You Know You’re Gonna Have Problems When….

I had a first date for lunch yesterday. As most of you know who read my blog regularly, I’ve had a lot of first dates in the past three years. When other women look at me aghast, I smile smugly and say, with all honesty, that I’ve never had a bad time on a date. I huff on my nails and polish them on my sweater and say sweetly, “I can find something to enjoy in just about anyone.”

That is true. I can. I pride myself on my ability to see glittering diamonds inside any hardened chunk of coal.

Truth be told, I am hesitant to write this story. Part of me wants to describe instead the contra dance experience over the past two Mondays. It’s a more pleasant topic, has more bearing in the lives of most of my readers, and doesn’t generate negative Karma, which this story might. But it’s funny, and you know me…

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when you are a naturally talkative woman and the first time the guy calls you, you can’t get a word in edgewise.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when you tell a guy about a fictional story you wrote about baseball where it turns out that baseball was invented by a woman and the guy says “NO, YOU ARE WRONG! BASEBALL COULD HAVE NEVER BEEN INVENTED BY A WOMAN!” and continues on to give you a ten minute dissertation on the DOCUMENTED origins of baseball, despite your repeated attempts to clarify that the story you wrote was FICTION!!!!

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when you have to change your seat in the restaurant three times because regardless of the angle, your still don’t like the looks of your date.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when within 15 minutes of meeting him, he gives you the complete list of every medication he is taking, including side effects, generic equivalents and comparative costs.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when your date explains that his hands shake because of all the medications he takes.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when your date disclosed to you before lunch even arrives that he is bipolar, as is his ex wife, his mother, his daughter, and he thinks it might be contagious.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when your date casually mentions that he has filed for bankruptcy numerous time, has taken a job as a dishwasher at Ruby Tuesdays, and cannot afford basic cable.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when your date gives you a line by line dissertation of the screenplays of not only the Godfather, but Goodfellas, because he is Sicilian and you need to be able to understand him.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when your date does not ask you one single question about what you do, where you’re from or how you spend your time.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when he spends fifteen minutes describing to you in detail the exact moment he knew he was going to divorce his god damn bitch of an ex wife.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when your date gives his order to the waitress then engages her in a ten minute monologue about the Godfather, and you haven’t even ordered yet.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when he insists that the waitress take a picture of the two of you holding hands at the table, and you really don’t want to even touch him.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when as you are casually checking your watch, counting the minutes you still have to endure before you can politely leave, you look up and your date’s face appears miraculously in your peripheral vision, waiting to give you your “first kiss”, and you immediately worry about losing your lunch.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when he suggests that the next date be spent at either his apartment or at your place, because he can’t afford to go out.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when your date looks expectantly at you when the check arrives, then gallantly offers to split it with you as you reach for your debit card.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when the truth of the matter is that you just didn’t like him, and it’s obvious that he likes you and you HATE to hurt other people’s feelings.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when you recognize another lonely person when you see one, and you know you can’t do anything at all to help them.

You know you’re gonna have problems on a first date when it occurs to you as you walk back to your office that the wonderful first date you had a week ago hasn’t called you and maybe he’s sitting at home right now compiling his own list….

Dancing Shoes

I met a guy. Last night. He took me dancing. Contra dancing. We met at a Peruvian restaurant on Rt. 4, and when I walked in 7 minutes late, I looked right at him and fell in love. Ok, maybe it’s just lust. Probably it’s just lust, but I looked at him and I LIKED him. Right away. No dancing around. That came later. I liked what I saw.

He hugged me. We’d been corresponding on Yahoo Personals, and then via regular email. He’s a Quaker/Pagan or Quagan as he coined himself. He lives in Finneytown, has a daughter he obviously adores, is quirky, is articulate, is intelligent, is single, is an ardent feminist and he loves to dance. When I walked in the door, he got up out of his chair and he hugged me. Didn’t shake my hand. Hugged me.

We had a lovely dinner, sampling each other’s entrees, describing our children, touching on our respective careers, and all the while, I watched his mouth move around his words and I imagined kissing him. He said that his passion is dancing, that he’s been doing it for ten years, that he danced for a long time with his daughter. I sighed with longing.

