Escape Points by Michele Weldon Page B

World, because honest to God who in her right mind would go back—asked for my card and if I wanted to go out for a drink once back in Chicago.
    “Mom, he’s still smiling at you,” Brendan said, his face contorted in complete disgust.
    Some men who approached me were as old as my father would have been, and two were as young as thirty.
    Most of the time I met them and that was it, no first or second dates, no phone chats, no follow-ups. Meeting someone was not difficult. Men talked to me in grocery stores. Not that I am all that flirty, but I answer them, even if I know the question about where are the sundried tomatoes is just a ruse. Still, meeting someone who was worth taking a risk on was nearly impossible. The idea of being close emotionally or physically with someone—anyone—was far too unsettling. I said no, thank you, to any offers but took the compliment they extended and that was all I needed for a while. It may seem as if there were a lot of opportunities, but spread them out over almost a decade and it worked out to twenty or so in about one hundred months, so not so many. Fewer than the number of phone solicitations in a year for aluminum siding, but more than your jackpot lottery win. I guess I could have taken a chance on one of them and fallen in love. But I dared not; the terrified of being fooled again thing.
    I was realistic and knew my limits; I am not a woman all men find irresistible. But I do not hate any part of my body, because life was just too short for that brand of self-loathing, even if it was in jest. I want to be healthy and I consider myself attractive, but I do not obsess. I noticed that every year it took about ten more minutes of serious prep time to get to neutral, an additional fifteen minutes to appear as if I had a good night’s sleep. Twenty more minutes on top of that to look good. An hour plus if the event was black tie and I had to do something inventive with my hair. Oh, and concealer, well, that’s a given.
    Years ago at a neighbor’s cocktail party, I told the popular plastic surgeon who hosted Botox parties I was never invited to that I would prefer to be viewed in candlelight throughout my middle age rather than undergo any treatments that involved a knife or laser. I told him how I felt proud to be about much more than my looks, and that I was confident I was interesting and desirable without a breast job or eye lift or anything that would freeze my age lines with a poison ingested any other way could kill you. I also told him I did not want to have any surgery described as plastic. I wanted surgery that involved steel. He looked me up and down as if he was sizing up a horse he intended to buy.
    “You can use some work,” he said.
    I didn’t throw the drink at him. But in my fantasy it was red wine.
    If I did go out, I was a good date. Polite, well-dressed, punctual. Didn’t pick my teeth with a credit card—which I saw a woman do once at a friend’s birthday party. I sat through a date’s excruciatingly detailed stories of high school and college sports and asked appropriate questions. Smiled frequently.
    I ordered the chicken—I always ordered the chicken. It was a lesson my brother Bill taught me when I was thirteen. I was getting ready for the homecoming dance my freshman year of high school in 1971. I wore a midnight blue jersey halter dress my grandmother made for me, and my hair was set tightly in the pink electric rollers with the steam. Bill walked by the room I shared with Madeleine with the green flowered bedspreads, a transition from the zebra print we had in an earlier phase. I was painstakingly applying blush and shimmer lip gloss in the mirror.
    “Don’t order the most expensive thing,” Bill said. “Look at the price, don’t get the steak.” And then he went upstairs to his bedroom on the third floor, the one with the separate bathroom built for the servant couple who lived there with the original owners. We needed every room in the