Zoe & Sophia Wonder if Zoe Should Date a Guy Who Lies About His Age

January 2nd, 2010

January 2
Could more of YOU PL-EASE offer advice to two single women whose lives are suddenly crashing in chaos? HELP. Zoe and Sophia, BFFs for thirty years,  find themselves unexpectedly cast into the world of re-creation and redefinition after decades of being faithful wives to George and Marty. They need advice from anyone willing to offer it. For instance, what advice would you give your BFF IF SHE HAD TO CHOOSE BETWEEN TRAVELING TO CALIFORNIA or FLORIDA TO MEET A MATCH.COM DATE (in January from New Hampshire, remember). Any advice you can give to Zoe would be helpful, but this is the advice Sophia gave her.

One late afternoon in early December Zoe and her dog Sparky drove through a snowstorm to meet a Match.com date for an early dinner in Portsmouth. Apart from working at her high-powered job as a contracts negotiator in the entertainment field, Zoe spent most of her time driving to meet dates.  As she drove, Zoe wondered whether all this traveling was worth it. The guy she was meeting, Oscar, was a professor at the university, and although he was good on paper, in person he looked and sounded like Mike Tyson with a bulked-up build and a high voice, which was more than off-putting to Zoe.

She decided to call Sophia to see what she was up to later. Zoe hoped like hell Sophia wasn’t sleeping at Sophia’s Exeter house for Sparky’s sake. She wanted to see Sophia, but her dog Sparky couldn’t manage the steps since his stroke, and he involuntarily crapped and peed everywhere—an attribute neither Sophia nor any of Zoe’s Match.com dates embraced fondly. Sophia answered her cell right away.

“Hey, Sophie, whacha doin?”
“Hey, Zo. I’m staring out the window.”
“How long have you been doing that?”
“A couple of hours.”
“What were you doing before you were staring?”
“Driving, Zo. That’s mostly what I do these days, drive and stare.
“Are you doing any writing, Sophie?”
“No. But I did go to the gym this morning and to the tanning bed.”
“What are you getting a tan for, Sophie?’
“I don’t know. I do my Buddhist meditations in the tanning bed, so it doesn’t matter, does it, Zo?”
“Whatever makes you happy, Sophie.”
“Do you think Pema would say it’s okay to meditate in the tanning booth?”
“What the fuck else have you done today, Sophie? You are cracked.”
“I’m going shopping later.”
“You don’t have any money, Sophie.”
“I only buy cheap shit.  No big deal. Whatchu up to?”
“I’m meeting Oscar for dinner,” Zoe said. “Where are you sleeping tonight?”
“Marty’s staying at his girlfriend’s this week, so I’m at the lake house. You wanna sleep over?”
“I do,” said Zoe.

Zoe drove into Sophia’s driveway around eight that evening. She figured Sophia must have driven in moments before because Sophia was still hauling into her house several bags she traveled with at all times. Both women carried many of their important worldly goods in cloth shopping bags they bought regularly for a dollar, the kind people buy to keep the earth “green.” Since they rarely knew which house they would sleep from night to night, it was important that they carried with them several changes of clothing, all of their make-up, lotions and hair apparatuses, bags filled with unpaid bills and books by their Buddhist guide, Pema Chodron, and of course, their lap tops. Once both women ported their baggage into the vestibule, they went about their usual routine. Sophia’s tall, slender torso hauled several logs from the wood box, and her long legs strode quickly to the fireplace in the dining room, where she nearly set her long, blond hair ablaze as she built a fire.  Zoe relaxed her tall, fit body into a chair at the dining room table and set up her laptop.  Next, they opened a bottle of good Pinot Noir, and Zoe, her blond hair falling across her face, furiously began searching for new people to date on Match.com.

“How was dinner with Oscar?” asked Sophia.
“His voice was too scary to listen to any longer,” said Zoe.
“Did he pay for dinner?”
“Yes, then I kicked him to the curb,” said Zoe.
“How’d he take it?”
“I don’t know.  I told him ‘Good luck on your search’ and left him at the table.”
“Anybody good on-line tonight, Zo?”
“Two guys who’ve been writing to me. One’s in California and one’s in Florida.”
“Oh good,” said Sophia, somewhat distracted.