Ok, so maybe I’m not a natural dancer. But I love doing it. He danced the last waltz with me and it was ethereal. I don’t know how to waltz, but he taught me. Sort of. Anyway, he moved me around the floor and I don’t think I stepped on his toes at all that time. I imagined my ball gown, green satin, foaming around my legs and the tiny splash of sequined color from my dancing slippers as he twirled me across the dance floor. I imagined him in a black tux and patent leather shoes and I didn’t look down at my feet even once, except for when he told me to so that he could describe what it was we were doing. I was a little embarrassed because it was out in the middle of the dance floor and the music was playing and the other dozen or so couple were gliding smoothly across the glistening hardwood and there he was asking me to look at my feet so he could explain what I was doing wrong. When he told me that he was going to put his leg in between my legs, I thought I was going to orgasm. I wonder if he would have noticed.

At the end, as he was slipping on his Birkenstock sandals (don’t cha just love a man who wears Birkenstock sandals?) he pulled out his business card and noted the number if I ever wanted to leave a message because he almost never checks the messages on his cell number. I gave him my card, refraining from pointing out to him that I check my messages every hour, regardless of the telephone number.

He walked me to my car and hugged me again. No kiss. No request to see me again. Just a hug and a thank you for a lovely evening.

I wonder if I’ll see him again. I dreamed about him last night, and in my dream last night, he asked me out again, and he kissed me and he left no doubt that the attraction I felt was mutual. With the morning light and the empty email box, I wonder how much I imagined and how much I dreamed and how much was real in the moonlight last night.

He noted in his emails that he is not a traditional romance kind of guy, that he was raised by an ardent feminist and has embraced the feminist way of thinking, and has rejected the patriarchal concepts of western dating. But….he loves dancing, ballroom dancing, the kind where the guy is in charge, where the girl plays a definitively passive role and takes her cues from the pressure he puts on her back.

I’ve come too far over the past three years to backslide into my natural aggressiveness when it comes to romance. I have honed the craft of nonchalance and I will not be the one to pick up the phone or type in his email address. It just doesn’t work like that anymore.

I don’t care what his words say about feminism, his actions say that the dance is the dance, and it has taken years to define how that works. I’m not taking any chances with my mental health or his ego.

Oh, but it was nice to meet someone I like. It was nice to feel the thud of excitement when I caught his eye, me in the arms of a stranger and him still a stranger across the room. It was nice to feel the anticipation of what might happen, what I hoped to happen. I look forward to the possibility of really saying goodnight, instead of worrying about his feelings if I just want to be friends.

I don’t know where this goes from here. I don’t know if it goes anywhere. I refuse to think of this as anything but a delightful change of pace. But if he asks me out again, I’m going to have to find a different pair of shoes.

I’m going to have to go find a pair of dancing shoes.

The Dance

It’s fall, I can feel the heaviness in the leaves as they consider clinging to the trees. I know that feeling; the acceptance of what is inevitable, but the desire to hold on just a few moments longer, nonetheless. I can sense that the leaves share my reticence.

Yet they dance on their way to the piles at my feet. They hesitate, but when they let go, when they finally feel the pull so strongly they can cling no longer, they embrace the letting go and dance, dance, dance in a wild abandon last hurrah before they are returned to the garden refuse from whence they came.

I have been feeling romantic about two men this year, this year that I designated as the year I gave my heart a rest. No searching for love, no heart trauma, no resuscitation on a Saturday night required, no disappointment….and no pinnacles of ecstasy, either. I rested from both spectrums. The romance I carried on with both men was easy and relaxed, not because they both adored me, but because I kept my emotions in check. I kept control. I did not give it away, give it away, give it away.

Disappointment? Sure. I tried to break up with both of them in March and I shed a few tears, some angry, some sad, but no great gulping waterfalls…just a few sprinkles driving down I71. I acquiesced on both accounts, deciding to let the universe make my romantic decisions for 2006, because after all, I was taking a break.

As fall approaches, I find myself feeling restless again, wanting to find a friendly body to keep me warm through the upcoming cold. Neither of these men can perform that function. One of them is married to his work, the other one is married to another city. Realizing that sometimes just going along is a decision in and of itself, smacked me in the face recently.

I don’t think I want to just go along anymore.

