A Date with Me

I need to date my man like I date me - else we’re hitting the phase of our lives where he turns into my sibling.

When we do make time for each other – no kid, no construction workers, no loading/unloading the dishwasher etc – we remember we got married because we like the same things (champagne and oysters), dislike the same people (sloths and show-offs), have a shared set of values (be kind and soak in the sunshine) and can laugh at the same things (my dance moves and his accent). But who has time to make time for a person you live with? Not us. And so, in this phase of our lives, my man turns into my sibling. When he puts his grubby fingers in my 125€ night-cream, or moves my phone charger so I spend the morning looking for it instead of pretending to read the news, or wears those jeans I hate that make his thighs look like stumps, I can’t wait to grow up and move out. Then I remember - I chose him and we weren’t biologically thrown together.

“Every week?”

Listen you, I don’t want to either, I’d rather be laughing with my girlfriends. “Yes, date night every week. We need to spend time alone together.”

“Every week?”, he asks again.

“Some weeks we can go for a movie and not talk.”

Never been this up to date with all the latest releases – French and English.

For this week’s rendezvous, I book us late night tickets for the must-see D&G exhibit at the Grand Palais and an early dinner at a fish bar in our old neighbourhood in Paris. I go into town 2 hours early - I’m treating myself to a deep-tissue massage from my favourite masseuse. Her hands have an in-built sensor that go straight to the nerve point of releasing every knot. When I become JLo-famous her hands will be paid top dollar to be part of my intimate entourage to work their magic on me every hour.

“Why’s your phone off? I’ve sent you 20 messages. What if there’s an emergency?” His irritation destroying the magic of my massage. I need that fame fast.

“Are you on your way?” I ask trying to hold onto the last shreds of the magic. “Our table is for 8pm.”

“No, the babysitter didn’t show. I don’t have her number, that’s why I was calling you. Ko, do you mind? I’m exhausted, I can’t be bothered to come all the way to Paris. I will if you really want me to.”

I post a message on a few groups asking if anyone is free and in the vicinity to join me last minute. My muscles are relaxed, it’s almost spring in Paris, I’m walking down streets that I once belonged to - there’s my grocer, my corner for a sneaky smoke, the late-night pharmacy I’ve taken multiple Covid tests at, my usual spot in Café Mexique and there’s sister Eiffel. The night is clear and my shoes are comfortable. I don’t mind anything. I delete my message before anyone can respond. I’m going to go on a date with my favourite person.

Soft trance is playing in my ears – I’ve named the playlist JUST BE 2025. The Haussmann buildings, the movie-set street lamps, the buzz of the terraces and that heady mix of impatience and leisure. Paris, you’re a beauty! For the first time since moving out of the city I feel a pang for it. Usually, every time I enter Paris, the traffic jams caused by Mayor Hidalgo’s speed limit and the bad mood it fuels brings out the worst in me. I turn into the complaining Parisian I so despise. Not today. Not when it’s almost spring. Not when I’m alone and unrushed in Paris. Not when the streets belong to me. I cancel the fish bar - I’m in the mood to people watch on a terrace sipping Kir royal. But first the bladder needs to be attended to. Plaza Athénée appears on my right – the poshest solution. The doorman smiles as I greet him, the concierge points me in the right direction, middle-aged tourists check me out. I own this city tonight. My reflection comes as a surprise – oil in my hair, no make up (but post massage glow), comfy red sweater (thankfully cashmere), baggy sweatpants (no comment), trainers (designer) – it could be worse. But it’s pretty bad that this is the effort I made for date night with a man I’m trying to reignite romance with. Had I stepped out of the house intending to spend the night solo, or with my girls, I’d be dressed to the nines making heads turn, but he’s not bothered by what I wear. This comfort has murdered passion. I wash my hands; the soap is a fancy bergamot orange, his favourite. My wedding ring is still in my bag from the massage. I leave it there. It’s been a while since anyone flirted with me. There was an era when the sole motive to go out, or drink, or both, was to pull a guy. We didn’t have apps to hide behind. We put ourselves out there and, sooner or later, some dude you were making eyes at chatted you up. Maybe you’d hook up, maybe not. I loved being young, single and going out on the pull. I had game. And I played. Ageing is far less pleasurable.

The terrace is buzzing and the champagne cocktail hits the spot. I want another. I order another. I want my date to have a good time. Her wish is my command tonight. There’s a couple kissing at the table in front of me. They must be in their twenties. They come up for air. Her hands squeeze his thighs. Her fingers touch his crotch. He kisses her shoulder. She nibbles on his ear. I’m staring. I don’t exist for them. Then their phones come alive and inhale them - they no longer exist in the real world. Not so fun being young today.

In line at the Grand Palais, I dance to the beat in my ears, tipsy and full of joy. The old(er) couple behind me stare - sucking in my ‘youth’. I bask in the attention. No one there to stop me when my date thinks I’m cool. I take in the exposition at my own pace, slowing down and speeding through rooms as I please. When I make time for me, alone, I see myself and I like what I see. There are no partitions or encased glass between me and the feathered gowns, jewel encrusted shoes, or the 3D angels moulded out of satin placed on each shoulder of a widow’s dress. I gasp loudly. The fatto a mano clothes of the exhibit inspire envy, not in the English sense of the word but in the French - denoting desire. What a night it’s been. I need to date my man like I date me.

---

Question for you?

How do you keep the romance alive?