Introduction

Either fireside or seaside, you'll want to curl up with Dance me Younger and follow the comedic travels and travails of Susan Kendall, a middle aged woman who is faced with the loss of her glamorous job in a Manhattan ad agency, her fading good looks and the boredom of a 30-year marriage to a famous plastic surgeon. Replaced in her job by a younger woman, Susan flies to Florence on a whim. Desperate to recapture what she fears she has lost, she encourages the flirtations of a young Italian professor and an urbane, handsome waiter. Will this be the first time in Susan's 30-year marriage that her cheating fantasy becomes a reality?

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Excerpt

1: “Now,” Says My Birthday. “Now, Or It Will Be Too Late.”

Momism 1: You are the merchandise. Display it well.

My perfect nose job and I sit on the patio outside La Trattoria al Gatto Nero in Burano. While sipping Prosecco and waiting for my spaghetti vongole I have a chance to look at the surrounding houses. They are rinsed in shades of rose, blue, ochre and lime that present a colorful means for fishermen to find their way home in the fog. The vast display of tints makes this island in the Venetian Lagoon seem suspended from reality, which is a good thing, because I am not alone. For the first time in my 30-year marriage—for the first time—I picked up a man.

You may think I’m sitting on years of unhappiness but that simply is not true. I love my husband, Kevin. Really. We’ve raised two kids and created amazing memories both in and out of the bedroom. Yet I’ve often wondered, secretly of course, what it would be like to have sex with someone else. Maybe you have, too. Maybe you’ve also fantasized about your doctor, your boss, an ex-boyfriend, or, even your grown son’s friend.

Some years these feelings lay dormant, buried beneath our joyful life together. Other times my imagination pushes me to find the courage to embrace something illicit, something to fill in the gap between virginity and marriage. I never do. This year my wish to explore my sensuality seems impossible to control. “Now,” said my birthday. “Now, or it will be too late.”

So here I sit in Italy having lunch with a stranger. He seems relaxed, digging into his risotto of Goby fish while I feel a little awkward. I search my memory for the advice my mother dispensed when I first started dating a lifetime ago. Susan, she’d say, open another button on your blouse, shorten your skirt and put away the book. Don’t let anyone know you’re smart.

Okay, it’s not your typical motherly advice but it’s what I grew up on. Mom was a magnet for men. She loved to draw them into playful conversations, to smile her way into admiration as long as it didn’t interfere with family. It was a game she tried to teach me. It never took. I broke out in red blotches when she flicked her blonde hair, stuck out her chest and enjoyed something that happens between certain men and women.

I didn’t listen to her back then. I don’t know why I open my button today. I don’t understand why I allow the black lace of my new La Perla bra to peek out while I tell myself I am not cheating. It’s lunch, not a date. Mom wouldn’t even lift one eyebrow if she saw me sitting here.

When Mom died I thought the push-pull we shared would evaporate. I would be free to be my bookish self, to stop having to explain I am not hiding behind the word shy. I just don’t enjoy superficial chitchat.

But I missed her. So, long after she passed I clung to her wisdom, her Momisms that continue to surface. Sometimes I imagine she encourages me to flirt, to be more playful or at least engage people in pleasant conversations. It’s not just the goal, she’d say. It’s also the process. More often she reminds me to keep grounded, to be good. That’s when I appreciate her the most.

I am on the edge right now, ready to flip one way or flop the other. I pretend to hear her words as I stare into my new friend’s drop-dead, take-my-breath-away eyes.

Stay faithful, mom says. Stay married. Stay.

I need a break from my private thoughts and I want to escape the power of his eyes so I force myself to shift my gaze, to watch the tourists who stroll in front of our table near narrow canals with boats bobbing in murky water. The tourists pass potted crimson geraniums perched on windowsills between dark wooden shutters and purple and white cyclamen nestled in boxes next to doorways. Here I go, rambling on about colors again but that’s part of what makes Burano so special.

