Save Room for Dessert

Something I am loving about being back in New Zealand is that babysitters are much cheaper and easier to find than in Sydney. In Bondi, the only people we could ever find to babysit were backpackers, and they would usually cancel last minute to attend a house party or by the time we were ready for our next date (usually a year later) had left the country due to visa issues.

On our (annual) dinner date in Sydney about 6 months ago, Tom got hit on by a woman at the adjacent table to us when I got up to use the bathroom. She was a horsey-faced elite Sydney private school sort, confident, slim and impeccably dressed, the offspring of good breeding (generations of beautiful women marrying men in high finance), but also quite leathery, presumably from too many childhood holidays in the Bahamas growing up.

Apparently she leaned over, touched his arm, and breathlessly struck up a conversation about something deathly boring that simultaneously showcased her wealth while enquiring into his, like yacht interior decor or share prices, before suggestively offering him some of her dessert. This last act seems inexplicable since the advent of COVID, but times were different back then, and I am quite sure it was code for something else, also involving the sharing of germs.

When I returned, Tom was unable to hide his delight at my arrival. He wasn’t so much flush with loyalty and marital love than he was euphoric with flattery and delight that someone else was there to witness this stranger’s adoration. Anyway, our generous friend moved on to enjoy the rest of her evening, having had to eat her chocolate ganache all by herself.

Tom, on account of deep levels of vanity, looks remarkably good for middle age. He keeps himself incredibly fit, hydrated and nourished, which I am of course thankful for, but this date was not the time to tell him so. And anyway, I blamed his blatant lack of a wedding band for the intrusion.

Before our wedding he sourced a silver ring (pictured here above!) for himself and proudly declared, “It’s great! I can wear it on this hand for our wedding, but when I go out, I can wear it on the opposite hand.” Great. Well you see this teeny lingerie (unfortunately, not pictured here above!) I’ve bought? It’s for our honeymoon but later on, when I get bored of doing the housework, I can pick up some hours at the local strip club. And I may bypass the housework altogether.

The last time someone made a pass at me was so long ago. For some reason, rushing around with no make-up on, dirty hair tied up in a messy bun, dressed in coffee-stained activewear outside spin classes or supermarkets just isn’t hitting the mark with many men. Perhaps it has something to do with the overfed baby strapped to my chest.

My last known suitor struck in 2004, he was a portly Peruvian man in his late 50s who I was seated next to on a long haul flight home after visiting Tom who was working on a project overseas. He had a glistening wandering eye and a wirey white moustache which he twisted at the ends. 5 minutes into the flight, he offered to take me to dinner and dancing at our destination, while pressing his lower leg closer to mine. I promptly turned him down, crossed my leg, leaned into the aisle and ignored him for the next 12 hours. When we landed, he forced me to take his business card from his blistered sausagey fingers in case I changed my mind. It was a cheap yellow card with brown curvasive font, declaring him to be a travel agent capable of any handling job, except for that of running a spell check. Interestingly, I noticed he was wearing HIS wedding ring.

Anyway, now that we have some cut-price babysitters lined up here in Auckland, I’m looking forward to being taken out for dinner by my #Boo more often. In the spirit of fairness, I am going to suggest Tom wear his wedding ring, I’ll come in my strip club outfit, and we will see who gets the most looks from the opposite sex.