Aging Gracefully or Why I Won’t Be Learning to Tap Dance

genfablogoIt’s almost Easter! Could there be a more perfect time for a Blog Hop? I think not!

The subject of this month’s blog hop, sponsored by the fabulous folks over at GenFab, is “Aging Gracefully”. After much soul-searching and countless fruitless and inarticulate attempts, I give you my take on a subject that is near and dear to my heart. So, get to hoppin’, my friends — and read more about it!

Before I began this piece, I looked up the word graceful. It is defined by as [that which is] characterized by beauty of movement, style, form, etc., which is exactly what I was afraid it meant. I can’t think of a single thing that I do or the way in which I do it that could be described as graceful. I sincerely doubt that this tiger will suddenly change her stripes by uncharacteristically approaching aging with anything resembling grace. More likely, I’ll just stumble in, headlong, like Kramer entering Jerry’s apartment on Seinfeld.

I do not now, nor have I ever, moved beautifully. Truth be told, I kind of lumber, rather loudly, through life. I could never be a spy. Or a cat burglar. I can’t even sneak up on my own rather large fourteen-year-old tabby while he is sleeping! I know this begs the question, “Why ever would you want to do a thing like that?” It’s not about “want”, so much as it’s about “need”. In order to clean his ears, brush his teeth, or put him in the carrier for his annual veterinary examination, it is necessary that he be captured. Captured! It’s a process that requires careful planning and, well, grace.

Everyone knows that catching a cat off guard is the only proven method for ensnaring, with skin intact, your average feline. My attempts are, owing to my lack of physical grace, both frustrating and unsuccessful. I have learned, through experience, to assign this unpleasant task to my far more stealthy daughter. She’s good at it. In fact, if college doesn’t work out for her, I’m thinking of apprenticing her out to some gypsies — she has the makings of a fine pickpocket.

There is a certain amount of grace, borne of experience, in knowing what we’re good at — and, conversely, in accepting what we’re not. I spent the first half of my life beating my head against proverbial brick walls. Trying to be someone I wasn’t. Fighting against failure. Recoiling from rejection. Chasing after the meaningless. Making feeble attempts at cat wrangling.

Forcing myself to be who other people wanted me to be — quieter, neater, calmer, more ambitious — messed with my self-esteem with a ferocity that I can finally recognize. It was a burden, living that life. A burden that contributed greatly to an addiction problem. Having struggled with, accepted, and ultimately embraced recovery from said addiction, I am able now to recognize, if not with grace, at least with clarity, that letting go of the unrealistic expectations of others is one of the most liberating things I will ever do.

In my younger days, I thought that success was the opposite of failure. It’s not. Success is doing the best you can with what you’ve got. Success is making peace with being unable to catch the cat, recognizing that it still has to be done, and figuring out the best way to achieve the desired result without driving yourself crazy. That there can be as much success in letting go as there is in hanging on is an empowering realization.

I may never understand my deep-seated fear of rejection. I stopped writing and acting — things that I truly loved — because I was terrified of being rejected. And, let’s face it, these are two of the most rejection-filled professions in the world. What I’ve come to realize, what I wish I had known sooner, is that life is full of rejection. Unfortunately, it took me many years to recognize that I needed to put my big girl panties on and just plow ahead. What I know now is that not everyone is going to like you, agree with you, or share your passions. On the flip side, there will be plenty of folks that love you, quite a few that will respect your beliefs — even if they don’t agree with them — and a handful who will, if not share, at least support your dreams.

There is grace in acknowledging who I am and in accepting that some things simply do not matter at all. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will never learn to tap dance. This is not solely because my hips are shot or because I have no rhythm, which they are and I don’t. What age and experience has taught me is that if I don’t want to tap dance badly enough to spend hour after frustrating hour learning to do so, then guess what? I don’t have to. It’s just plain silly to invest my limited time and energies into any new skill that I’m not 100% committed to — even if that skill requires fabulous footwear and gives me an excuse to wear leg warmers again. I’ll just go ahead and buy the shoes. I’ll put them on and dance around my kitchen. I’m sure the neighbors won’t mind.

