First Date
(I
know you’re busy. So if you want to
listen to the story you can find it here, First
Date Audio)
Guess what? I have a
superpower. Want to know what it is? My
knees can predict the weather. Seriously.
Now, don’t be jealous. I have honed this skill to a fine art since turning 50. So when I wake up on Saturday morning and swing
my legs over the side of the bed I know 2 things. One, rain is coming. Two, I know without looking that it’s about
6:30in the morning. Because after years of
working and caring for my family my body wakes me up early, even on the
weekends. I should work out, I think. I can hear my mom, “Pumpkin, a body in motion
stays in motion and a body at rest stays at rest”. But as the rain starts and I think about the
things on my weekend to do list, I convince myself that grocery shopping,
laundry and cleaning my 3-level home will be today’s cardio, lunges and
lifts. Satisfied with this brilliant
logic, I fall back into bed. And it is glorious. For about 5 minutes. Because once I’m up it is hard to go back to
sleep. And Gracey, my 65-pound Goldendoodle
and Felix, my tuxedo cat, heard me when I got up and have nudged my bedroom
door open. The gremlins. Felix is
walking across the bed glaring at me with disdain, and Gracey is staring me
down from the side of the bed. I try not
to make eye contact but I just can’t do it.
She is so damned cute. And once
our eyes lock she has me. With a grin
and groan, I get up, grab a pair of yoga pants, a sweatshirt and my sneakers,
and head downstairs.
Are you
like me, having the best of intentions and making grand weekend warrior plans throughout
the week? They always sound so good and I
can see my accomplishments so clearly. I
swear I woke up smiling and determined Saturday morning, and by the time I
brush my teeth and step out of the bathroom it is Sunday evening! And so it goes. Taking deep breaths to quell my
disappointment, I add to my gratitude journal, set the alarm on my phone, and
just like that, say goodbye to another forgettable weekend.
Today was a good workday. For me that means the perfect balance of
talking to people, creating and tasks. See, too much peopling is overwhelming, too
much creating burns me out and too much mundane task work bores me to
death. But give me a couple of
meaningful conversations, some time creating a thoughtful presentation or
pondering a new concept, topped off with a bit of spreadsheet or data entry
work done to my favorite playlist? Chef’s
kiss. Add snacks and I’m in heaven.
Feeling satisfied with my work day, I make the
commute from my office on the first floor of the house to my bedroom upstairs to
face another empty evening. My home office
was my mom’s bedroom and I converted it after she died two years ago. It gives me peace knowing I was with her in
her final moments just like we planned, and that her space is now where I do
work that I enjoy. I take dance class
but there isn’t one today. I don’t feel
like cleaning and in a moment of extreme over achievement that weekend had
prepped my meals for a few days. Since I
had worked out that morning I jumped on social media while contemplating if I felt
like another quick workout just to fill the time. I am not an exercise fanatic but I do love how
my body feels after a good workout. I’m
also grateful to be reasonably fit and the surprise on people’s faces when I
tell them how old I am always tickles me.
Apparently I look younger than my years. I was excited to see that an
event I attended a while ago was back for a repeat. It takes place at a community theater. Brave, adventurous attendees put their names
in a hat. The host pulls names at random,
and the people selected get 5 minutes at the mic to tell a story. The stories range from raunchy to funny to
heartfelt and I loved it when I went. I
even left thinking, “hmmm… I have a story or two that people might like.” It’s so easy to be brave in the comfort and
anonymity of your car at night. I checked
to see if there were any seats still available and lucked out. So I jumped up, found something to wear
beyond my work-from-home uniform of leggings and t-shirts, and headed out.
I don’t
know why I did it. I swear I don’t. Maybe I got caught up in the excitement of
the evening. Maybe because the box was so
full of slips of paper I figured I could pretend that I was brave and adventurous
by adding my name, never, ever really believing it would happen. When the host called my name I was on my feet
before I knew it, then couldn’t figure out if I wanted to throw up, walk to the
stage or run to the exit. A woman at the
end of my row must have seen it on my face because she exclaimed, “watch out, I
think we’ve got a runner!” The audience
burst into laughter and shouts of encouragement began to surround me. I slowly made my way to the stage. I think the fact that the stage lights make
it impossible to see anyone in the audience saved me. I close my eyes. And see them.
The sweet, smiling faces of my two boys, my mother and her sister, all
lined up in the living room of our old house, ready to go. I open my eyes, and still grinning at the
image in my mind, recount the tale of our monthly shopping trips. How my oldest son ran up and down the aisles
getting things off the shelf for my mother.