As if wrestling with an invisible phantom, Sophia blurted out, “While you are “dating,” I gotta pay some bills.” With this, she pulled from her bill bag Viktor Frankl’s book, Man’s Search for Meaning. Stuffed between the folded-down pages were dozens of unopened envelops. Zoe looked at the inflated book curiously.
“Shit, Sophie, when’s the last time you paid a bill?”
“It’s been a while.” Every time I go to open one, I get drawn in by the words on various pages of this book.”
“Why do you keep your bills in that book, Sophie?”
“I need meaning in my life, Zo. I just can’t find any since Marty ditched me for Fugly,” as she called Marty’s girlfriend.  “She looks and sounds like a male troll.  Hey, did you know her thighs are like misshapen stumps with purple pimples on them?”
“It doesn’t matter, Sophie. She’s rich and she’s younger than you. What do you expect? Anyway, it was just the opposite for me. When George and I split up, my life began to fill with meaning.”
“Yes, and every body cavity did too, Zo.”
“Are you calling me a whore?”
“Nah. I’m kidding. And I’m jealous. You just have so much nerve to get out there and date all those cool guys.”

“Never mind,” said Zoe, “The guy in California wants to fly me out there to meet him.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Well, he has an eye patch.”
“That’s different,” said Sophia.
“His profile says he’s sixty-four. But check this out. Come look, Sophie.”

Sophia moved her chair to the computer screen as Zoe clicked through the pictures of the guy with the eye-patch.  One picture showed him sitting next to a young woman in a nurse’s outfit. His walker was barely visible since it was pushed off to one side. The next picture showed him standing in a WW II pilot’s uniform next to an airplane, and the caption said, “This is me at age 21 in 1942.” Zoe was good at math even if Sophia wasn’t.
“Let’s see,” said Zoe, “That means he was born in 1921. That makes him in his nineties.  Sophie. What do ya think?”
“I think California might be nice this time of year,” said Sophia.
“Yeah, but I’m not sure I can have sex with the guy while his nurse watches.”

“Is that a Buddhist thing, Zo?”
“Sounds like.”

Next Zoe and Sophia checked out the guy from Florida.  He was a good looking, muscular, 6’ 4’’ black man, a real estate developer, aged fifty-two, who had a house two miles from the beach.
“He looks really cool, Zo.”
“Yes he does, but he didn’t offer to pay for my ticket.” She glanced at her friend briefly before asking, “HOW DO I CHOOSE BETWEEN CALIFORNIA AND FLORIDA?”
Sophia was thoughtful for a moment. She really needed to ask one question before giving Zoe an answer.
“Zo, can I come with?”
“I guess so.”
Sophia smiled broadly saying, “CHOOSE FLORIDA. YOU WON’T HAVE TO PAY AS MUCH FOR MY TICKET.”

“Okay, Sophie. Florida in January it is. I gotta start tanning.”
“Hey, there’s an all night tanning place down the road,” said Sophia, her eyes dancing.
“Let’s do it.”

Without finishing their glasses of wine, the woman hustled Sparky into the car after his bottom dribbled crap all the way down Sophia’s walkway.  Then off dashed the gorgeous, fifty-something single women on another adventure as the Sublime Consumers of the Lightness of Being.

Please give advice to Zoe & Sophia.  They really need it.  Thanks.

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  1. Annette
    January 3rd, 2010 at 06:06 | #1

    Good points, I think I will definitely subscribe!:). I’ll go and read some more!

  2. January 5th, 2010 at 15:22 | #2

    Hi, Annette.
    Zoe and Sophia appreciate your support. They really are grasping and fixating in their struggle to find meaning and make sense out of this crazy thing we call life. They need all the friends they can get, so thank you for being one of them.
    Rock on, babe.

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