A Flower Child? Well, Love’s in Bloom

“Writer, 60s, likes movies, theater, travel, good food, in search of special lady with similar interests. Please call.”

I read the ad a third time, circled it in red and wondered if I dared call. I like movies, theater and travel, and the writer part really piqued my interest. But answering a personal! I gathered up the newspaper and threw it in the trash. No way, I thought. I wasn’t that desperate!

When my 37-year marriage ended, I entered a whole new single world unprepared. I spent the first year reading self-help books and articles on the joys of being single again.

I threw out the clothes he left behind, took over his closet and organized my chaotic wardrobe. I “feminized” my bathroom and my bedroom, painted my kitchen, and joined a women’s support group in which all the members--middle-aged and newly single like myself--were learning to march to “I am woman, hear me roar.”

I had convinced myself I didn’t need a man and I was perfectly content. At 57, I had been through enough changes and all I wanted was some peace and tranquillity.

As the months went by and my single friends started to date, I began to wish I had someone special in my life too. I knew I couldn’t do the dance or bar scene, and I didn’t like the idea of blind dates. Then one day a friend confided that she had met the man she was dating through a personal ad. Even though I looked at her in shocked disbelief, I secretly was impressed by her courage.

I started reading the personals--strictly for amusement, I told myself.

Then one night the ad caught my eye: “Writer, 60s . . .” Dare I? Could I? No! Absolutely not! But I dug the paper out of the trash, folded the page neatly in half and put it on my desk.

Two days later, fingers shaking and heart pounding, I called. Four rings. He wasn’t home! Thank God! With a trembling voice I left a message saying I had seen his ad and he could call back at his convenience. After I hung up, I realized I hadn’t left my name.

That night I was in the kitchen with my daughters when the phone rang. Deborah answered it and with a puzzled expression told me that some man called Alan wanted to talk to someone at this number about an ad. I said it must be about the piano I wanted to buy.

“Mother, you don’t play the piano,” Deborah said.

“I was thinking of taking lessons,” I said, starting to wipe the kitchen counter with great concentration. “But now I’ve changed my mind. Just tell him thank you, but I’m no longer interested--in the piano, that is.”

The next night the phone rang. I heard a pleasant voice say that he wasn’t sure whom to ask for but he wasn’t selling a piano. I apologized and he laughed, telling me that he liked my voice. Eventually we were phoning, writing and faxing. When he finally said one night that it was time for “the meeting,” I blurted out without thinking that he could come to my house for dinner the following Friday.

It was wonderful. We ate and talked into the wee hours, and over the next few months I discovered that this was a tender and loving man with a kind heart, a gentle soul and similar tastes in so many areas--although we also are very different.

A year later we were in the middle of a romantic dinner when he suddenly said, “I’ve been wanting to ask you this--what made you answer my particular ad? I mean, you’re not exactly an ex-flower child or ex-hippie, are you?”

I looked at him, stunned. “What are you talking about? The ad never said anything about flower child or hippies!”

I assumed he was teasing, but when we got back to my house, I pulled out the ad I had saved as a souvenir and waved it under his nose, saying, “Here, Mr. Flower Child, show me where it says that’s who you wanted to meet!”

He suggested that I read it out loud. I cleared my throat and with great aplomb read: “Writer, 60s, likes movies, theater, travel, good food, in search of special lady with similar interests. Please call . . .” and then I gasped.

The phone number was not his.

“I don’t understand. Whose number is this?” I stood there, bewildered. I read the ad again and then I read the one directly above: “Ex-hippie would like to meet ex-flower child, loves theater . . .”

I’d called the wrong number!

Every once in a while now, three years later, he’ll grin at me and slyly mention that it sure pays to advertise. And I remind him that it only pays if you call the wrong number.