How we had to make sure he didn’t “accidentally” drop cans of soup or
bottles of my aunt’s favorite juice on his little brother’s head as he lay curled
up in the cart, asleep under toilet tissue and paper towels. How I had to make sure everyone used the
bathroom before we left the house and did another check before leaving the
store, and how I had to confirm that the boys had brushed their teeth and that
mom and my aunt had put their teeth in. How
I was swiftly abandoned to unload the minivan when we got home. There was laughter and sighs. And as I shared how I make those trips alone
now, I feel the threatening sting of tears and blink them back. I finish with a shrug and a “well, thanks”. There is a pause, then rousing applause. Somehow I make my way back to my seat and don’t
even realize that I am shaking until I sit down and the next story began. “Well that happened,” I mutter under my
breath. When a woman next to me says “Girl,
yes I did!” I realize I have said it loud
enough for her to hear, and pray the dim lights hid the flush that crosses my
cheeks.
I’m surprised
by the number of people who thank and congratulate me for my story as I stand
in line to purchase a bottle of water and a well-earned brownie during
intermission. When I hear someone say “you’re quite a storyteller” I prepare to
offer a quick ‘thank you’ and turn back to the counter. I turn and the words catch in my throat when
I find myself looking at a wall of green fabric. It fills the space in front of me. To see
anything on either side I would have to shift my body to the side to see around
it. “What?” my voice cracks. “I said you are quite a storyteller.” The words come from the wall, vibrating out and
wrapping around me like a hug. As I
stare at the wall I notice that along with the soothing sound, there is the
most wonderful scent. Warm and
woodsy. Next, I realize that the sound
seems to come from somewhere above me. I
follow it up. At the top of the wall is a full, neatly trimmed gray beard and
moustache framing full lips and a smiling mouth. And there are eyes. Clear and bright, the color of whisky with a
decided twinkle. And for some strange
reason they are smiling at me. I blink
and quickly look away, managing to choke out a ‘thank you’ before quickly
turning back around. I am not sure if
the heat I feel is coming from the green wall behind me or the blood rushing up
my chest and neck to my face. Barely breathing,
I grab my purchase and head back to my seat.
From the safety of the cool theater I chance a look around the room as
the lights dim for the second set of stories.
I see “The Wall” a few rows below.
Dammit. I manage to lose myself
in the energy of the storytellers, but dare a glance as the event comes to a
close. The Wall is looking back at me. Shit. Serves me right for going out. I should have kept my ass at home and worked
out. As people file out I plot my
escape. Since blending in is another superpower
of mine, once I am safely outside I chance a final glance at the lobby. The
Wall is standing near the exit, looking around.
With a sigh of relief I turn the corner before he sees me and sprint to
my car.
Two
weeks later I’ve recovered from my embarrassment and am contentedly in dance
class. I am an introvert who loves
partner dancing. Don’t judge me. Listen, I get all the socializing I need
in a 2 hour class, then I’m back in the
safety of my home. About 30 minutes into
the class I’m laughing and chatting with my classmates, happily in my safe
space, when my skin tingles and I feel goosebumps on my arms. I tell myself it’s a draft from an open door,
even though my gut tells me that’s not it.
I turn to see that The Wall has come in.
He is in the class. MY
class. Well technically it isn’t my class,
but you know what I mean. How?!? Apparently The Wall is a long-time friend of
my instructor, who has been harassing him for months to join a class and he
finally decided to accept the invitation. As everyone says their hellos I
secretly curse to myself and try to discretely move behind a couple of ladies
near a corner of the room. I also notice
how several women in the class are looking at him like they are dying of thirst
and he is just the cool drink they need.
Why does that irk me? Shaking the
thought from my head, I focus on the problem, which is that I love my dance
class. It is actually therapeutic for me
and one of the few times I go out. I refuse
to let this intruder bother me. But how am
I supposed to relax and enjoy myself now?
I decide on a very mature, adult approach.
I’ll just ignore him. In a dance
class. Simple. When partners rotate and
we face each other I won’t look him in the eye.
I’ll complete the move, maybe say a thank you, and that will be that. Easy peasy.
In
class we’re arranged in a sort of a circle around the perimeter of the
room. Women are on the outside, men on
the inside. The men rotate, dancing with
each of us. This way we get the
experience of dancing with different people.
Because each person has their own style, your growth in the dance comes
from experience dancing with different partners. We call this getting “touches,” and since I
don’t go out, my touches come from class.
