid, the “Sunday” feeling would affect me. I get completely neurotic about time, even to this day. When I leave work on a three-day weekend, I think, this is the best it will be. I am away at the longest point of the weekend. When Saturday rolls along in a blink, I rationalize, “Rob, think of this as Friday night, the weekend is really just starting.” By that logic, Sunday becomes Saturday and Monday becomes Sunday (still following?). Sunday always fell into the ether for me.

I thought I would attack the Sunday feeling head-on to uncover the benevelent essence of a day connected merely by car-rides home and hotel checkouts. I was going to romance this girl, on a Sunday, in a way I had never done before. When I released myself of expectation, I became warmly confident. I liked my hair, I liked my smile. I liked my words. I’m hot and cold with confidence like this, so when it begins to beam, I need to just let it flow. If I try to do things to keep it from eclipsing, it will fade away. Instead, I just need to chill and not care. It is in mannerly detachment that I shine the brightest. I learned that from my mistakes.

In my most unaffected tone, I told her I would be by her house around 3 pm. That would give me adequate time to nurse my Sunday morning hangover to full recovery. She didn’t ask what were doing, and I didn’t offer it up.

I arrived at her door and knocked.

“Heather,” I said, checking her out. She was as beautiful as the person on the phone. Small nose, blonde hair, awkward yet seductive smile. I could smell her innocence. She was 21 but looked younger. There was no doubt this girl would stand as the hottest girl I had ever dated, even if it was for a few hours on a Sunday. I already logged that in my mental journal in the brief instant before her reply.

“Rob,” she answered, with a staged pause that lead way to a full hug. I had a feeling she hugs most of the important people in her life. I felt good to be somewhat accepted into that fold. And of course I hugged her back. She was fucking hot, remember.

“Here,” I said, handing her a helmet.

She peeked her head behind me and saw my motorcycle parked.

“Wow, this is much better than flowers,” she said, flirtingly aware, “No one’s ever brought me a helmet before, Come on in.”

The Sundays were alive and awake inside her cozy apartment. Her roommates were munching on kashi, sitting on the couch in girlish loungewear. There was a feeling of peace and remorse. The clock was ticking on the weekend, in fact, theirs had already ended. The only thing left was the return trip to blockbuster.

“This is Andrea and Lisa,” she said. They both looked up from their Kashi and smiled.

I gave a roundhouse wave, and smiled back. “Hi, I’m Rob.”

I could tell they were sizing me up. If Heather was smart, this was all premeditated, having her roommates there to approve or disapprove. If Heather provided the sign, I imagine Andrea would have slyly chortled, “Don’t forget to be back by dinner,” or something like that. But it seemed like I made the initial cut, and I noticed a body language that signaled that there would be no chortling.

“Rob, have a seat, let me put some jeans on for the ride.”

I sat down next to the girls.

“Good movie,” I said, “You can’t go wrong with John Hughes on a Sunday.”

“Oh, this is my favorite part,” Lisa said, stopping short of shushing us all. We three watched as Jake leaned against the red Porsche, pointing at Samantha. Jake was the high-schooler every girl wanted to date and every guy wanted to be. It is truly a moment on film for every generation.

“Ok, we can talk now,” she said, signaling her relative indifference for the cake on table scene, “so you have a bike?”

“Yea, I don’t ride it much, but thought I would kick off a few cobwebs.”

“What kind is it?” Andrea asked.

“It’s an old BMW, from 1970. I restored it with a friend a few years ago. Well, actually, I bought the parts, the beer and kept him company while he did it. But it was a team effort.”

They laughed. My mojo was rising. Ask something else so I can answer all charming, I thought.

“You have to take me for a ride sometime,” Lisa said.

Wow, that was easier than I thought. But, although all three girls were cute, Heather was the runaway favorite, a mild and natural beauty.

I smiled, just then on cue Heather walked out, dressed in boots and jeans. It was truly a transformation from lace to leather.

“Don’t be stealing my date. This isn’t Singles, here.” She said, smiling. These girls love their genre movies, that’s for sure.

“Great meeting you Rob,” Lisa said, and was followed by a “Yea,” from Andrea.

“Same here,” I said walking towards the door. Heather grabbed my hand to signal our exit. And held it, smiling back at her friends. I've never felt more like the Fonz in my life.

I helped strap on her helmet and used the proximity to take in her perfection. I never felt more at peace in my life. I was really glad I did this.

“Ok, really, all you need to do is hang on, lean when I lean and keep away from the hot pipes, there,” I said pointing, “Other than that, just enjoy the ride.”

She looked at me and smiled, “I already am.”