I have also given up on becoming a fluent Spanish speaker. I know enough to get by. I can even read it a little. I used to beat myself up about my inability to grasp the maddening syntax of Romance languages. Not anymore. I have accepted that I’ve gone as far as I can go with it. And I’m okay with that. The same holds true for other things. Things like higher math, Joyce, and Twitter.

I have decided that I want to spend whatever time I have left engaged in activities that fulfill me. In doing things that bring me joy and happiness. At the end of the day I want to feel a sense of accomplishment, rather than the exhaustion — both mental and physical — that is the by-product of failure (and, one would imagine, tap dancing).

I’m not talking about giving up the job that I’m not thrilled with, but is necessary for paying the bills. I understand that I’ll still have to do the dishes, the laundry, and the grocery shopping. Living on the street or in squalor are not options. They are not conditions conducive to happiness.

It’s my spare time that I want to spend more wisely. More judiciously. I want to write more than just the grocery list every single day. I want to paint some furniture, maybe even for profit. I want to interact meaningfully with people who share my passions. I want to more fully prepare my adolescent to leave the nest. I want to enjoy, rather than be annoyed by, my husband’s company. I want to learn to build and to maintain a website.

Whether I will do any of these things with beauty or with grace remains to be seen. I am, however, committed to doing them with fervor and enthusiasm, which is more than I can say about the attitude that I would have brought to tap dancing. If, at the end of the day, I decide that I don’t like, need, or want to do them, I’ll recognize that. The world will not come to a screeching halt — even my little corner of it — if I wind up being no good at painting a chest of drawers.

This is a Blog Hop! Check out what some other folks are contributing to the topic, Aging Gracefully!

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The Changing Nature of Relationships: On Maturity, Mental Health, and Mantras

She's a beauty. Am I right?

She’s a beauty. Am I right?

My long-term relationship has certainly seen its fair share of changes over the course of twenty-eight years. Mostly, it’s me who has changed. I’ve certainly mellowed. While I may not fully embrace the quirks of my husband’s personality, some of which are just north of crazy, I have resigned myself to something resembling acceptance.

At the outset, let me just say that I love my husband. He is an extremely nice guy. I daresay that most folks are probably of the opinion that he is way nicer than his wife. (An opinion no doubt shared by our own progeny.) He loves animals. He asks after people. (He may not remember their names, but he never forgets their hardships or their maladies.) He gives generously to any child trying to raise money outside of the grocery store for their annual trip to, say, Timbuktu. He assists the elderly. To the outside world he is easygoing and mild-mannered. The few of us who know him well and the two of us who live with him can attest to the fact that he has a dark side. He’s a closet control freak.

This affliction manifests itself in matters both large and small. I try not to sweat the small stuff, though it’s difficult sometimes. Like, for example, when he “checks” the silverware for cleanliness or when he instructs me on the proper way to close the car door (for the 10,000th time!). I bite my tongue. I remind myself that he can’t help himself. I will admit to the occasional passive-aggressive act. Once in a while I will deliberately throw caution to the wind and improperly exit the car. Of course I know it will piss him off, but sometimes I can’t help myself either. Nobody’s perfect.

For the most part I try to behave like the mature grown-up person that I have become. I do so by resisting the urge to argue with him or, worse, to throttle him. I have found it helpful, when he engages in these and similarly annoying behaviors, to repeat silently and often, “He’s a good guy! It’s not a big deal!” I’ve come to think of this as my relationship-saving mantra.

Still, I am in awe of women who can go out and buy things like bed linens or curtains or, heaven forbid!, furniture without their husband’s “approval”. I don’t just envy them their larger budgets or their perfect children or their several bathrooms or even their Maytag Neptune™ washer/dryer combos. No. I envy them their ability to just go it alone at their local Target™. To choose what they like and buy it. I would love, just once, to be able to purchase something as simple as a pillow without my husband feeling the need to “come with” on the shopping trip.

Sure, I’m an independent woman with a job and my own bank account. It’s not always about the affordability of an item, although we do have spending limit rules. We agreed long ago not to spend over a certain amount of money on anything for household use without discussing it with the other person. It’s a good rule, for the most part.

