My First “Date” Post-Widowhood

 

A relative of mine and his lady friend invited me over to her house for dinner. I was excited. I enjoy their company and I don’t get to see them often and this was the first invitation I’ve gotten to see her house. But when I hung up the phone I realized that in the conversation about me bringing something---no---she had slipped in the fact that her brother would be there, too. Whoa! Were we being set up on blind date? I thought. Would they do that, did they do that? 

I searched my memory bank for what I knew about the guy and all I came up with is the fact that he’s my age, not married and, like me, he’s a liberal democrat and a news junkie. I’d also heard he's a foodie, loves to cook (and I’m cooking impaired). Ya, I know what you’re thinking. A match made in heaven. I was thinking Yikes! What should I wear? Answer: What I always wear---slacks (gray) with a blouse, in this case a lavender blouse with a row of hidden buttons. Hey, at least it’s a silky blouse and not my default cotton pull-over.

I was scheduled for a haircut on Monday, the dinner party was on Sunday. I couldn’t do anything about that except be happy that I hadn’t crossed over into the land of Wooly Mammoths yet. The hairdresser also trims my eyebrows. I could do that. I also gave myself a manicure and checked my upper lip wondering if it was time to get out the Nad’s Waxing Strips and as I applied one I questioned if I’d be doing all this if the brother wasn’t going to be there. You’ll never know because I’m not telling what I decided. Hey, every story needs a little mystery. I will say that I made sure to watch the Sunday morning news programs so I’d have fodder to talk about, if needed, because I’ve been trying with some success to become an x-news junkie. It was time to catch up.

When I got dressed for dinner I autopilot put on my heart-shaped locket with the chamber inside that holds some of my husband’s ashes because it looks great with my lavender blouse. I took it off. I put it back on and took it off one last time. What if someone asks about it and I actually liked this guy? A dead husband’s ashes around a widow’s neck might creep him out. I’ve met a few women who think it’s creepy.

The time to leave arrived and I dug out a bottle of wine to take along. My relative has Italy running through his DNA and he would love the spicy cherry wine I bought last year. I got to the house before the brother and when he walked in I thought he was a good looking guy, nicely groomed and friendly enough. But not my type even though our conversations the rest of the evening were fluid and fun. If it had been a real first date, I would have marked it an eight on a scale of one to ten. At dinner he said, “It’s really pleasant to sit down with all democrats!” And from the conversation that followed I gathered people in the brother/sister’s family get into some pretty heated debates and tongue biting at dinners like that. We all agreed, it was nice to be surrounded by like-minded and informed thinkers. That doesn’t happen often in the land where Mitt Romney's father once reigned supreme in the Michigan Republican Party and President Gerald R. Ford cut his baby teeth.

The brother left the dinner party first and the rest of us were sitting out on the patio when I asked: “So what’s your brother’s story?” And my host ran through his educational background, his work history, where he lives. Yadda, yadda, yadda and ended with, “He’s gay.” I smiled broadly. I had thought as much but I wasn’t sure if it was something the brother kept from his sister. If he was still in the closet, can you imagine how hard a dinner with a widow would have been for him?

“He doesn’t live in the gay community,” she added after spilling the gay beans. “He’s not like that.” I wondered exactly where the gay community is in town. I’ve never seen it on a map, on neighborhood signage or a marquee. Gay people live in the next square mile! Be open-minded if you enter.

“That you know about,” I replied.

“Well, he does have one friend,” she admitted with a sheepish grin.

Don’t they all, I thought.

Now, I can’t quit wondering what HE thought about us being paired up like that. Did he sense that I have good gaydar or did he think I showed interest in him in a way he wouldn’t want? Did he think his sister told me up front before issuing the invitation? Did he know I would be there? Questions, questions---those who have the answers will never get asked. It was a great evening and that was enough. All in all, I was actually relieved that it turned out the way it did. The whole idea of being “set up” brought out mixed feelings and I’m not sure a romance book is something I want to open up again. But in a training wheels kind of way, I can highly recommend a first “date” with a gay guy in your post-widowhood life. You get to relax and interact with a man without all those hormones getting in the way. ©

My 'When Harry Met Sally' Story

Today I got word that Yahoo Contributor Network is closing in a month and all the content I wrote for them---32 pieces---is reverting back to me. YCN owned the rights and I got paid according to the number of clicks each article received. A few of those 32 pieces were actually entries into their contests and below is one of them. It was written in 2007 for a writing contest on how you met your spouse. Over the next month may be moving 4-5 other pieces over here. So please indulge me if they don't relate to my post-widowhood life....

