We got to Denver Sunday night and on Monday, I had a cleverly scheduled date with a songwriter from Boulder. It was cold and crisp and the thin mountain air swirled happily thorugh my lungs.

Monday morning, I decided to take a yoga class, only to discover that I had packed no yoga pants. It seems that even though my luggage was sixteen pounds overweight, I had not a single thing to wear. I did find a jogging top, however, so I decided to run.

I wriggled my waist through the neckhole of a t-shirt to fashion a running skirt. Feeling modest, I threw my retired date dress over my mcgyvered outfit, slid on my five finger shoes, and made my way to the third floor fitness center.

I ran for a mile. I almost died.

I blamed the altitude.


Later, laughing about my high altitude jogging experience, I rifled through my suitcase to figure out what to wear on my date.

Not only had I not packed anything appropriate for yoga, or jogging, I soon discovered that I had neglected to pack anything that matched. I chose my outfit: the beige boots with flowers on them, the pink corduroy skirt I got for three dollars in L.A., a pair brown striped over the knee socks from Christmas a few years back, and a blue t-shirt layered with a black silk underwear top.

There are reasons why I’m single. Denver is making me see this.

I left the safety of my hotel room and ventured into the cold Denver evening.


We met at Osteria Marco, a cute little Italian joint the lady at the dog treat store suggested. And my date was right on time. Very handsome, hippy vibe. He was everything I thought Denver would be, even though he’s from the bubble of Boulder.

There was something about his voice, too. Something familiar and soothing. A grounded calm. He didn’t mind that I looked like a six year old who had dressed herself.

He refused sing the song he was writing about me, though. He said it wasn’t ready.

We were drinking wine and eating, laughing. He was telling me stories about his Volkswagon bus, his travels through Europe, his garden. He started a story about a guy he lived with in Oakland, California, way back when, who made batik t-shirts.

Which was odd, because I knew a guy in Oakland who made batik t-shirts.

His guy had long, black, curly hair and a beautiful girlfriend who tie-dyed silk dresses.

My guy had long black, curly hair and a beautiful girlfriend who tie-dyed silk dresses!

His guy was named Jon.

My guy was named Jon!

Not only did we both knew Jon, but it seemed that we knew each other. Way back when, long ago, in a different, foggy, and hard to remember time.

And so, after a few games of pool, one on which he kindly let me win, I walked him back to his car and watched him become grumpy. He’d figured out that I wasn’t sticking around for too long. I didn’t blame him. Its not often that you knock boots with your past and like what you see.

I didn’t expect when I started this adventure that I’d actually meet people I liked, but San Francisco is holding on to a piece of me, Denver is worming its way into my cold little heart, and Berkeley, sweet Berkeley, is rearing its beautiful/ ugly head once more.

I’m still hoping he’ll sing me that song.

(oh – follow me on twitter! I’m not sure how it works, but I’m @50_dates)

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