For example, I certainly wouldn’t want to be stuck finding a place for an expensive autographed poster of The ’86 Mets. Don’t get me wrong, I like baseball as much (or more) as the next gal and while I think we can all agree that ’86 was almost as big a miracle for The New York Mets’ as ’69, I still wouldn’t want Gary, Keith, Ron, and the rest of the gang hanging over my couch. By the same token, my husband does not share my affinity for Edvard Munch’s The Scream — he finds it creepy. Out of respect for his taste, you will never find a Munch in my house.

Redecorating, as you can imagine, is a bit of a trial for us. We find ourselves, once again and not for the first time, in the midst of such a project. Earlier in our marriage I would fight tooth and nail about things like coffee tables. I was always less concerned about whether or not the table was at the correct height for plopping one’s feet upon it. I was more interested in its aesthetic appeal. Because he is less flexible and far more intractable than I will ever be, we often wound up with a coffee table more suited to foot plopping and less decorative than I would have wanted.

It’s not so much that I mind losing these silly little battles. It’s more about the process that my husband employs prior to making a purchasing that makes me a little crazy. (It used to make me a lot crazy — I’ve evolved!) The larger the purchase, the more time and energy he expends “researching” the item. It used to be that he had to consult Consumer Reports prior to choosing a can opener.

Then someone (maybe it was Al Gore, maybe it wasn’t) gave us the Internet. BAM! Now all of that information, which one previously had to cull from various sources — both independent ones, like the previously mentioned Consumer Reports, and anecdotal ones, like Aunt Franny — is now, quite literally, at our fingertips. So, one would think that for a research monkey like my husband, the advent of the Internet would have been a great thing. One would be wrong. For the decision-challenged individual the Internet is a morass — a morass that contains far too much information.

As a result, this is what often happens. We decide that we want, let’s say, a new living room television. We discuss and come to an agreement on certain specifications and a price range. We scan some advertisements and visit some websites in an effort to narrow down our choices. I would imagine that something of this nature takes most people a day or two to accomplish. It takes my husband months. Months! Because he reads every product review he can get his hands on. Every single one. And he takes them all seriously, regardless of the source. I don’t know about you, but I would take with a grain of salt a review of any electronic item written by Luddite1934, unless it’s for some new-fangled thing, like an icebox.

Last Christmas, which was way back in December of 2012, we began the process of replacing our old television. I would have loved to have seen The New York Giants win the Super Bowl on a 50” screen. As it turns out, I’ll be lucky to see either The Baltimore Ravens or The San Francisco 49ers do it in February of 2013.

I picture Luddite1934 as a 79-year-old curmudgeon. I know that he could just as easily be a 12-year-old girl, but the likelihood of finding a 12-year-old girl who would use Luddite as her screen name is fairly slim. I know that 1934 could mean any number of things, but I’ve decided that it’s Luddite’s birth year. I’ve also concluded that he is a man. He may or may not be elderly, a man, or a curmudgeon. He is, however, presently and, to be fair, unbeknownst to him, my latest nemesis. In dashing off his product review he declared the sound quality of the television that I thought we had at long last decided to buy as less than stellar.

The fact that my husband takes so long to make a fairly simple decision regarding an ordinary household appliance is no longer something that sends me round the bend. A tribute, I think, to my evolution as a person. It still bothers me that he puts more trust in the opinion of one Luddite1934 than he does in himself. I have learned to let such things go. I’m no psychologist, but I would venture to guess that his problem stems from a lack of trust. I used to take it personally. In the past I had assumed that it was me he didn’t trust. That’s simply not true. What I have come to realize is that he doesn’t trust his own decision-making skills. Why he trusts the opinion of Luddite1934 is slightly puzzling, but this is one of those questions that may not have an answer (at least not a simple one). Resigning myself to the fact that some things are just inexplicable and slightly sad is far more healthy in the long run than taking his behavior to heart.

