There had already been relentless hand-wringing in the media about the ways the women’s movement had supposedly backfired. The thinking was that all of this hard-won self-sufficiency was making us anxious, lonely—maybe even infertile （a whole laundry list of woes methodically debunked in Susan Faludi’s 1991 book Backlash）。
But nothing struck a nerve quite like a Newsweek article in June of 1986 with the blaring headline “The Marriage Crunch.” Right there on the cover was a graph indicating that a woman’s chances of getting married plummet as she ages （and pretty much flatline after her thirties）。 The story inside, “Too Late for Prince Charming?,” put it more colorfully: Women over 40 “are more likely to be killed by a terrorist than to get married.”
Two decades later, Newsweek actually apologized for the article’s faulty research and analysis. But at the time, it was a shot through the heart of single women everywhere, including me. I bought a T-shirt that was all the rage among us working girls, featuring a Roy Lichtenstein damsel in distress with the thought bubble I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. I FORGOT TO HAVE CHILDREN!
Around that time, Cassie Mackin, the ABC correspondent I’d idolized, died of cancer at 43. I remember watching her funeral on TV. VIPs like Ted Kennedy, Frank Reynolds, and David Brinkley carried her coffin. No husband or children in sight.
Perhaps that was her choice. But the scene helped clarify my choice: yes, a career. And a husband and kids too.
13
Finding Ted
TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK. I was in my late twenties and I knew I had to put myself out there. That meant saying yes to everyone, even men I was certain would never be the father of my children. In other words, even Larry King.
I was at a reception at Duke Zeibert’s on L Street, the late, lamented power-lunch mecca of presidents, lobbyists, and pro athletes. I spotted the CNN host, in his trademark aviators and suspenders, moseying over, which might have had something to do with the chocolate-brown leather skirt I was wearing. We chatted, and at some point he said, “Can I take you out to dinner?”
“Sure,” I said. Why not? Larry was already a big player on-and off-screen with a slew of ex-wives. A pretty fascinating character, and I was eager to pick his brain.
I looked down from my ninth-floor apartment at 1100 Connecticut Avenue and saw a black sedan snake into the circular driveway. As I slid into the passenger seat, I was greeted by the smooth sounds of Jack Jones on the tape deck. （Yes, I’m that old.）
We headed to a posh Italian place on K Street. The ma?tre d’ sat us next to each other at a table by the wall, an arrangement you often see in the dark corners of romantic restaurants—a middle-aged man hip to hip with his “niece.”
I asked Larry what it was like at CNN now, hosting his popular talk show Larry King Live. Our media chitchat was mixed with daughterly concern about my dinner partner’s health; Larry was 24 years older than me and had recently come through quintuple-bypass surgery. He ordered veal poached in chicken broth and ate it with gusto. Nothing gets a single gal’s juices flowing quite like a man slurping a heart-healthy dish and splattering it all over the napkin tucked into his collar.
After dinner, we got back in the sedan. Suddenly I saw that we were making our way across Memorial Bridge, in the opposite direction of Connecticut Avenue.
“Where are we going?” I asked, a little croaky from all the conversation.
“My place!” Larry exclaimed, a little croakier.
Mayday! Mayday! Dear Cosmo: My dinner date is an aging horn dog and he’s detouring me to his place. How do I extricate myself, stat?
We pulled into his parking garage in Rosslyn and headed to his apartment. Inside, I was greeted by the biggest brag wall ever: keys to cities great and small, commendations, photos with the rich, famous, and infamous everywhere.
Larry invited me to sit on the sofa. I was trying to figure out an exit strategy when suddenly—boom!—the lunge. The tongue. The hands.
The whole scene was such a cliché, I began to laugh and gently pushed him away. “Larry, you are so nice and I enjoyed getting to know you,” I said. “But I’m really interested in meeting someone a little closer to my age.”
Deflation—on all levels. He stopped what he was doing.
Then he got up, grabbed his car keys, and smiled. “No problem,” Larry said. “But when I like, I really like.”
Duly noted.
Larry and I were one and done. Every time we ran into each other in the years that followed, it gave us a big laugh.
THE SEARCH FOR Ted was on. That’s what my friend Carmela called my imaginary future husband.