One more reason why I need to be here. I watched The Wall make his way
around the circle and realized, crap, he can dance. Well that’s just great, isn’t it? By the time he makes his way to me I have
decided to be brave. Ignoring my traitorous, fluttering stomach and stupid pounding
heart that I just know he can hear over the music, I square my shoulders, looked
into those eyes, remember that I am a capable adult, a grown ass whole woman, smile
and said ‘hello.’ “Nice to see you
again,” he says, with that damned smile. Did his voice vibrate throughout my
body like that before? I don’t want to
remember. The good news is the music
started and I was saved from having to respond.
Hopefully it also kept him from noticing how I leaned towards him as I
got a whiff of him. I can’t describe
what man smells like any more than I can understand why it makes me feel like
I’m 26 instead of 56. The bad news is how effortlessly we moved together. The next time he makes it around to me, he keeps
dancing after we finish the move that we are learning. The men in class do this sometimes; we’re all
comfortable with one another and when the music is really good it just feels
right to keep going for a bit. I’m not
very confident and part of me appreciates when they do this because it helps me
become more comfortable. Part of me is
still a bit nervous though. But when The
Wall adds a few moves I don’t even realize it until we stop dancing. His lead is so clear and confident – firm but
not pushy or overbearing - I feel completely comfortable and well, safe. Oh boy.
By the third
rotation he asks me my name. The music
makes it hard to hear or hold a conversation and I don’t have a common
name. In fact I’ve had to repeat my name
so many times that I started carrying some of my business cards. I think I’m saved from conversation when, as
he asks my name, I whip out a card to show him.
Brilliant, right? Naturally I don’t
count on him taking it. Because I work
from home, the card has my cell number on it. Instinctively I reach to retrieve it but
snatch my hand back like I’ve gotten too close to a fire when he quickly puts the
card in his back pocket and smirks. I blush. He doesn’t attempt conversation for the rest
of the class and I don’t want to admit I’m disappointed. After the final rotation the instructor calls
open dance, signaling the end of instruction and the start of time for us to
dance with each other. Now, a few extra
moves during class is one thing. Sticking
around to dance without the security and structure of instruction is too much
for me. Too exposing. Are you catching a vibe here? Anyway that announcement is my cue to grab my
coat and head for the door. As I turn I
feel a hand on my elbow and hear that low rumble. “Dance?”
I turn my head slightly and look down at his hand, feeling the heat of
his touch spread up my arm. I don’t dare
look up at him. I know I’ll get lost in
those eyes and make a fool of myself. I
manage to stammer “I have to work early tomorrow.” Turning, without a look back I dash for the
door. Once outside I realize I’ve been
holding my breath. I exhale and take a
deep breath of the evening air that cools my face as I retreat to the car.
Okay, here’s the thing. Everyone
has a story and I’m not special. My story
happens to come with a healthy dose of social anxiety and a sort of self-imposed isolation that started when I
was a teenager and has stayed with me. I
have mastered the art of meaningful engagement from a distance. I carefully control what I share and how
close I let people get. I have decades
of practice and a failed marriage that reinforced the need to keep it going. Now I know what you’re going to say, and I
finally gifted myself with therapy a while ago.
Honestly, I’ve made peace with it all and this isolation thing is muscle
memory for me now. It’s too late to
change now anyway, right? Besides, I’m
all “I cherish my solitude” and “I am my own safe space” and “after years
taking care of other people I am loving on me.
It’s my time now.” I had my shot
at love, it didn’t work, it was a long time ago and the blame game is
over. I am good with filling my time
with meaningful nonromantic connections and experiences. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
I mean, what is he playing at
anyway? I am over 50 years old. You remember my superpower, right? My days of
texting and butterflies are behind me. I
have made peace with my solo status, and there is no way on earth he would be
interested in me anyway. Now don’t get
me wrong. I know I’m cute, funny, warm
and smart. I love me some me, quirks and
all. I just stopped believing anyone
else could see it. But I’m good. So why does my stomach do this thing when my
phone dings with a text from an unknown number?
And why do I hope it’s him? But
there it is. And I ridiculously read it in
what I imagine is his voice. “Hey, this is the pest from the theater. And dance
class. I think we were meant to
meet.” Well damn. Now what?
Well, I rationalize, texts are safe.
I mean at least I’m safe from
that voice if I can stop imagining it.
And that smile. And those
eyes. What could happen, right? Stop laughing.
I am in
so much trouble. Unless he has someone writing
for him, this man is smart, funny, humble and kind. In the days since his first text we have
messaged about everything from music to politics and religion. All the taboo topics. We share bits of our stories and him being
vulnerable makes it easy to open up. He avoids the cliché ‘good morning’ texts
but checks in with me every evening. He even
confessed that he hasn’t come back to class because he doesn’t want to risk
making me uncomfortable. Heaven help
me.
