2002, Northern California

By Claudia Sternbach

My husband Michael and I have begun to date other people.

After more than 22 years of marriage we find we need the excitement. The spice. So we have been experimenting with new people. We have been gazing at different faces across the dinner table. It’s nerve racking, but fun. For the first time in quite a while I actually plan what to wear and think about shaving my legs. I scan newspapers for interesting stories and read the book review section cover to cover, hoping to impress the new people.

This is not to say that Michael and I are tired of the old faces. But we have become complacent. We needed to sharpen our social skills. So we have been spending time with couples whose habits are unfamiliar to us. Whose pasts are waiting to be explored. By us.

When you have been married this long you hardly feel like an individual anymore, even though you each have separate lives and interests. So dating becomes a thing you do as a pair. We, as a team, are making new friends. Not in the “swapping” way. Just in the “do we like them, do they like us, what can we find to talk about” kind of way.

If our neighbors Nora and John drop by I don’t worry about emptying the bathroom waste basket or wiping toast crumbs off the kitchen counter. They have been our friends for 20 years. They know us. Even if there are no crumbs on the counter, they know I’m the kind of person who would have them, if I had only bothered to cook some toast. So it doesn’t matter.

If our old friends Becky and Ed come by on a Monday night because football is on and we live closer to a pizza parlor, I know I don’t have to rush into the bedroom and change out of my pajamas. They have seen me in my p.j.’s often enough to know that if I’m not in them when they get there, I will be soon.

New people don’t know these things. New people know nothing about the people behind the curtain.

We have a clean slate when it comes to these strangers. And if our house is also clean, well. They can easily assume it is always that way. That even though we have a dog, there is never any evidence of it in our yard. And when they glance at the framed family photos resting on the top of the piano, they not only think someone plays the instrument, but they are impressed by the evidence of such a close knit bunch people grinning in Kodak moments. (They don’t know how many steps and halves are involved, and while these seemingly happy folks may be getting along on top of the piano, if they were ever all in the living room together it would be as dangerous as a tornado. Cows would fly.)

We aren’t the only ones who are looking for adventure. In the past year or so Michael and I started being invited to places we never had been before. We found our selves sharing plates of pasta or poached salmon with couples who were much more interesting then we felt we were. After receiving invites to dinner, Michael would look at me in wonder. Why us, he would ask. What do you suppose they want? How did we get on their list?

Bored with the old faces, I suppose. But not in a mean or bad way. Just looking for something new.

And we are it. We are the new spice to be added to their lives.

It can make a person quite nervous. But when last-minute jitters arrive, one of us props up the other and out the door we head.

We have been getting better at dating new people. At accepting invitations to new places. We buy a bottle of good wine to give to the hosts. We talk about books we’ve read or places we have been or films we have seen. We practice in the car on the way. We try to be interesting, afraid of being a one night stand. And then we invite back.

A few weeks ago we decided to do some entertaining. We invited some old, security blanket type friends, a more recently acquired couple, and to round it out a couple brand new to the neighborhood.

I wiped the toast crumbs off the counter, emptied the wastebaskets, scooped the poop in the yard. I dusted off the piano, in case anyone wanted to admire my family, and I wore long pants to hide the fact that I did not shave my legs.

We sat around the table in the back yard and discussed writing and art. Flying and films. We were like the people in “The Big Chill” or a Woody Allen film. I learned that Thomas is planning on doing a 170 mile bike ride in Big Sur next month. And that Ed had flown his plane up the California coast to Sea Ranch that morning. Drew is thinking about making another trip to Italy to do some writing and take a few million pictures and his wife Kathy is heading to Santa Fe to take an art class. Because I had offered to cook ribs for a few folks, my back yard was now filled with interesting people. Familiar friends as well as new.

I like being back in the dating game. It keeps me on my toes. And it makes me see my old friends in a new light as they talk about themselves with these new additions. I also see Michael in a fresh way. I’m pulled in as he discusses with enthusiasm the latest adventure book to catch his interest. Or describes the dolphins he saw while body surfing that morning. I watch as his face fills with enthusiasm, as his eyes light up when he relives for our guests the early morning bike ride he took the other day and the way the light shifted from thin and pale to rich and golden as the hours flew by.

He becomes, for an instant, the young man I dated more than two decades ago. And I fall in love with him all once more. It happens right there, while we are surrounded by interesting folks sipping wine and telling stories.

At some point I’ll give up on the image scam. That the house is always clean. The lawn safe to walk on. Because by then our new acquaintances will be old.

And when you are among friends, who cares?

Claudia Sternbach is a newspaper columnist and author of Now Breathe.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, January 31st, 2007 | Email This Post

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