Not too long ago I turned on the television and on one of those talk shows that you know you shouldn't watch because they put all these bad ideas into your head ("I'm too fat," "I'm too thin," "I should have a better career," "I shouldn't have anything") I saw a segment called "How To Dress Your Age." On this show the hosts did a lot of "Ooohing," and "Aaahing" as a bunch of "real life models" (don't get me started on that one) pranced down a makeshift runway showing the studio audience (mostly mid-life women, some with deliberately unfortunate hair and clothes) how they were supposed to dress.

What I took away from that eleven a.m. fashion show was this: a woman over forty is supposed to wear belts. Now, I've never been a big fan of the belt (I don't have much of a waist to begin with, plus there's the aforementioned "menopot" to contend with) but the fashion experts on this show insisted that the belt was the savior of all mankind (or at least, of all womankind) especially women "of a certain age." (When, by the way, did forty become an age of such "certainty?" Did I miss the memo? When the fuck did that happen?) Anyhoo, the belt serves many purposes, apparently. It holds things in place. It gives the illusion of a waist where there is none. It reminds you not to eat pasta at lunchtime. (And the wider the belt, the less noticeable the "overhang.") It shaves years off your figure.

While I will save you the diatribe that comes with some some lipo'd, botoxed, shellacked television personality advising me how to look like a teenager (which, I might add, completely contradicts the "How To Look Your Age" theorem), I will admit that the "How To Dress" segment gave me pause. What it made me realize is this: that while I may not own very many belts (in fact, I'm pretty sure the only one I have is some kind of canvas, army contraption that came with a pair of disastrous cargo pants I bought years ago) I am not immune to what they represent. In this case, the suggestion that I actually care about the way I look. (Which I have to admit - separated, single, forty-plus or not, I do.)

Then there was the slightly horrifying fact that unbelievably, I was going on a date. Did I neglect to mention that part? This would be my first real date since the demise of my marriage to Jeffrey (tattoo-inspired sexual escapades notwithstanding) and as such, may also have had something to do with my belt revelation. You see, not long after the Easter resurrection egg hunt (and I am forever indebted to the Hartigans for allowing me that transcendent moment) I got a call from Hot Birthday Party Dad (henceforth referred to as HBPD for no other reason than I want to.) HBPD said he had been thinking about me a lot over the last couple of months (this was one of those phone conversations where your face gets really hot and you're so glad that you don't have that new, video iphone thingy yet) and he finally had the courage to pick up the phone and call.

"Gulp." That was pretty much my mature, out-of-my-mind with happiness, totally messed-up-mom reaction. "Gulp." Like I had no idea how to respond to the simple request, "Esme, would you like to have dinner with me?" without saying something totally inane and reminiscent of the teenager all the talk shows were reminding me I wasn't. "Esme? Are you still there?" said the HBPD, confused, when I apparently didn't answer. (I think the "Gulp," was actually an internal, bodily function thing, kind of like gas, so he didn't hear that either.)

"Umm...I'm not that hungry, actually," is what I heard myself saying (and as it comes out of my mouth I'm thinking, "Moron, moron!") but the HBPD apparently thinks this is just witty repartee because he laughs and says, "Not now. Like what about Saturday? I have a sitter."

So I'm thinking a lot of things. I'm thinking, "Saturday?! This is serious!" And I'm also thinking, "He's using up valuable sitter time on...me?!" but all I say is, "That sounds great," and then before I say anything else inane (the probability here is high) I blurt out, "Oh — there's the doorbell!" (I am lying through my teeth, mine is broken, see: Raoul) and I jump off the phone.

I will spare you the build up to Saturday. Suffice it to say that I went crazy deciding what to wear. I tore through my closet, realizing that I should have paid closer attention to that "How To Dress Your Age" segment and then sped off to Bloomingdales praying that I would find something there. I didn't, of course (it appears that since the last time I purchased clothes, my body has turned into a bagel — ie: round and squishy in some spots, hard and stale in others) so I ended up in my favorite pair of jeans and a vaguely sexy sample sale Prada sweater. (I say vaguely sexy because though I don't see it, Annabelle insists that this sweater shows just the right amount of cleavage. Under duress I will admit that my boobs, post-food source notwithstanding, are pretty damn spectacular.) At the last minute, for good measure (and maybe good luck) I threw on that canvas belt. I'll admit, it looked kind of jaunty.

We had agreed to meet at a restaurant in the Marina, and I chewed maybe ten pieces of Orbit gum before I got there (I know this was presumptuous, but what if he tried to kiss me?!) and then suddenly, like an apparition, there he was. I don't know if I ever told you, but the HBPD is really cute. He's weathered (I like that in a man), kind of pale for a Californian and his black hair is streaked with grey. He's lanky, a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy (based on what I've seen so far) and he wears Converse high-tops which could be kind of pretentious, but on him, doesn't seem so bad. (Okay, I'm biased. He's a guy, he likes me, he's heterosexual as far as I can tell. At the moment, he's perfect.)

He walks up to me. "You look great," he says and kisses me (on the cheek) and my heart is thumping a million miles a minute. I suck at this. It is clear that I have no recollection of how to date (it has easily been twenty years) and since, unlike my ex-husband I have not been practicing with prostitutes I'm not sure I actually remember what I am doing. (For the record book, I always sucked at dating. Small talk was never my forte. I am more a "big talk" kind of girl which can get you in a lot of trouble when you barely know the person you are "big talking" to.)