By the second week he asks if we can
talk on the phone. I knew it was too
good to last. It takes me a whole day to
respond. Finally I decide that if I have
a glass of wine and a good escape plan I should be okay, so I say yes. We set a date and time. Of course I freshen my hair and put on lip
gloss for a phone call. Don’t laugh, you
would do the same thing. He calls
promptly at our agreed time. I almost don’t
answer. But I imagine what my therapist
would say. And I remember something. In a flash I see my son when he was 6 years
old. We were at a community pool and he wanted to jump from the diving board
like his big brother. He was terrified
and in tears. But then he squares his little
shoulders and says quietly to himself, “I have to face my fears.” And he jumps.
I hit the green button on my phone to answer the call, and promptly lose
all ability to speak. Through the roar
of my heartbeat and chill of the anxiety that rips up my spine I almost don’t
hear him. I hear his voice the second
time he says my name. And it’s the sound
of my name on his lips that relaxes me.
I manage to breathe out a shaky
“hey.” And then the conversation flows. I confess to him that I wasn’t really sure what
we would talk about since we had been messaging so much. He laughs, saying he
was certain we would never run out of things to talk about. The deep, rich tone of his laughter rolls
over me and I think again, I am in so much trouble.
We continue to text and occasionally
talk. He was right, we don’t run out of
things to talk about. I chuckle at the
flutter in my stomach when his number appears on my phone. I confess that to him and to my surprise he
shares that his palms get sweaty when he knows he is going to call me. Things are warm and good….. until he asks me
out. The tingle starts in my chest and quickly
spreads throughout my body. Not the
tingle of excitement that you’re probably thinking about. Fear. Crippling,
fucking anxiety. The cold spreads like
frost on a window and I can feel myself retreating behind it. Moving away from the warmth of the
conversation that was there only moments before. Every fear, every insecurity, every
uncertainty rises up in and all around me.
I literally begin to shake and look around the room, like I am trying to
find a place to hide. He must sense
something. “Hey.” He says quietly, making his voice even
smoother and calmer than usual. “Listen
to me. The first time I saw you, you told
a story and charmed an entire audience.
I danced with you and watched you lose yourself in it when you didn’t
think I was looking. Every time I read
your messages or talk to you I’m left wanting more. C’mon. Let me buy you dinner. Please.” I couldn’t say anything. “Are you still there?” I managed to stammer, “I have to go.” I end
the call and turn my phone off. Shame,
hot and throbbing, pulses throughout my body and I start to cry. What the hell is wrong with me?
I message him the next day,
apologizing but not offering an explanation.
“Don’t worry about it” he replies, “I hope we can continue to
communicate. Hearing from you is the
highlight of my day.” And so our
messaging resumes. He asks if he can
call me a few days later and I say yes.
I cannot believe his patience and kindness. When I ask him how he does it he says, “I try
to do what I imagine you would.” Well
isn’t that just the right thing to say?
He goes on, “I consider myself very lucky to have met you so I’m fine
with however this goes. But I can’t lie,
I’m hoping that eventually you’ll agree to go out with me.”
I write in my journal, take a lot
of walks and do a lot of sitting in front of the firepit outside, trying to
figure this out. Ultimately, I have to
admit that he has only made me feel safe and comfortable. So during a late night conversation I say,
“I’m going to say the cheesiest line.
Don’t laugh at me.” Him, “I
promise. Hit me.” Me, “ask me
again.” I can hear his quick inhale and
slow, steady exhale. “Will you have
dinner with me?” “Yes, I will.”
I’m
wearing a light blue off the shoulder blouse, some black pants that do wonders
for my ass and sandals with just enough heel to flatter but not too much to
cause me worry if we go for a walk. My
curls have agreed to cooperate and frame my face prettily. I have just finished my feeble attempt at
makeup when the doorbell rings. My
stomach flips and I instinctively start looking for excuses to get out of
this. Deep breathing isn’t working, so
in desperation I reach for the one, sure thing I know will calm me. I imagine his voice. Which I know sounds crazy since he is literally
standing a few feet away on the other side of my front door. I take one more look at myself in the full length
mirror on the closet door. The face
reflected back to me changes. A bold,
fearless 8 year old. 16 years old angry
and afraid. 35 years old a bit sad and
resigned. 45 years old anxiously determined.
And now, peaceful and settled. I
smile, and remembering a line from a book, “magic doesn’t happen, you make it,”
I open the door.
Welp! That’s it!
So, now let’s imagine. What do
you think happened? Was the date
good? A flop? Where did we go? Did he kiss me goodnight? And if he did, was it sad? Or did it sizzle? Oh the possibilities!!!
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