The last time I went on a first date Bob Hawke was Prime Minister, Liam Hemsworth was being born, Madonna was singing Vogue on the radio, Macaulay Culkin was being left Home Alone and Kevin Costner was Dancing with Wolves. It was a long time ago people.

 

To be honest I’ve never been great at the dating game. On one of my first few dates with my husband I decided to cook him dinner. To this day I am amazed at my unbridled optimism, the fact I couldn’t really cook didn’t deter me.

I was making my famous chicken in white wine sauce and almonds, one of the best dishes on the menu at the Oriental Pub in Mudgee when I was growing up. Unfortunately I put the oil on to heat up to cook the crumbed chicken, when one of our navy mates called , I’m not sure if he was ringing to talk to me or Simon, but forever after I said he wanted to talk to Simon which then meant I could blame Simon for the disaster that followed.

You know what happened don’t you? I got distracted. The oil caught fire and I then lost a number of teatowels in the fight to smother the flames which were starting to get quite high.

The flat was filled with smoke, so thick you could barely see. At that moment Simon knocked on the door. I opened it, smoke billowing out around me, he stood there looking bewildered with wine in one hand and flowers in the other.

“Christ, what’s happened?”

“It’s OK, the flames are out, it’s just smoke now, it will clear, come on in”.

It was his chance to run, and any sensible person would have, but he didn’t, he hung around for the next 24 years. Thereby ending my need to ever date again. Or so I thought.

But then he was gone. I was a widow in my mid forties.

The thought of dating never entered my mind. I was too busy crying myself to sleep (on the nights I could sleep), trying to help my daughters recover from the loss of a man they adored and figuring out how we were all going to survive financially.

Remember in the early days of our loss when I took myself off to psychic to see if I could have a few words with the dead husband? I shared how Simon wanted me to call his mum, keep on decluttering and that he was proud of us. What I didn’t tell you at the time was the psychic kept wanting to talk about a new relationship I was going to have. I thought she had lost her mind, how the hell was I going to start a new relationship I had a lot of s*** to deal with, the last thing I needed was another person in my life wanting my time and attention. She kept insisting it was somebody from my past. I kept telling her there was nobody from my past I would hook up with again.

Well fast forward four years, I’m still not looking for a relationship. But then a Facebook notice pings and the Shambolic Living Facebook Page  has a new follower. The dude from past has arrived.

Suddenly I’m 18 again, in my first year living away from home falling for this funny, easygoing guy who three years later would provide me with one of those great “sliding door” moments of life. He told me from the very beginning he was getting out of the Navy and going back to live in his hometown in Victoria. Then he does it. I’m 21, I’ve just started working in radio, my dream job, I’m hellbent on having a career, I’m a country-girl absolutely loving living in the big city of Sydney. I stay.

Then here we are 30 years later chatting on this new fangled social media thing. The messages are easy and comfortable. It feels just like 1987 in our flat in Randwick with no furniture, sitting on the floor eating take away talking about anything and everything.

There’s been death, divorce, kids, cancer, life has been spectacular and tragic in equal parts.

We decide it would be nice to catch up in person, he can get a cheap flight into a nearby city which is only a couple of hours drive for me. It sounds like a good plan.

Then at three in the morning I get cold feet. I send him a lengthy email detailing just why this would be a really bad idea. People don’t meet up with their exes 30 years later, that’s just silly. I have a lot of baggage, not least the fact my last relationship didn’t exactly have any closure.

He patiently responds to every one of my concerns. Then, as he has a habit of doing, simplifies it. “It’s just dinner with an old friend”. When you put it like that.

So that’s how I ended up in a posh restaurant about to make a complete fool of myself.

I don’t eat out much at night, did you know restaurants have become very pretentious, with two lots of sitting times? You go to the early sitting and have to be out by 8.00pm or you can go to the later sitting where you have to wait for all the people who lied about being willing to get the hell out by 8.00pm to linger over their coffee while the waiter hovers, removing every last item off their table save for the coffee cups they are desperately clutching.

I’ve opted for the later sitting. So we hang around chatting until we are actually allowed to have a table. The place is incredibly noisy and we say “pardon” to each other a lot. The food is great though.

The conversation face-to-face is just as easy as on messenger. We surprise each in some parts. The career girl became a stay-at-home mum for ten years, the good-time guy settled down with a family and landed a secure job he kept for the entire 30 years! But there is a familiarity there. A laugh, a turn of phrase, a smile that reminds of a time long, long, ago.

So far I’m not doing too bad,  but then the bill is paid and it’s time to depart. I promise I had only had one glass of wine. To leave the restaurant there are a lot of very steep concrete stairs and very little lighting. Although frankly lighting wouldn’t have helped.

We head down the stairs and on the second step down my cheap shoes with little tread let me down. My front foot slides off the step, suddenly the rest of my body is following my wayward foot. I am in full tumble, hands in the air, smashing down step after step, it’s all happening in slow motion and there’s not a damn thing I can do to save myself. My body contorts it’s way over the steps until I reach a wider landing, at which point my head cracks onto the concrete, but at least I’ve stopped moving.

My date is deeply concerned, trying to work out if I’m conscious, do I need an ambulance? I’ve drawn some attention from the diners at a restaurant at the bottom of the stars – really should have booked in there.

He does a very good job of gathering me, and my shoes which have flipped off, and my handbag and all it’s contents which have fallen out in the joyflight. Turns out he’s not bad at first aid too. He finds ice packs, cleans out the cuts to head and knees and applies antiseptic cream. He feels bad he didn’t catch me, but really the two of us ending up in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs would have been a real bummer, somebody had to be capable of dealing with the injuries.

The headache is pretty horrendous the next day, the bruising is magnificent and lasts for a couple of weeks and my knee still gets a bit wonky occasionally. But I have had my first date in 25 years. Go me!

It appears though I tend to pick blokes who don’t give up easily. Despite the evening ending in a glorious display of uncoordinated aerobatics and multiple injuries he did decide to visit again. Although, he’s still nervous being out after dark with me and insists on holding on to me very tightly on any stairs we have to venture onto.

Frankly, I think I’m proven no matter what century it is, dating is just plain dangerous where I’m involved.

Make me feel better. Tell me you have a disastrous date story and share it with me. Please.