I like both men. They both make me laugh. One of them is extraordinarily tall and handsome, but shallow and selfish. The other one is extraordinary kind and giving, but they both are, for all intents and purposes, unavailable. I have sipped at the stream and drunk my fill of unavailable, and am ready to head across the meadow to greener pastures. Warmer pastures. Pastures with grass offered up to me, and only me.

Letting go is not as easy as it seems it should be.

Imagine, my gentleman readers, how difficult it would be, if a perfectly proportioned, model lovely blonde, cooed in your ear protestations of love and excitement, but frequently broke dates with you, went for days without calling, and could only discuss in depth the accomplishments of her profession and associated accumulations of wealth. At some point, if one has a certain depth of character himself, might a man also get to the point where enough is enough and cast her aside, cascading blondeness and perfect behind be gone?

Conversely, were the woman lovely, accomplished in all the talents of cooking and conversation and conjugal relations, but could only accompany you every six weeks or so…and made it clear that what she gave was all you could ever expect, would you not eventually get to the point where enough is enough and cast her aside, apple pie and creative casseroles and weekend retreats be gone?

Not as easy as I would like, indeed.

I think it’s time.

I have grown this year. Despite the chill in the morning air, the quietness of both my air conditioner and my furnace, I sense shoots of green growth. My middle son voluntarily cut his long shaggy hair and shaved his goatee, with no prompting from me. My youngest son willingly and without complaint cares for his puppy, feeding her, cleaning up after her, playing with her. My oldest is in the homestretch of spreading his wings for college. And me, I’m learning to let go.

Trust me, though. When I slacken my grip and begin the descent, I’m gonna dance.

Hand Me Downs

I find humor in the things that give me a sense of accomplishment lately. Over the past holiday weekend, I did not make a to do list, but I got some stuff done, nonetheless. My depression, which hit full force on Friday, the 22nd anniversary of my marriage, lifted the next day and I got busy. I cleaned out my youngest son’s two closets. I went through all of his clothes, packing up the ones that are now too small to give to goodwill. I sifted through the hand me downs from his brothers and dutifully either packed them into his drawers or packed them back in his closet for another year or two.

I noticed that the stash of clothes for Kevin to grow into has diminished considerably. In between extracting action figures from the mountain of baseball caps he has accumulated, I pondered that. The stash grows smaller because his older brothers have stopped growing and no longer pass down their too small clothes. Instead, they wear them out.

When your children are changing shoe sizes every three months, it is hard to imagine a time when they stop growing. It occurred to me, as I pilfered three bowls, two cups and my travel mug from the top bunk in Kevin’s room, that my two older boys have reached a milestone, that time in their life when life’s growth is all on the inside instead of all on the outside.

Kevin, on the other hand, is right in the middle of that external growth spurt. I hug him every day and the top of his head inches further and further above my chin. Before too long, he will be taller than me, and I will be relegated to the status most women achieve around my age…the title of the shortest person in the family.

My pondering of the dwindling stash of handmedowns had nothing to do with my own physical stature. Instead, it has to do with the rites of passage in my family. I do fall housecleaning every year. I go through my kid’s clothes every year. Gregory did his own this year, handing me a bag of clothes for goodwill. He’s growing up. I didn’t think about the fact that last year, Scott had no hand me downs to pass on to Kevin.

I talked to Kevin about my ponderings a little on our way to the Reds game last night. He asked me, “What’s a hand me down?”

“It is something that someone uses for a while, and then when it is no longer needed, or no longer fits, is “handed down” to someone who can use it or for whom it does fit.” I replied.

“So handmedowns are the clothes on the shelves of my closet that are too small for Greg and too big for me?”

I looked at him, wearing the shirt Greg got from the cub scout campout when he was 10. “Actually Kevin, yes, those are handmedowns, but so is the shirt you are wearing right now.”

“I’m wearing a handmedown?” Kevin asked incredulously.

I laughed. “Yes, Kevin, as are most of your clothes, your coats, your blankie, your bunkbeds….shall I go on?”

“Wow, I learned a new word today! Hand me down.” Kevin proclaimed proudly.

It occurred to me that not only do children grow out of clothes, and then reach a point when they no longer grow out of clothes, but simply wear them out like the rest of us, they also grow out of the ability to be charmed and excited by something as simple as learning a new word, embracing a new concept. Eventually, children get to the point when the newness of life wears off and life just fits until it wears out.

I hope that never happens to me.