Mark Levinstein, a UVA classmate, now a lawyer, invited me to a big party at his house in Falls Church. Sure, I said, suspecting the place would be swimming with eligible yuppies.
It was a bitterly cold night. I slid into some black tights, threw on a white ribbed turtleneck, and finished the look with yet another leather skirt, this one black.
Mark’s undergraduate experience planning university events had clearly paid off. He was a convener—he took pride in the fact that so many friendships and love connections had been forged at his parties. He’d filled the place with booze, soda, and snacks, and created several continuous hours of mixtapes, from Motown to Springsteen.
I was excited about the possibilities. So excited, in fact, I was the first person there. Mark’s girlfriend, Terri, and I went downstairs to the bachelor-pad bar area, perched on some stools Mark and Terri had bought from Ikea and assembled the day before, and did shots of tequila, licking salt off our hands and sucking on wedges of lime.
The place started to fill up…with beautiful blondes fresh out of college. I was a little mad at Mark for stocking the party with them, feeling self-conscious about being 30. So I got to work trying to get noticed.
Fueled with liquid courage, I headed to the pool table, cue in hand, and proceeded to bend over the edge and slide the stick suggestively between my fingers, tented on the felt. Then I strolled around the table and teasingly grabbed the end of someone’s cue as he was about to take a shot. I was teetering precariously between adorable and obnoxious.
As I called the eight ball in the corner pocket like Minnesota Fats, I spotted two guys walking down the stairs. They were both really attractive, but I was drawn to the one with curly brown hair wearing a cocoa-colored fisherman’s sweater. Whenever I tried to look into my future, I envisioned a man with curly brown hair walking down the street, holding the hand of a little girl in a pink tutu—our daughter.
Curly Brown Hair and his friend lingered on the basement steps—strategically, perhaps, holding back and being cool, surveying the scene—then finally made their way down. Emboldened by a what-the-hell attitude, I walked right over. After some perfunctory introductions—the object of my affection was named Jay—I tried something really original. “So, what do you guys do?” I asked.
“I’m a lawyer,” Jay’s friend David said. At Mark’s law firm, Williams & Connolly.
Pretending to stifle a yawn, I turned to Jay. “And you?”
“I’m a painter,” he replied.
“Like an artist?”
“No, I paint houses.”
Intriguing, I thought. “I feel like I’m the oldest person here,” I lamented. “I bet I’m older than both of you.”
Jay bit. “I bet you’re not. Whoever’s wrong has to get the other person a drink.” Jay whipped out his driver’s license. I read the small print: January 9, 1956.
“We almost have the same birthday!” I said. “I was born on January 7th the year after you.”
“I’ll have a beer,” Jay said.
I didn’t want to seem too available, so after a flirty conversation, I played a little more pool, well aware that Jay was watching me. Then I headed upstairs and chatted with someone else, keeping one eye on the basement steps.
Finally he appeared. I went over.
“Are you dating anyone?” I inquired, shamelessly.
“Not really.”
I asked him if he wanted to have lunch sometime. God, I was brazen.
“Maybe,” Jay said.
Soon, he and David headed out the door. I ran after them and gave them my business card—chintzy and thin, printed with a big blue 4 （as in, News 4）。 They both gave me theirs, engraved on thick stock. Yup, Jay was a lawyer at Williams & Connolly too.
“Call me!” I yelled before heading back inside.
I put Jay’s card on my bedside table. I couldn’t stop thinking about his Irish good looks and slightly brooding, Heathcliffian air.
Several days went by with no call. So I decided to call him.
“Jay Monahan.”
“Hi, Jay Monahan, this is Katie Couric. I met you at Mark Levinstein’s party last weekend. We compared driver’s licenses.”
“Of course, hi,” he said, sounding as if he was actually glad to hear from me. “I was going to call you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I guess I didn’t have to.”
Oh, brother, he’s confident. “Would you like to have dinner with me?” I asked. He said sure.