Polishing Skills of the Single Life

The whole thing started with red nail polish.

I was sitting at home, newly and unexpectedly single, wondering if the baby was going to sleep through the night, and suddenly, completely and overpoweringly consumed with nail polish.

I hadn’t done my nails in years. Fingers or toes. I didn’t even have any polish in the house. I searched the bathroom again and again, like a drunk pawing desperately for a bottle of Nyquil.

That vintage red. It had to be here somewhere. I had to get those nails done. And don’t even think of leaving out the toes.

So there I was, cross-legged on the bathroom floor surrounded by dust, two bottles of nail-polish remover--still no polish--and a pile of forgotten makeup samples, when it hit me. Maybe the answer wasn’t to be found in the choice between Russian Red and Please-Me Pink. Maybe I just had to get out of the house.

Which is why, on a recent Saturday night, I left the baby at home with his father and headed off to a meeting of the Young Executive Singles in Glendale.

The gathering was in an incredibly loud disco at the Red Lion Inn. Two interesting-looking women were in line ahead of me and a young, not-so-executive-looking man was complaining about the available women to an organizer. Fourteen dollars later, I was inside.

It was my first night out since it happened--since my husband came home from work, put away the groceries and announced that he was leaving me to live with another woman. I hadn’t been on a date with anyone other than him since February, 1990.

Nails glowing with an orangy sort of red that I had bought along with two pinks and a brown, I was determined to have a good time.

I was wearing a young-executive-like outfit that I had financed out of my greatly reduced budget and which I hoped would still fit by the end of the evening, considering that I was still nursing and when you skip breast-feeding for a few hours, you can wind up needing a larger size than you started out with.

Whoever programmed the music must have known that the last time I went barhopping was in the ‘80s. A few choruses of The Police going “ De do do do, de da da da “ and I was 21 again.

I sat down at the bar and struck up a conversation with the two women who’d been ahead of me in line.

“They’re bigger already,” the taller of my new friends said, looking morosely down at her own bust. “God knows how big they’ll be by the end of the night.”

I stared. Another Young Executive Mom sans Dad! And with a worse problem than mine. With the disco blaring, we talked about babies and breast-feeding. Hers is 8 weeks old, a boy named Joshua. Mine 9 months and named after my grandfather Sam.

I was just about to ask for her tale of marital woe when a man came up and whispered something in her ear. She whispered something back, and he left.

“THAT WAS HER EX-HUSBAND,” her companion shouted over the din. “CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?”

“I told him that I had heard only losers came here,” my new friend said. “I think that got rid of him.”

I felt a movement to my left. A guy--oh God, it was the not-so- executive-looking one who’d been complaining in the lobby about the poor quality of women--scraped closer on his bar stool.

“So,” he said. “You like Howard Stern?”

Uh, no.

“I think he’s great. Wouldn’t it be great if they just replaced that deejay with Howard? Of course, then all the women would leave.”

“Well, you wouldn’t want that.”

“That would be OK with me,” he said. “Howard is so cool.”

Howard, I nodded dumbly. So cool.

This is his idea of a come-on?

“You’re sexy,” he said. “You’re pretty. You remind me of my mom.”

“Goodbar” muttered one of my new friends.

Goodbar? Oh yes, as in the movie about the woman who went out looking for love and wound up with a psycho-killer. We slipped away to the pool tables.

There, the two of us who had babies talked mom talk while the third proceeded to beat the pants off of a tremendously handsome leather-and-tattoo type, who later donned his blazer and turned into a yuppie with a slicked-back ponytail.

Our luck was turning. And, psycho-boy notwithstanding, I was having a pretty good time.

We found ourselves in front of a group of men engaged in animated conversation. One of them was very cute, and I suppose I must have been staring at him, trying to think of an opening line.

He spoke first.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Do I scare you?”

Uh, no.

He was African American and I am white, so I supposed he was worried that somehow his presence frightened me. I tried to set it straight.

“Oh, no,” I said, returning to the line I had thought up. “I was just wondering how you got that cut on your hand.”

“We don’t all get in knife fights, you know,” he said.

Oops.

I just thought you were cute, OK? A cute man. Apparently non-psycho and cute.

I introduced myself. We danced. It was the first time in five years I’d danced with someone other than my husband.

I liked it.

They’re awkward, these new friendships. People worry that you’re afraid of them. People are afraid of you. Some people like Howard Stern and women who remind them of their moms.

But, geez, it’s got to be better than sitting at home feeling like you’ve been run over by a truck. It’s got to be better than pining for someone who isn’t there.

I introduced my new female friends to my new male friend, who introduced us in turn to his friends.

We talked. I passed out baby pictures. Business cards appeared.

A few of us decided to go out to eat.

We got lost on the way, but finally pulled up to one of those overpriced, over-loud faux -upscale chain restaurants. We talked some more, ate some rubber chicken and made plans to meet again.

At home later, I redid my nails and thought about the evening.

Sigh. Being single.

It’s all starting to come back to me.