If I were a painter this would be paradise, except I am not a painter. Nor am I a tourist ready to buy Venetian glass, scarves and post cards from souvenir shops. I am not anything right now and I feel naked without the comfort or respect of a label.

I watch a girl across the canal wander down a passage to pose for a photo beneath laundry flapping on a clothesline attached to windows. The alley is narrow enough for her extended arms to touch the houses on both sides. One house is raspberry, the other gold. On the main street an old woman tats garments in front of her lace store. There is no garbage, no misplaced scraps of paper, nothing out of place except me.

The environment is a perfect setting for my husband and me to rejuvenate our relationship, but Kevin is not here. He’s a plastic surgeon (yes, he did my nose) and had to stay in New York to cover a scheduled surgical procedure.

I knew this when I booked my ticket. Plastic surgery is planned months in advance. Patients need to stop aspirin and other meds a few weeks prior to surgery. Of course they also need to allow time afterward for bruises to heal before holidays or migrating to Palm Beach or Palm Springs.

I was the one who decided to start our vacation early––by myself. I checked my husband’s calendar and then bought the tickets. I can only imagine how hurt I would be if Kevin did this to me so I wasn’t surprised that my husband was not happy. Okay, not happy is an understatement. I remember our conversation less than a week ago.

“Susan,” Kevin said with his arms around me, circling me with his love. “Wait just four days so we can go together. It’s easy to change a ticket. Let me switch yours for you.”

At first I agreed. Our lives usually revolve around his schedule and I have a history of giving in. Maybe that’s why he was stunned when a minute later I changed my mind. I must admit I, too, was a bit astounded. It was almost like watching myself in a movie. I didn’t tell him that the thought of being alone in a foreign country without the anchor of business responsibilities or family or friends was too exciting to pass up.

“Kev, you hate to shop,” I said flailing around for an acceptable reason to leave before him, to fly to Italy on my own. “I want to go into every store and try on everything. It takes time to find clothes that fit.”

My reasoning sounded lame but it was all I could come up with. Even if you don’t approve of my flying off like this, if you are a female past fifty I bet you understand what I mean when I complain about my enlarged chest and expanded hips that grew after menopause, another marker separating me from my youth.

In my heightened emotional state I was able to talk myself into believing it was all connected and it all made sense.

“Susan,” Kevin said with his arms still around me, still circling me with his love––or was it an effort to control. “You can shop all you want. I promise I’ll be patient.”

It was a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep, the kind of promise that makes each of us smile at the good intentions. This time it made no difference. Something else was pushing me to grab private moments.

For three months I had been moping around the house, trying to shake off a dull dissatisfaction that was starting to seep into our marriage.

“I want to think about my future away from our everyday life,” I said. “It’s not about us. It’s about me.”

He looked into my eyes, nodding yes, trying to be supportive. We both knew he was clueless. I tried to explain again.

“Perhaps a new environment will help me create a new version of myself.”

“But I like this version,” he said most likely thinking that would solve my problem. His arms were still around me still circling me in his love––or was he trying to make sure he wouldn’t lose me.

“You are so successful and I feel like a parasite.”

“It’s not a competition,” he said. “We’re a family. We’re on the same team.”

I decided to be blunt. “I need some time alone.”

Does it matter that I soon found someone else in Italy to talk to? My new friend is tall and smart, a professor of Italian literature at the University of Bologna. He exudes the joy of a man who believes life will be fine. I marvel at his dancer’s posture with muscles that bulge out of the short sleeves of his black T-shirt. A black leather jacket balances on the back of his chair. Sunglasses dangle from the neck of his shirt. A pack of Marlboros lies on the table.

It adds up to a not-quite-Euro trash look, a caricature from the movie Grease rather than a genuine person, a man in costume copied from an ad for a watch, an exotic fragrance or leather accessory. His full head of black hair that matches his dark Roman eyes reminds me he is young. Very young. What else would you expect?

I, too, am tall—and thin. I try to avoid carbs and count my Weight Watchers points though I haven’t done so well on this plan in Italy. But lets get real here. The reason I don’t look my 55 years is thanks to my husband’s surgical skills. As I mentioned, he did my nose. That was just the first procedure I requested. It was before we were married so I had to pay for it.

