Dating in L.A. with No Nipples

“Hi, I’m Lisa. I’m a single mom, my ex is a felon and I have no nipples. Nice to meet you!”

I’d blurt that out, or some similar introduction with the same bullet points, often within the first five minutes of a date. Usually when my date would ask me to tell them a little bit about myself. And before my date could respond, I’d quickly add, “But other than that, I’m doing great. My daughter and I are doing great!” I’d say it with my glass-half-full smile, trying to convince myself, more than anyone else, that I was ok, while attempting to make my date feel like he’d won the lottery.

This was my small talk, my dating banter. My scars were no longer purely emotional and internal. They were now physically visible. My life had reached a new level of tragic absurdity that was impossible to hide.

If you would have told me a year earlier that this would be my life, I’d say you were completely out of your mind. I’d tell you that I was married for over a decade to a man I knew better than anyone else in the world. I’d tell you we had a beautiful nine-month-old baby girl and my husband was a doting, hands-on father. I’d tell you about all the crazy guys I dated before I met him, and that he was the good guy. Sure, he had his flaws. Sure, we had our ups and downs. But they seemed normal.

Man, was I wrong!

I had never been so wrong.