My 'When Harry Met Sally' Story

If my life in the late 1960s had its own theme song it would have been ALFIE. When I close my eyes I can almost see a younger version of myself running around with my arms spread wide open, long flowing skirts giving me grace, and with a voice coming out of me that sounds like Dionne Warwick singing: "What's it all about, Alfie? Is it just for the moment we live?" I see myself leaping and strutting around a city park belting out line after line. "Are we meant to take more than we give or are we meant to be kind?" I see the orchestra of Burt Bacharach running along behind me, trying to keep up with the pace that I set while still playing their instruments. Those piano movers are really working up a sweat. "As sure as I believe there's a heaven above, Alfie, I know there's something much more, something even non-believers can believe in. I believe in love, Alfie."

That's the Walt Disney version. During my "what's-it-all-about" era I was actually a dating machine, searching for love and the meaning of life in all the wrong places. It's funny how the passing of time can make you forget a thing like that about yourself. I've been looking at old diaries today and when read 1969 I was actually shocked to see that so many guys' names had filled up page after page. Ten of them! All those guys were trading places back and forth as if they were race horses going around and around on a track. First one guy would be my favorite, then another. Break ups and makes ups and near-fist fights. One guy even turned out to be an undercover cop working on a case involving a shirt-tail friend of mine. As I read those diary entries I couldn't believe I was reading about my own life. I wanted to break out the popcorn and get a score card.

My power dating era was winding down by March of 1970 when Don entered the pages of my diaries. We met at a bowling alley that had an adjacent pub with live music and dancing. It was the local hunting ground for singles. I was on a lady's league on Friday nights and when Don and I met it was far from love at first sight---at least not for me. Oh, Don was good looking enough to curl a girl's toes and lord knows conversation never lagged when he was around. But I met him along with a friend of his who looked like he shared the same gene pool as Tom Jones. He even had the same weighty voice in an era when Tom Jones was red hot on the charts. Of course I wanted the other guy, not Don.

For the next six months I dated them of both frequently, on different nights of course, but the three of us often found ourselves hanging out together on Fridays after bowling. All that time Don kept telling me that his friend was a one-night stand and if I went out him again, he (Don) would stop asking me out. The friend did turn out to be an irresponsible loser, but Don turned out to be a liar because in spite the fact that I kept dating his friend, he hung right in there date for date. I couldn't quite figure these two guys out. I was guessing they had some kind of contest or bet going, so I didn't trust either one of them. Finally six months out, the log jam broke when Mr. T.J.-Look-a-Like started dating a woman he later married. It was in that same time frame when Don first declared that he loved me and wanted us to get married. It took us thirty-one years and a severe stroke for us to follow up on that idea. And in those thirty-one years we spent more time together than most married people do.

It's weird how your memory can play tricks on you. Before I cracked open my old diaries today I had already written the story of how Don and I met. I couldn't believe how far off from the truth that first draft was. I had to scrap it and start all over. I'd completely forgotten about my marathon dating in 1969 and about the triangle dating thing we had going for the six months after Don, his friend and I all met. I had given that whole period the Walt Disney, this-is-the-version-you'd-tell-your-grandkids spin.

Off and on all afternoon I was reading to Don from the pages of my diaries and I told him that I wish I could figure out how I could hold on to these books until twenty minutes before I die when I'd like to burn them. Every ten years or so I get them out and give myself a good laugh. It's also cathartic to watch yourself grow in spirit and wisdom over the years as you turn those yellowed pages. Don and I remembered another afternoon years ago when we sat reading and laughing over my old diaries. We stopped laughing, though, when we came across an entry about a chance meeting on cruise night at a local drive-in restaurant, circa 1958. We're 99% sure it was us and our two best friends I had written about who passed jokes back and forth while sitting on the hoods of our cars. (How many other Ron, Don, Nancy and Jean combinations could there have been in my hometown back then?) So, I guess you could say that we've actually got two "When Harry Met Sally" stories to tell. ©