Dream Date with Adonis

by Molly Undercover on August 19, 2017

A dream date so unwordly that afterward I’m unsure that it really happened.

The opposite of dating horror stories; on a dream date, you feel like a million bucks, and your date seems equally delighted. Like the best dreams, it stands alone, carrying no obligation to the future and needing no memory of the past. While I want to recount dates like this to all my closest friends and family at length, the audience of who actually cares is limited. For the married, it might invoke annoyance. My single friends might misconstrue and think I’m engaging in obnoxious one-upmanship. But really, I’m just excited. I want to re-hash this all, caught up in the romance and fantasy of it. I suppose it is part of sorting out what affairs and relationships all mean to me, now that I’m a newly single mom. So here goes:

James Dean + a satyr + a Greek god = Adonis 

This dream date story involves ‘Adonis’ (at least that’s what I’ll call him). Adonis is a dashing, motorcycle-riding, vintage-car restoring pilot; he’s my age, but an old soul. He is a poet, a painter, dancer and musician. He’s splendid, with a confident swagger, broad shoulders, strong jaw, perfect stubble, luscious lips, and multicolored green-blue-brown eyes. He’s a muse, who inspires me to live an elegant, beautiful life. And, just the way I like it these days, he’s not looking for anything committed or serious. When we are not together, we don’t talk or text much (I have my friends for that!) and there are no promises. Just the present moment, which is, for me and for now, perfect.

It was to be our second date. The afternoon of the planned date, he texted to say that he really felt like flying in his meticulously restored vintage plane, and would I like to join? Terrifying, but come on! Who says no to an offer like that? Plus, he’d been a legitimate pilot for twenty years. I trusted he’d keep us alive, and if we did crash and die, at least I’d be having an amazing time with a hot guy in the process. There are worse ways to go.

Getting ready for a good date is approximately 55% of the fun.

I called just before we were to meet, to ask if there were any clothing requirements for flying. He said no, and I decided on something timeless, and not too restrictive, that I hoped would match the old Cessna: dark, flared, high-waisted jeans, a bright colored sleeveless top with a cute peter pan collar, and strappy red sandals. He asked me to hold off for a few more minutes so he could better groom his magnificent self. “I like to look good and be clean, just for myself. Even if someone beautiful wasn’t about to come over I’d feel the same. . . ” he joked. Maybe overly smooth, but Adonis has got game, I’ll give him that.

I arrived at apartment, an old victorian place full of patina. His artwork, books, musical instruments, and antique furniture filled the high-ceilinged rooms. He offered a drink. I held off, for now, and he wouldn’t drink yet either, because he’d have to fly. Driving in his car to the small airport, we conversed about passionate living, death, and friendship. He quoted Kerouac. It was truly an inspired exchange. I LOVE a good conversation. If that conversation had been the whole date, it would have been a dream in itself! But that wasn’t the end at all, it continued to develop like a seven-course meal. . . . 

The airport was bathed in early summer dusk light. First, he performed what appeared to be a quite serious safety inspection of the very sexy airplane he’d restored to mint condition over a decade with his dad and best friends. He then showed me around. As he nerded out over the aged Cessna, I could sense his slightly obsessive love for it. I was touched that he’d share this part of his life with me. In a move that I thought was quite considerate, he took some time to explain the science behind how tough it would be to crash the thing.  

A confident and fearless woman. . . 

Each laying hold of a wing, we pushed the craft out to the open field beside the runway. It was so fun to feel the weight of it and heave with my weight against it to get it rolling. We did a couple selfies together with the plane under the big sky. He then snapped about a hundred pictures of me on my phone with the airplane, ‘for your grandchildren to see what a confident and fearless woman their grandmother was’ he said. I have to admit, I basked in the attention. I now have the souvenirs of this experience, great photos that he later spent some time cropping and filtering to just how he liked them. These are helpful when I’m wondering if I dreamt it all!. 

We went up, and not only did he show off, flying for a bit, but as an instructor, he gave me a chance to take the controls as well. This was a thrilling, magical broadening of perspective on my region and myself. As I observed him in his element, I also began to learn what a physical and mental and dance it is to fly a vintage small craft. I felt enchanted. For me, learning something new and getting out of my own element is my comfort zone. It makes me feel alive! He decided he wanted to try landing on grass, and warned that it could feel bumpy but would be fine. As it turned out, the landing was one of the most graceful things I’ve ever experienced in a plane. I hopped out, full of adrenaline and blissed out. Waiting in the wide open field while he shut some things down, I burst into a free, ranging, dance, leaping, turning, and cartwheeling. (When I’m a happy camper, open spaces naturally do that to me.) It’s been a tough few years, going through divorce and before that, an awful struggle of a dying relationship. Dancing freely like that, that’s the real me. I haven’t seen that part of me much during these rough times. I felt at that moment, I was thriving. I felt so alive, and grateful for the experiences we’d just shared that helped me remember my awesomeness.

It continued to unfold back at his apartment. 

Back at his apartment, there was just enough red wine and good lighting to make me feel like a goddess. We sang together. He played guitar; he sang songs I didn’t know, too, with a gusto that gave me a feeling of permission to wildly express myself in this little world we were creating. At a few points, he’d thrust a harmonica or a violin at me to solo (both of which I happened to used to love to play a million years ago when I was in high school). I played very badly, but he was charmed. We danced together and he lifted me in the air. We went outside and played in the pouring rain like toddlers. We ordered food in, middle eastern. We had incredible conversations about philosophy, work, jealousy, and more. He serenaded me in candlelight, a song he’d written on his guitar. 

I left many hours after the date had begun, feeling I’d been swept up in a spell.

By that time, I was pretty convinced that I am a captivating princess witch who can fly, and who should always and forever be treated, toasted and entertained with no less passion, skill and beauty than I had been that night. Any argument or thought to the contrary was pure delusion! And why not? I’m pretty special. I am basically ruined for average dates now. Thanks a lot, Adonis! Up your game, dudes!!

I savor my memories and photos from this night. (I’d show the pics to you, but then I’d have to kill you). Adonis, you have inspired me so much! The’re one thing bothering me. Does it take a lovely man to make me feel so alive? Why can’t I find that feeling on my own? Why can’t I learn to inspire others as much or more than Adonis had inspired me? I’d like to learn to bring facets of our pleasant dream into my waking single life, to become my own muse and inspiration. To, increasingly, live my single mama life with the sophistication and passion I see in you, dear Adonis.

Anyways, thanks readers, for doing what you do, and letting me tell you my dream date story. And please stoke my romantic notions. Tell me your dream dates, please, in the comments!


Molly Undercover

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