Silent auctions and charity events are almost synonymous with a speed dating for socialites here in San Francisco. They bring together pools of individuals with similar interests and an above average salary, and while the occasional egomaniac may come into play, the men at the auctions may be a more desired prize than the auction items themselves. Through some strategic bidding and a stroke of luck, one can oftentimes end up winning a something unexpected and well worth the risk. But in the auction of dating, the bidding is always a gamble.
In my line of work of event planning and sales at an upscale downtown hotel, my colleagues and I are often asked to attend these silent auctions and local charity events as shop calls of sorts; we compare other venues, use best practices, and get to network with our market demographic while simultaneously give back to the community. Being a good Samaritan, I am always a willing and ready volunteer for these types of events. Never mind the premium hosted bars and steady stream of wealthy male socialites… my selflessness knows no boundaries.
In lieu of such research, my colleague and I ventured to the annual Gatsby Charity Ball at the San Francisco Opera House to help to “build our business.” The music was hot, the bar was open, and the socialites were out in full force. I love nothing more than combining business with pleasure, and was certainly keeping my prospects open for more than just closing business. These events are like a flea market for the affluent, and I was more than ready to make a couple of offers on the goods at hand. After a good hour of making eyes at a handsome silver fox in a tux, I finally got the deal I had been waiting for.
The conversation over the next two glasses of champagne taught me that my object of desire was not only handsome, but also a doctor in Marin, embarked upon annual trips to Thailand and Paris, and apparently owned a luxurious condo in Punta Mita, Mexico. I also learned he had been divorced from his wife for three years, and while the traditional woman may be turned off by the post marital status, I have found divorcees make for great flings for the twenty something girl for the following reasons: a) they are typically emotionally unavailable and make up for their lack of compassion via lavish gifts; b) they have a newfound appreciation for the younger women they missed out on their last X amount of years of marriage (and with me, flattery will get you anywhere….), and c) you know they have already been trained by their former spouse how to behave (at least in the short term) and they know their way around the bedroom.
However, there was one caveat to this lucky fling I had stumbled upon. My divorcee was not without baggage, and a thirteen year old daughter was a result. Don’t mind I was closer in age to his offspring than himself. As I started cringing thinking about the fact that I would probably have more pop culturally in common with this adolescent than her father whom I was pursuing, images of myself adorned in Prada basking at a five star Mexican resort with he and his sophisticated surgeon friends banished all negativity. My optimism was confirmed when he asked me to join him for dinner the week after at Boulevard, a hot restaurant renowned for Chef Nancy Oakes French American fusion. Oh yes, this man knew how to keep it classy.
My divorcee and I met at Boulevard the next week. After the hosted bar at the charity ball, I was quite relieved that his good lucks were not a memory manifested via gin and tonics. A hug and a kiss on the cheek later, we found ourselves nestled into a quiet table overlooking the Embarcadero, and I eagerly awaited what was sure to be a sophisticated and stimulating companion.
Now, I consider myself a confident person, but the eagerness with which he was staring at me from the restaurant door to the table, and now as I looked over the wine list, was beginning to make me feel a bit uneasy. The dress I was wearing was certainly intended to hug my curves, but a casual glance or two of appreciation would have sat with me a bit better.
“God, you are so beautiful,” my doctor said very seriously, shaking his head as he spoke. Considering we had only met once before and I had barely taken my coat off, I found it to be coming on a bit strong. Then again, maybe I needed to learn how to take a compliment.
“Well, thank you,” I said. “What a great restaurant choice, I’ve been meaning to try this place for months.”
“Well, you are a special girl that I wanted to celebrate with,” he said, leaning in closely. I didn’t recall this banality in our initial meeting, but then again, my baby boomer dates are typically more appreciative of their female companions, and I continued on with my appointment with the doctor.
“So what are we celebrating then,” I asked, anticipating a heroic story about a patient he had saved earlier this afternoon.
“Well, I didn’t tell you this when we first met, but today is actually the first official day of my new life. My divorce is officially final today.”
After I confirmed, in fact that he had not been divorced for three years but that his marriage had been “on the rocks” for three years, I found myself a little short of words. A healed divorcee is one thing… a middle aged, recently wounded gent who hadn’t been on a real date in over fifteen years is a whole other practice. Considering we hadn’t event been served bread and butter, I got the uneasy feeling it was going to be a very arduous dinner. I thought briefly about asking if he had any prescription pain killers in his pocket, but opted for a heavy dose of the red wine instead.
I decided to steer the conversation away from our “celebration”, and moved onto asking about the lavish vacations we had discussed before.
“Well,” he gloated, “My daughter and I typically travel to Thailand every year for vacation during Christmas.” After mentioning I had never been, he added, “You should absolutely come with us this year. Would you join us?”
I laughed at the obvious joke.
“No, really.” He said intensely reaching across for my hand at the table. “You should join us over Christmas. My daughter would love you. And it’s still a few months away, so you have time to plan.”
I politely explained I typically celebrate Christmas with family and friends in my hometown and not a stranger and his teen daughter in a third world country and hoped the waiter would forget the intermezzo and keep the service coming as quickly as possible. This doctor was beginning to prescribe poison. One more blip and I’d be suing for malpractice.
After some banter about the other popular vacation spots he felt confident I would escort him on, I opted again to move onto a better topic. His career. At least he had confirmed he was an intelligent man. A man of success. A man who helped humankind.
“So what kind of doctor are you?” I asked. “Do I recall you saying you were a general physician?”
“Well, Christina, I guess I should have clarified, I am actually a doctor’s assistant.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. The one saving grace he had left…
“But you know,” he said quite proudly, I met Huey Luis the other day? He comes into the office regularly.” Apparently this was supposed to make up for the lack of “M.D.” next to his name.
Considering I had already consumed a pre dinner cocktail and a full bottle of wine, I was able to bear with my companion it through dessert without feigning ill. I was initially worried the doctor would have offered to take care of me with this excuse, at least now I didn’t have to worry about it. Maybe he could have played “Hip to Be Square” to lift my spirits.
Although I could have been confused with a mute considering my conversation engagement, he still managed an invitation to a wedding the following weekend, and also reaffirmed that I was the only woman in his life. He took our relationship seriously, and wouldn’t dare dream of seeing another woman. I decided to handle the situation diplomatically with vague excuses, and probably a few unintended eye rolls at his obscene commitment levels.
And finally, to his diagnosis, “You know, Christina, I am really excited about this new relationship and our new adventure together. And you know, tonight is so special to me that I actually booked a hotel room in Union Square. I wanted to let you know I can stay out late tonight if you’d like to have a night cap.” Sop a night cap is what he called it back in is day…
After explaining I had an early meeting, I closed out with forced peck on the lips and hightailed it home in a cab moments later. Sure, he was no rocket scientist (or a doctor, for that matter), but figured my lack of enthusiasm must have given him the hint.
For not being a doctor, I will give my divorcee credit for his consistent follow up. 2 days, 3 missed calls, and 4 text messages later, I began to worry my date may have needed some Xanex himself. His final prescription came a week later via voicemail through a very angry sounding tone (and I quote) “<<Deep breath…>> Christina <<deep breath… pause>>, you know, I don’t what I did. I don’t know why you haven’t called after our special time together <<pause>> Maybe if you were a little more mature, you would have let me know in person and didn’t have to be such a bitch. And after all we shared together. Have a nice life.”
Other than the lobster appetizer, I really couldn’t surmise what the doctor thought we had shared together. Although I can’t see the experience was all bad- the menu at Boulevard really had been quite wonderful. While the food had been exactly what I had requested, this date was certainly not what the doctor had ordered.
