Of course, my daughter is still a child—as are the underfed, teen models the men in this city are determined to date—but that’s what these guys have been taught is the cream of the crop.
And New York City men are nothing if not competitive.
They want the best job, the best apartment, the most exclusive brunch reservations, and the hottest, youngest, super-modeliest girlfriend. Or at least one who looks like a supermodel, even if she does something worthwhile with her time aside from weighing less than a large dog and wearing lots of black.
A thirty-seven-year-old mother who spends her days in jeans, working a power sander or ripping out drywall, isn’t going to register on their radar, no matter how cute, clever, or interesting she might be.
In my experience, men don’t want interesting. They want a trophy or, less often, a sweet partner with a functional uterus ready to pop out a few babies as quickly as possible, since they waited until they’re forty to start a family and need to get that in motion ASAP.
My uterus went the way of my stiletto heels years ago—stuffed into a bag and donated to charity, along with a bunch of other things I know I’ll never use again.
Okay, so I didn’t donate my uterus. It decided to grow a bunch of painful, benign tumors I called the Dumb Lump Gang and had to be removed. But even if I had a perfectly healthy baby maker, I have no urge to start over again. Becoming Lexi’s mother is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but it happened when I was very young. I’ve never had a chance to be on my own, to be a grown-up without a child to raise, and I’m excited about that part of my future.
Which puts me and most of the single men in Manhattan in two very different places in life. Finding a sane, interesting man in his late thirties or early forties with a sense of humor and no deal-breaking weirdness, who is fine with becoming a stepdad and doesn’t want kids of his own, is like trying to find gold in a vegemite sandwich.
It’s probably never going to happen.
And it’s absolutely not going to happen before seven p.m. tonight.
Not without an intervention from someone with boyfriend-acquiring connections…
Gathering my courage, I shoot a text to Penny—I have to attend the Hope for the Homeless charity ball tonight, and I may have just told Stephanie Pinkerton that I’m bringing a date I don’t have. Any chance your company can set me up with a fake boyfriend before sundown?
Bubbles instantly fill the screen, and soon, Penny’s reply pops through. One hundred percent! Magnificent Bastard Consulting will set you up, lady. And then Stephanie can eat her smug, single-lady-shaming shorts.
I grin. I’ve always loved Penny.
I answer a few questions—letting her know that age and ethnicity don’t really matter to me, as long as he’s not too much older than I am—before I add, Though it would be nice if he looks good in a tuxedo.
Penny shoots back a winking emoji. Don’t all men look good in a tuxedo? Ugh, I’m so jealous! You’re going to have an amazing time. I wish I were coming so I could see the look on Stephanie’s face, but I have to stay home and eat ice cream and have my feet massaged.
How far along are you now? I ask, remembering Penny’s cute little baby bump last August.
Eight months. But I look like I’m twenty. A crying face emoji pops through, followed by an ice cream emoji and a winking emoji. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop eating ice cream every night.
I smile. Of course you shouldn’t. The baby needs calcium.
Right? And I need salted caramel with dark chocolate covered... She trails off only to send a string of hearts a beat later. Oh, yay! I just heard back from my top choice for you! Zachary is free tonight and a total doll. You’re going to love him. He teaches guitar part time and grew up fixing houses with his dad. But he lives way uptown and won’t have time to pick you up before the event. Is it okay if he meets you under the zoo clock in Central Park a few minutes before seven? Then you guys can walk over to the ball together. It’s still by the boathouse, right? In the big heated tents with the view of the pond?
Heart pounding, I reply, Yes, it is. And that sounds great. But now that I think about it, I probably should have asked how much this is going to cost before I jumped straight to the booking part. And do I pay him? Or you? And should I tip? And if so, how much? Is an escort more like a taxi driver or a bikini waxer?