Share Your Husband, Please!

Rarely do I get invited to a dance party. Folks my age don’t throw them. We’re too tired, too arthritic, or too dead. So, I was thrilled when my friend Luna called to say that her ex-boyfriend was throwing a dance party for his 66^th birthday, and he said it was okay to bring me.

I got out my dancing shoes. Yes, I have dancing shoes: cushioned heels. I keep them in the drawer with the condoms, which I’ve labeled “Museum.” I looked through my closet and found a sexy little dress. Then, I put on pants. I did my hair, located my eyes, and pinned up my neck.   Danced to some James Brown to get in the mood, and headed out to the parté!!!

The room was dark. People stood in little circles, holding glasses of wine, chatting. When I overheard the word “diagnosis,” I knew I was in the right place. And there was my friend Luna, elegant and lovely as ever, talking to the birthday boy. After making polite conversation about our current prescription plans, I took Luna aside.

“Who are the single men?” I asked her.

“There aren’t any,” she replied.

“There aren’t any?” I asked, sliding my expectations from meet-love-of-life, straight through get-a-date, past do-something-stupid and into oy. “Are all the men here married?”

“Yup.”

“Every one???” 

I mean, okay. I’m used to New York parties. Where there are always small herds of lovely unattached women and that one guy in the corner squeezing an olive out of his nose, but really: every guy at the party, is married???  How can that even be?

“Some of them are just in relationships, but yeah,” Luna clarified. “I know them all,” she went on, as I batted away the impulse to deck her. Why had she not told me? Would I have come?  Okay, I consoled myself, I do not need a man in my life (said it before you did) and I can still have fun, and the music is loud, and…

A man came up. “Would you care to dance?” he asked, extending his hand and giving me the once-over with sexy eyes under bristled brows and a bald head. I didn’t see a wife or girlfriend nearby. She could be any of these women chatting about colonoscopies.

“Sure!” I replied, and jumped onto the floor. And thus began two hours of nonstop dancing to the Stones, Franklin, Gaye, Beatles, Pickett, Procol Harem, Zeppelin, Sam Cook and the Supremes. Somebody told me I’m a great dancer. Somebody asked me where I’d learned to dance. Somebody said, “In one of those cages.” I got a little drunk. I was having fun, when…

The door opened. And in walked another couple. The man was my ideal. The woman was his wife. Now, I am not prone to envy, except when I look at people, watch TV, or sleep. But, I envied that woman. I looked around the room. The men were mostly ancient-looking (how men my age look to me now). Yet, I envied their wives.

All the women had someone to go home with that night. Is this fair? There aren’t enough desirable men to go around, ladies. Please, don’t make me go Big Love. Share. What would that mean? I haven’t worked out the details. I do know you’d have the chance to be the only woman at a party who dances crazy, wild, and sexy—and that is fun.

 

Email this post