"You look good, too," I say (I told you, I suck) and he grins at me and we go inside. We were at this sushi place that was also a bar that plays music and there were old kimonos hanging from the walls. It turned out HBPD knew the owner of this joint, so he and his wife gave us this great table near the sushi bar and (did I mention that there was this doorman who was turning people away, that's the kind of place this was) and the HBPD's friend kept sending over uni and toro and quail eggs that had been flown in that morning from Japan. (Little secret: I kind of hate sushi. I'll eat the cooked stuff, but the raw fish terrifies me. In this instance, I knew I had to overcome my fears. Believe me, it was worth it.) Life lesson number two — raw fish ain't so bad when a cute guy with muscle-y forearms is sitting across the table.

We had meant to go to the movies after dinner but before we knew it, three hours had passed. That's when the HBPD told me that they have turtle races at this bar, which was one of the reasons he had wanted to meet me here and then he reached into his pocket and slipped something into my hand. "Here," he said. "I brought this for you."

Now, I should point out at this juncture that I've never been drawn to what you would describe as "normal" men. (Jeffrey, case in point.) Right after college I lived in London for a while and my first boyfriend there was this guy from Cornwall who was living in a squat that looked like it had been bombed out during the Blitz of 1940. There were no inner walls in this building, no other inhabitants to speak of except for the deaf man that lived in the room next door  (convenient for noisy sex, I might point out) and the shower (such as it was) was down the completely unheated hall. I thought this was romantic. Twenty years later I am a different breed, L.A. based, an ex-wife and a mom. A shower down the hall is out of the question. (In fact, a shower with less than two high-end showerheads is frowned upon.) Still, I am drawn to the peculiar. Frankly, peculiar (within limits, of course) turns me on. (I do have a Venus tattoo between my shoulder blades, remember?)

So when the HBPD slipped an egg into my hand, it didn't freak me out at all. "It's from one of my chickens," he explained and then went on to tell me that he has a bunch of different birds and that these particular chickens had feathers that looked like fur on their heads and their eggs were green. I liked the gesture. It may have been a little studied, but as I have mentioned, I am not overflowing with eggs any more and I took it as symbolic that I was still young and sexually fertile (which I'm absolutely positive he didn't mean.)

I took the egg and held it in my hand. It was warm and round and in a strange way, felt like life, even though he could have just taken it out of a carton from a Ralph's Supermarket and I wouldn't have known the difference. "Nice egg," I said and I kind of cradled it, protective-like (I am a mom, after all.) "Glad you like it," he said. "I kind of thought you might." And then he tells me that when he saw me for the first time, at the birthday party where Roo lost his pull-up and was jumping like a crazy child with his penis waving in the air that he had known he wanted, at the very least, to meet me. "Huh," I answered, thinking how peculiar life can be and then he kind of touched my hand.

It's funny. Sex is great (we all know how I feel about sex, I think) but there's something about the first time you really touch someone that is even better. It's kind of a warm feeling, and then there's that moment when you want to touch them even more and you know you can't, at least not yet, which in a weird way makes it even better. I don't want to be all floppy here (even though that's how I kind of felt) but from that moment on I can honestly say I knew I was in trouble. Maybe it was good trouble, it was too early to tell, but trouble with a capital "Tight end" was looking me in the eye.

I won't bore you with the details. We talked about a lot of stuff that night (our ex's, our kids, our loathing of three-year-olds' birthday parties.) He didn't tell me much about his crazy wife (I knew way more from the mommy grapevine) and I didn't tell him about the prostitutes (for all I know, he knew that too) but it was one of those conversations that whatever you're saying, you kind of feel like it's the truth. Which, as we all know, can be dangerous.

Unfortunately, the turtles were tired and didn't want to race that night. (Apparently, someone had put Benadryl in their food the day before because they thought they were having an allergic reaction.) Instead, we ate sushi until we could barely move (after the eighth piece I could feel the rope belt digging into my intestines) and then sometime after midnight, we went outside. The lights of the boats in the Marina were twinkling and it was one of those nights when you almost forget who you are and you think that anything is possible. I haven't felt like that since I was a teenager, I think. It is a strange feeling, when you have it somewhere in the recesses of your mind, because even though you're feeling all these roiling emotions, you know you're not a teenager anymore.

And we're walking, not saying much of anything (unusual for me) and then I notice the HBPD is fiddling with his pants. "Shit," I think to myself. "He's not one of those guys, is he? What's he going to do?" And he sees me staring at him, I think, because he blushes, guiltily. "Sorry," he says, clearly embarrassed. "Too much sushi, I guess. I'm not as skinny as I think I am. Just loosening my belt."

And I can't help but break into this huge grin as I nod and start tugging at my own "belly harness." I'm in for it now, I can tell. I'm going down the rabbit hole fast. I have to remember what Annabelle told me, "Don't put all your eggs into one basket." I unwrap the canvas cord that is bisecting my belly and toss it in the gutter. "You wanna know a secret?" I say to him. I lean in, all confidential-like. "Seriously, I'm not much of a belt person."

We stare at each other. I can feel the egg in my hand and the blood returning to my mid-section, sans tourniquet. And I have to tell you, moments like that - they define happiness. This is a simple truth that doesn't have to be dressed up: happiness can find you — whatever your age. With or without a waist.