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but I think I could easily pass for mid-twenties. But when I went to my ten-year college reunion recently, there were lots of girls there from my class who looked like they were forty. The ones with three or four kids, who’d been married since age 22. Let me tell you, if you want to stay young looking, don’t get married, and don’t have kids.
    A few years ago, I might have felt smug about my wrinkled classmates, but I don’t anymore. I was one of the prettiest girls in my class, and it just doesn’t make sense to me that practically everyone is married except me. I mean, there were girls that nobody would touch with a fifty-foot pole and even   those   girls got married. I don’t get it. Seriously. People think I’m picky, but it’s not like I’ve turned down any marriage proposals.
    The only thing I can think of is that I’m picking the wrong guys. I’m picking the good-looking, successful guys who are commitment-phobes and jerks. I need to pick nice, boring guys. Like Larry.
    So when Larry picks me up at my apartment on Friday night, I’m wearing an eye-popping, slinky red dress and red fuck-me pumps. Not that I intend to let Larry fuck me tonight, but I want him to want to.
    I meet Larry downstairs because he says he’s got a cab waiting. When he sees me, his eyes widen. “Wow, Tasha,” he says. “You look amazing.”
    “Thank you,” I say graciously. Larry doesn’t look too bad himself, and I can tell he made an effort. He’s wearing a nice, green silk shirt, brown tie, and pressed slacks. I’m big on noticing shoes because I think they say a lot about a guy, and I can’t help but be impressed by Larry’s shoes. If I’m not mistaken, they’re Louis Vuitton and look like they cost a bundle.
    Not that I’m surprised, but Larry didn’t bring anything for me. I always think it’s a nice touch when a guy shows up with a single rose or something like that. It doesn’t cost much, but it’s just a sign that he’s trying to make an effort. I told Jason this tip and he says most girls love it when he hands them the single rose.
    Larry herds me into the cab, which takes us to a small Italian restaurant in the village. Like every other place in the village, it’s warm and tiny, with most tables seating only two people. Each table has a candle in the middle, which provides most of the light in the restaurant. They must save a fortune on electricity, but when I see the prices on the menu, I see they haven’t passed on any of the savings to the customers.
    “Do you want to get wine for the table?” Larry asks me, when we’re seated.
    “Yes, please,” I say, a little too eagerly.
    When the red wine arrives, Larry and I have barely exchanged two words and I can’t gulp down my glass fast enough. “Good wine,” I comment, trying to smile.
    Larry nods. “Delicious.”
    “It’s, um, fruity.”
    “I suppose,” Larry says, pulling on his tie to straighten it.
    I fiddle with a button on my dress. At that moment, I hear my purse chirp. My cell phone. I reach into my purse and pull out my phone: it’s a message from Jason.   How’s date?
    Of course I told him about the date. How could I not? We have a full-disclosure policy when it comes to first dates.
    Usually I don’t text people at dinner, especially on a date, but I can’t help myself. I say to Larry, “Hang on, this is important.” Then I quickly text,   Disaster.
    A few seconds later, Jason writes back,   Need call?
    During dates, we provide each other with rescue calls if needed. If things are going really awful, Jason will call me with an emergency situation. Everyone does it. And God, I kind of need it right now. But something tells me to try to see this date through to the end, so I write back,   Not yet .
    Jason instantly replies,   OK, standing by.
    Of course, I can’t help but wonder what Melissa is doing while Jason is texting me. It’s Friday night, after all. Presumably they have a standing Friday night date. There’s