Silence of the Shams

The year the alimony ended arrived in the midst of the pandemic.

The year the alimony ended arrived in the midst of the pandemic.

At work, they announced pay cuts for the teachers, which we accepted graciously. We still had our jobs after all-and very decent health and retirement benefits.

Still, I was a single mom and a teacher’s salary was barely enough to make it in New York City, let alone put myself together in the ways in which I liked and enjoy a vibrant life.

For years following my divorce, I had been fortunate enough to earn extra income as a yoga teacher and giver of Thai massage. This was my fun money with which to purchase my sparkly eyeshadow, have my hair blown out, and enjoy dinners with friends.

Well, I guess my luck had run out that year because my clients vanished as quickly as one could utter the word “coronavirus” and my paycheck didn’t stretch beyond the ridiculously exorbitant rent for my studio apartment. I knew it was time to find a more affordable place to live, but I hated the idea of leaving the safety of my doorman building.

The Covid days did offer one benefit to those lucky enough to either dodge or survive illness, and that was time. Lockdowns and the overall slower pace of life left us with plenty of time for quiet contemplation. Like most people I knew, I spent months reflecting on existential questions, gratitude, regrets, goals.

I took stock in triumphs and achievements, while languishing over the disappointments. I was grateful for the lazy days and cozy nights with my baby boy who had suddenly become a teen, yet I longed for an adult companion with whom I could share life’s journey, or at the very least, some good conversation to break up the monotony of quarantine life.

For this, I would need the privacy that a one-bedroom could provide, and an open mind to try out one of the many dating apps that were out there.

So, in my usual style of self-sabotage, (a technique I excel at), I had set out to find a larger apartment at less rent, and a man to attract after months of Netflix marathons fueled by wine and nachos. At least there was more of me to love. StreetEasy and Bumble became my “go-to” apps, while I swiped away my evenings.

On the following mornings, I’d often have to drag myself out of bed due to the too much screen-time, hangover-like feeling.

I wondered which required more effort, the manhunt or apartment search?

Luckily, the former didn’t have a deadline. Or did it?

I certainly was not getting any younger.

My homework consisted of comprising a list of what I considered to be the non-negotiables in my quest for a new residence,

and scrolling through photographs, which could be considered decent enough to make it to my dating profile. I came across a few snapshots of bikini-clad me on the beach during a 2014 vacation to Bermuda. Since I now looked like I had eaten the cute girl in the jewel-toned swimsuit, I decided that posting those pics wouldn’t be fair, and I opted for more recent and realistic pictures. My bio was complete, my filters for prospective dates and apartments were set, and I was ready to dive in.

Although the sad reality of leaving my place hadn’t fully sunk in, I was willing to embrace change. My son and I lived in a chic building with stainless steel appliances and a rooftop deck. It was way out of my league. I realized I would have to sacrifice such luxuries for more space.

One thing I wasn’t ready for, was the shallowness of the dating pool for women of a certain age. Faced with slim pickings, I had to increase the maximum age of the men I would be willing to date. More sacrifice- exchanging youthfulness and energy for wisdom and stability. I had never thought of myself as a shallow person, and I certainly valued a good sense of humor above all. After reading that our ears and noses continue to grow until the day we die, finding someone who could make me laugh in my old (and ugly) age was a non-negotiable at the top of the manhunt list.

I spent the next couple of months both viewing apartments, and virtually dating men who looked most dissimilar from their photographs. I had soon grown accustomed to recognizing good angles and lighting, and bad lies. I had become proficient in reading between the lines. If a one-bedroom was reasonably priced, no doubt it was a studio apartment with a pocket door. “Pre-war charm” was a dimly lit and un-renovated walk-up.

The men were a bit more obvious in their descriptions. Those passionately expressing their longing for human contact were itching to jump into bed straight away. But my favorites, what I found to be really rich, was when the real-estate agent or the man on the other end of the dating app thought they were doing someone a favor by offering something above and beyond. For instance, “this apartment has a full-sized refrigerator” (wow) or your potential date offers to drive “all the way” into Manhattan from New Jersey to take you out to dinner. Aw thanks so much!

There was one man, from New Jersey who I decided to meet in person. He seemed kind and was quite witty. After a thorough investigation, I had found that he was not being honest about his age, and had lied by a few years. Not a big deal, I thought. Perhaps he would volunteer the truth over a glass of wine. We met at a British gastropub in my neighborhood and talked about music mostly, between bites of Welsh rarebit. He had a fun uncle “funcle” vibe. When it was time to go, he mentioned returning to my part of the city the following week for knee-replacement surgery. Yikes.

Still, he never admitted to his actual age, wonky knees and all. But he was nice, and I was trying my best to snap myself out of what I like to call

“White-Shelby Syndrome”.

All those hours spent binge-watching Breaking Bad and Peaky Blinders, had led me to develop an irrational feeling of love and lust for the main characters, Walter White and Thomas Shelby respectively. Everyday humans paled in comparison to these men on the magical screen. Please don’t get me wrong, these characters embodied traits that were far from ideal. Their Bumble profiles would read like something to the effect of “married, meth-making street pharmacist”, and “PTSD-suffering, whiskey drinking, chain-smoking, murdering gangster” . Yet, these bad boys were sexy af and I would gladly take either of them as my future second husband.

This was a problem.

In an effort to check my delusional self, I decided to give the ordinary man with the bad knees a chance and offered to visit him in the hospital post-surgery. While I expected to be met with a feeble man, groggy from anesthesia, I was a little taken aback by the catheter drainage bag that was peeking from beneath the bed sheets. My fixation with the apparatus was interrupted when he spilled the cup of water on his bed tray.

When I approached his bed to clean it up, he firmly gripped my arm and motioned to plant his lips onto mine. I immediately turned my face, and he muttered something unintelligible under his breath. After that visit, I never heard from him again. When a nurse friend convinced me that he could be dead from an infection,

I reached out and by the words written in his text response, it was confirmed that his silence had been an attempt to ghost me. While I felt badly about bruising his ego, the drainage bag filled with urine was just too much for a second date.

I felt he should have understood.

My lease was ending and after months of viewings and open-houses, I had finally found an apartment. While it wasn’t perfect, it was good enough for a rental, which is often, a temporary residence. My non-negotiables were met, and I looked forward to living with more space, light, and hard wood. While the manhunt was not as fruitful, it wasn’t over yet. The search for love would require more diligence.

Good enough may not be enough, when searching for a forever home.