I restrategized. Instead of smartly walking myself to a shrink to examine why my self-worth was intrinsically tied to how I measured up, I was determined to find a husband — the clear route to a baby. With friends, I’d scour the city’s male-heavy locales. Late nights at a smoke-filled cigar bar netted me nothing more than the card of a CPA whose ring finger clearly had the tan line of a wedding band. I would hit buckets of golf balls, badly, at Chelsea Piers to no effect. New York City’s eligible bachelors didn’t want to settle down with me. Why would they when they could be kissing the neck of a 19-year-old Croatian model at the Dream Hotel?
I networked tirelessly with my business contacts to send eligible men my way. Miraculously, one of the TV anchors I’d known set me up with a CEO I’d actually placed on my show at Bloomberg. It seemed like divine providence. Just weeks into dating, he was asking if I wanted a family, if I’d move for love. He lived in San Diego, but promised we’d always have a New York apartment. “Would you mind being bicoastal?” he asked? “Not at all,” I shrugged, pinching myself. There is a Santa, Virginia.
Unlike other men, this one gave me attention. Maybe too much. He was upset on the nights I wanted to burrow alone in my Tudor City apartment with an indie movie and Thai 51 takeout. When I needed a night off, I’d lie and say I had a work commitment. One night he caught me. “How was your dinner downtown?” he asked. “Fine.” I replied. “I walked by your apartment and could see you watching TV. Why would you lie?”
Instead of questioning why he would stare into my windows, my twisted sense of self found it flattering. He might be the jealous type, but damn it, he loves me. In just four months, I was engaged.