makeup, tweak the hair, floss. At six fifteen I hear the gate unlatch, and Dumpling begins his fearsome barking. I peek out the window. The gentleman heading up my walkway is tallish, handsome-ish, salt-and-peppery. I take a deep breath.
The bell rings. I go to answer it. He smiles broadly and hands me a small gift bag. “For you. For renewing my faith in people.” As he hands the bag to me, I catch out of the corner of my eye a glinting sparkle.
Of his wedding ring.
Fuckety fuck fuck FUCK!
He left with his phone, and I came inside to unwrap my consolation prize.
A pound of chocolate-covered raisins. A pound of Swedish Fish. A pound of salted cashews. Three of my favorite food groups.
So now, not only don’t I get a husband, I have to sit home alone and listen to my ass grow. Great.
Second on the list for us hopeful romantics, in terms of finding love, is the inevitable return of a lost love or a past crush. A while back, I joined Facebook. Shortly thereafter, I received a “friend request” from Marshall Jordan, who noted that we “went to high school together.”
Oh. My. God.
Marshall Jordan was my personal (it should be mentioned, totally unrequited) Jake Ryan. He was a senior my freshman year and, due to some academic glitch, was in my algebra class. He sat behind me. I was madly in love with him. I was also, at the time, madly in love with about six other guys, but during third period at least, my love was only for Marshall. Emily, Lacey, and Mina all had Spanish that period, leaving me alone in the class with Marshall, so I spent my timetrying to be winsome and mysteriously appealing, giving him the rare but fraught-with-meaning look. In retrospect I am sure he probably thought I was either lightly damaged or gassy. But, he was sweet to me, totally uninterested in romance, but at least friendly.
I looked at the friend request, from a man I had not seen in twenty years.
This was it. This was how it happens.
I will respond, we will reconnect, we will meet up, and it will be easy and fun, and soon we will fall madly in love and he will propose to me on the steps of Whitney Young High School, and we will live happily ever after.
We began an e-mail reconnection, during which he reminded me that I had written a mushy poem about him. I remembered the poem, but not that I’d had the chutzpah to give it to him. Mortifying. We found out that a friend of mine is a favorite author of his, and planned to meet up at the launch party of his latest book. He hadn’t changed at all, and we fell easily into conversation, reminiscences of days past and talking about what was going on for both of us now. He was charming with my friends, and four of us ended up leaving the party and heading for a late supper and cocktails. He suggested, when I dropped him off well after midnight, that we should “hang out.”
This is not a good thing for a forty-year-old man to say to a woman. What does that mean? Hanging out? Hanging out like playing PlayStation with a buddy, or hanging out like naked with the Sunday crossword before pancakes?
I invited him to join me for a soft opening at a new local restaurant. I dressed up. Okay, I brought all my cleavage with me. My friends on the staff told me I looked fantastic, and were duly entertaining, praising me in front of Marshall, andwinking at me when he wasn’t looking. The food was amazing; we were invited to hang out after closing with the chef and owners, offered free booze and great food, and I got to introduce him to a bunch of big-name people on the Chicago culinary scene. Our conversation continued to be easy and fun and we laughed a lot. We left the party and went to a bar, and ended up closing the place, talking until nearly two in the morning about everything and nothing. We made a date to “hang out” again, to watch a movie at my house.
He came over in the afternoon. I bought his favorite beer. We watched the movie. And when it was over, he said he had to go.
Because
The bell rings. I go to answer it. He smiles broadly and hands me a small gift bag. “For you. For renewing my faith in people.” As he hands the bag to me, I catch out of the corner of my eye a glinting sparkle.
Of his wedding ring.
Fuckety fuck fuck FUCK!
He left with his phone, and I came inside to unwrap my consolation prize.
A pound of chocolate-covered raisins. A pound of Swedish Fish. A pound of salted cashews. Three of my favorite food groups.
So now, not only don’t I get a husband, I have to sit home alone and listen to my ass grow. Great.
Second on the list for us hopeful romantics, in terms of finding love, is the inevitable return of a lost love or a past crush. A while back, I joined Facebook. Shortly thereafter, I received a “friend request” from Marshall Jordan, who noted that we “went to high school together.”
Oh. My. God.
Marshall Jordan was my personal (it should be mentioned, totally unrequited) Jake Ryan. He was a senior my freshman year and, due to some academic glitch, was in my algebra class. He sat behind me. I was madly in love with him. I was also, at the time, madly in love with about six other guys, but during third period at least, my love was only for Marshall. Emily, Lacey, and Mina all had Spanish that period, leaving me alone in the class with Marshall, so I spent my timetrying to be winsome and mysteriously appealing, giving him the rare but fraught-with-meaning look. In retrospect I am sure he probably thought I was either lightly damaged or gassy. But, he was sweet to me, totally uninterested in romance, but at least friendly.
I looked at the friend request, from a man I had not seen in twenty years.
This was it. This was how it happens.
I will respond, we will reconnect, we will meet up, and it will be easy and fun, and soon we will fall madly in love and he will propose to me on the steps of Whitney Young High School, and we will live happily ever after.
We began an e-mail reconnection, during which he reminded me that I had written a mushy poem about him. I remembered the poem, but not that I’d had the chutzpah to give it to him. Mortifying. We found out that a friend of mine is a favorite author of his, and planned to meet up at the launch party of his latest book. He hadn’t changed at all, and we fell easily into conversation, reminiscences of days past and talking about what was going on for both of us now. He was charming with my friends, and four of us ended up leaving the party and heading for a late supper and cocktails. He suggested, when I dropped him off well after midnight, that we should “hang out.”
This is not a good thing for a forty-year-old man to say to a woman. What does that mean? Hanging out? Hanging out like playing PlayStation with a buddy, or hanging out like naked with the Sunday crossword before pancakes?
I invited him to join me for a soft opening at a new local restaurant. I dressed up. Okay, I brought all my cleavage with me. My friends on the staff told me I looked fantastic, and were duly entertaining, praising me in front of Marshall, andwinking at me when he wasn’t looking. The food was amazing; we were invited to hang out after closing with the chef and owners, offered free booze and great food, and I got to introduce him to a bunch of big-name people on the Chicago culinary scene. Our conversation continued to be easy and fun and we laughed a lot. We left the party and went to a bar, and ended up closing the place, talking until nearly two in the morning about everything and nothing. We made a date to “hang out” again, to watch a movie at my house.
He came over in the afternoon. I bought his favorite beer. We watched the movie. And when it was over, he said he had to go.
Because
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