No Coincidences but the Timing of Fate

It was a somewhat jarring coincidence when I first learned that the charming, intellectually fierce and sexy man who’d written me on the internet dating site was Jewish, 5’9” and a San Francisco divorcee named Rob – the exact "profile" of my ex husband.

I later discovered that this new Rob man, however, spelled his name with an extra B at the end. WELL, I thought. THANK GOD. A SIGN THAT I AM NOT “repeating old behavior” or suffering from “repetition compulsion”. Plus, this new Robb was a tawny brunette, had hazel eyes, and was 48 – and my ex husband Rob was tawny brunette with hazel eyes and 44 when I met him. Another differentiation. And ex Rob was 60 now. Another GALAXY of Robs.

Although Rob and Robb had both fast tracked into my life through immediately praising my brain, my writing, my exotic look and my swagger, this, I knew was just because they both GOT me. And because of this, yea. I immediately felt the same way about them. That, I reasoned was now a GOOD thing. Now even more, I deserved to be with a man who GOT me. They both gave me the immediate sense of thrilled urbanity. But the resemblances ABSOLUTELY ended there.

As Robb ardently pursued me and we spoke on the phone and emailed, it became crystal clear that this man was a breath of fresh air, a CEO, bright, at the top of his game. And now I was certainly an altogether different woman than the naïf that I was in 2000, and this was not some new age pinhead karmic “test” of some sort – not a cosmic game of musical electric chairs. I had written a book my divorce from Rob, for God’s sake. It was all cauterized out of my system. And since I felt nothing for my ex any longer, I knew I’d fully and truly learned that lesson on how to spot the bad ones. I.e,: Never get with charming sexy Jewish men who are 5’9” and compensate for their unnecessary insecurity about height by serial fucking shiksas for 30 years, women who will never be sweet and petite and submissive enough for them, not even if they are Thumbelina.

I took absolute absolution from the curse of the previous, disparate Robs.

And imagine my delight when my date, Robb, showed up at my door tonight, just as handsome as ever and made me feel like I was walking on air. I mean, just a good, solid, wicked funny and dry non-practicing Jew. (Rob had never practiced either. Who does? I mused, pouring us each a Mojito with cracked ice and fresh mint.)

One hour turned into four, and before I knew it he had nearly charmed the very pants off me. I can’t say I gave him much of a struggle. The man was really unique. A boylike grin, smooth skin, a thick head of hair at 48, and a way of wearing a crisp, pinstriped dress shirt with jeans that spoke of endless fashion combinations. And yet I felt I kind of knew him, you know? We’d just followed a very civilized and sweet path to what I now see as an inevitable social juncture. We were on the floor of my living room, making out in our underpants. (At some point we decided the couch was too small and had moved to the larger venue of the Persian rug.) We fell on each other like animals, but also very urbane and simply done. Our bodies just seemed to fit together, since we were both roughly the same size. In fact, you could lay a transparency of me and Rob and Robb on a light board and there would only be a few differences around the shoulders and waist, and the fact that my legs were longer than all four of theirs combined. Uncanny. I chuckled at the absurdity of the coincidence, as meaningless as it was. Because this Robb man was a CEO and he was 48, and…well why belabor it? That was then, this was now.

His iphone rang at one AM. And again at 2 AM. I thought it was my iphone! Boy was I relieved when I realized it was his iphone. Whew. (Because, you know, I am dating more than one guy. You know, because dashing, successful Jewish men need to be kept on their TOES. I’d had another BF when I first got with Rob, too. But where is that BF now? For that matter, where is my first husband? Not that it mattered. I had my shit WIRED, now….except, I thought-- who calls with perfect assurance at 1 AM and again at 2AM to a presumably unmarried and childless CEO? I Trashed that question CLEAN OUT of my brain. Until after he’d gone. Then it leapt right the FUCK out of the Trash and into NEW MAIL. But I digress.)

So last night when Robb and I embraced in parting at my front door, it was now 2 AM. And I hadn’t let him have actual intercourse with me or oral sex either, even though I have to say that now we were down to our underwear, it was obvious that he was hung like Paul Bunyon. But I stayed pure, and as demure as a woman can get in Victoria’s Secret Intimates, and bare feet. More progress, more growth.

‘Goodbye,” he said firmly. And walked to his SUV and slipped into the night.

I stood there, a sly smile frozen on my face.

GOODBYE?

OH MY GOD.

Instantly, I was transported back to the night when husband Rob had stood in the same theatrical spot, had hit that same fucking mark, and said “Goodbye, Darling” and beelined to Valhalla with his cheerleader paramour.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK I chanted.

I could hear the high, shrill laughter of the gods, and Jesus just tearing his hair out. I had FAILED THE TEST, AGAIN. WHEN THE MUSIC STOPPED; I HAD SAT DOWN IN THE ELECTRIC CHAIR AGAIN.

I was kind of choking and laughing at myself, but mostly just HORRIFIED at what had happened. And I was sober THE WHOLE TIME. I had nothing to blame this on, except my own blind vanity and ignorance of the same laws that had shoved me in the padded divorce slammer years ago.

I took a long swig of emergency Hanger One Mandarin Vodka from the freezer bottle. It had the immediate effect of rubber mallet to the head. Better. Surprisingly better.

Now, there was nothing to do but pick up my dress and shoes and turn out the lights. In the morning, it would not seem better, I knew. It would seem dramatically worse. Because I wouldn’t even have the sexual afterglow I was now enjoying the last remnants of. Yes. God hates me, angels fucketh with me, and there is no justice or learning to be had. Ever.

That’s when I saw it, laid out flat and smooth on my dining room table.

A watch.

A man’s watch.

A man’s sapphire crystal Victorinox Swiss Army Maverick II Watch.

Robb’s watch. He'd forgotten it. Immediately, I was filled with something like salvation - and a bright, joyous greed.

I walked quickly to my front door, flipping the deadbolt shut and killing the outside porch light.

Inside, swathed in black lace boys cut hipsters and a silk camisole, I slipped the large, solid Swiss timepiece on my wrist, a wide grin spreading across my flushed face. I buckled it. Then, in the mirror, I held my wrist up to my long, dark hair, brushing it casually to one side as I moistened my lips. It looked fucking amazing.

And suddenly, the whole world was righted again. JUST LIKE THAT.

I logged onto the Swiss Army website. Model 2135, retail price $350. Available only from Canada and the US.

Or, by courtesy of Fate.