I had a mommy makeover––a tummy tuck, after Sean and then Jennifer were born. It hurt until I healed but believe me it was worth it. My breasts have been lifted. Fraxel laser treatments and chemicals have made my face refreshed and smooth while removing those nasty brown spots. My deeper lines near my cheeks have been filled with Restalyne. Belotero Balance® took care of my fine lines and I don’t mind Botox paralyzing my forehead and taking away my expressions.

It sounds like a lot but I didn’t overdo it. Really. Compared to some other women, my cosmetic work has been mild.

Despite what I see in the mirror, men have stopped noticing me. When I walk down Madison Avenue with my son and his girlfriend, more than one guy has bumped into me. I laugh. I say it’s no big deal. I lie as I watch him gaze at the beautiful younger woman in six-inch heels or wedges, his head turned so his eyes can follow her until she crosses the street, perhaps to become his fantasy later that evening.

It’s no better when I walk by myself. Attempting eye contact and shooting out smiles to strangers no longer brings a warm response. Somewhere between my 50th and 55th birthdays I became invisible.

Maybe if I wore my restaurant shoes, the footwear that I save to go from our apartment to a taxi to a restaurant, it would be different. Mom used to love to show off her long legs in high heels. At my age I know shoes alone would not do anything beyond aggravating my bunions.

I have so much good fortune in my life you probably wonder why I care about brief attention from strangers. You might accuse me of turning into my mom or criticize me for being shallow.

I’m not sure why such meaningless overtures make me smile. I think I just miss me, the familiar person I grew up with, the one who excelled in sports and music and worked hard to develop a strong career. Later I balanced hectic workdays with the equally hectic demands of being a mom. That’s all gone now. Every day a little bit more of me fades until I hardly recognize myself.

This past year was the worst. Three months ago I was Director of Public Relations at one of New York’s top advertising agencies, writing press releases about cola commercials and our merger, uneasy as I glossed over the names of friends who were fired, part of a surplus of employees when two companies merge into just one.

The next day I was sitting with the Head of Human Resources, as useless as outdated yogurt. Most of the time I don’t talk about my early retirement but if I must, I whisper E.R. as if mouthing initials for the words will lessen the impact and conquer depression or erase the restless feeling I live with.

What should I do after I wake up? More charity work? Another book club? Bridge? Mahjong? Golf? What about my closet full of designer suits? Should I wear them to the supermarket? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. SUSAN WENT THROUGH A CRISIS AS AN EMPTY NESTER WHO ALSO LOST HER JOB. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE TO REINVENT YOURSELF?

2. SHORT OF CONSUMMATING SEX, HOW FAR DOES ONE GO TO BE CONSIDERED A CHEATER?

3. MANY CHARACTERS LEFT OUT IMPORTANT FACTS. DO YOU CONSIDER SUCH OMISSIONS LIES AND HOW DOES THAT AFFECT HOW YOU TRUST SOMEONE?

4. PLASTIC SURGERY AND COSMETIC PROCEDURES HAVE BECOME MORE POPULAR IN RECENT YEARS. WOULD YOU CONSIDER SUCH PROCEDURES? HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF YOUR SPOUSE DID THE SAME?

5. WE ALL AGE. WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO REVITALIZE YOURSELF AS YOU GET OLDER?

6. AT WHAT AGE DO PEOPLE NEED TO FIND THEMSELVES? HOW IS IT DIFFERENT WHEN ONE IS OLDER COMPARED TO WHEN ONE IS YOUNGER?

7. WE ALL CARRY MEMORIES OF OUR PARENTS AFTER THEY DEPART. WHAT INFLUENCE DOES YOUR MOTHER OR FATHER CONTINUE TO HAVE ON YOUR LIFE THOUGH YOU NO LONGER LIVE TOGETHER? WHAT ARE SOME “MOMISMS” OR SAYINGS MOM HANDED DOWN?

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