In the past, making major purchases would have resulted in much screaming, yelling, and carrying on (mostly by me — my husband is NOT a fighter), which would in no way have changed anything. No longer do I get my feelings hurt or take a blow to my self-esteem when these situations arise. As our relationship matured (and me right along with it), I stopped worrying that he didn’t trust me. I came to understand that he is the one who is fraught with self-doubt. Sure, I still bear a grudge against Luddite1934, but I no longer carry the burden of bearing a grudge toward my life partner over things like coffee table, televisions, or can openers. I have resigned myself to the fact that there will be, sometime within the next decade, a new television occupying my living room. When he is ready to put aside the opinions of the Luddite1934’s of the world and trust himself, we will buy a new television. I only hope that I don’t have to wait until The Mets win another World Series for this to happen. Because that could be a very long wait indeed.

genfablogoThis piece is also appearing on the NEW! GenFab website. There’s bound to be a great deal of incredible writing over there — grab another cup of coffee and read the day away. The laundry can wait. So can the dishes. Show these ladies some love!

photo credits:
large screen television

My Exciting Thursday

moodfabriclogoSomewhat guiltily, I shoved aside hovel purging and did a few more interesting things yesterday — not, perhaps, as necessary as hovel purging, but, still in all, far less mundane and back-breaking than filling more bags and boxes with the detritus of my life. Following what turned out to be a bus ride that had it’s equivalent in the expression “slow boat to China”, I went to Mood Fabrics in NYC and drooled over toiles, velvets, and the hundreds of other beautiful fabrics they have to offer. For a fabric hound such as myself, there is no better place to while away a few hours than on West 37th Street in Manhattan. Maybe they have more toile at, say, The Palace at Versailles, but I suspect that they would frown upon my clipping a swatch. Mood and the other fabric stores in the area actually encourage the swatching that will, no doubt, land you in a French prison. (I wonder if they still use The Bastille?). Also, I can’t just hop on the 163 Local to gaze at the toiles enjoyed by Louis XIV and his ilk. Sampling the Versailles toiles and enjoying three hots and a cot on the French government would require airline travel and a passport. I’m adventurous, but I’m not THAT adventurous. Frankly, I was antsy on the OVER ONE HOUR bus ride to the city (see “slow boat to China” reference above) — it normally takes about 45 minutes midday — a seven-hour plane ride would be out of the question.

I spent an hour trying to find the Joe Fresh location that was supposed to be on 34th and Fifth. They were supposed to be having a sale on sweaters. And they don’t sell online. (Can you even imagine?) There was no Joe Fresh on 34th Street or anywhere in the surrounding area. No one that I asked had ever heard of such a store. I did, however, manage to stumble upon a place called The Manhattan Mall. I only ventured in because I thought that Joe Fresh might be tucked away inside of it. It wasn’t. Don’t worry, though, I didn’t come home empty-handed. I still managed to feed my cashmere addiction at, of all places, JC Penney. (You all need to check out what they’ve done to JC Penney — it’s not just Worthington anymore, boys and girls!) I managed to leave the store with a cashmere sweater for myself and one for my daughter. And, GET THIS, it only cost me $40 total. Forty bucks for TWO cashmere sweaters. Unheard of.

I downed a delicious and much needed vanilla latte at Starbuck’s on 33rd Street (the one thatstarbuckslogo is literally in the shadow of The Empire State Building). I even managed to have a moment of self-awareness and a mini-adventure in the bathroom line. In a city known for its dearth of public restrooms, Starbuck’s should be commended for the fact that they have at least one in all of their locations (at least the one’s that I’ve been in). Also, there is no need to ask a barrista for a key nor have I ever seen a sign indicating that only Starbuck’s customers are welcome to use the facilities. This appeals to my sense of fairness and democracy. While I applaud the Starbuck’s bathroom policy in theory, the reality, as is often the case, is somewhat different, especially when this reality has a direct and deleterious effect on me. (Communism looks great on paper until you’re the one subjected to a lifetime of potato peeling based solely on your inability to read as well as some of your classmates in the first grade!) So, there I was. About to break out into the “pee-pee” dance in the shadow of one of the greatest architectural wonders of the Western world when it hit me that I am not as egalitarian as I like to think I am. As excellent corporate policies tend to do (Rite-Aid takes back opened/used cosmetics — no questions asked!) word has gotten out regarding Starbuck’s lax lavatory regulations. And not just to the folks that work in the area. No. Word has spread to those folks that live in the area. More specifically, word has gotten around to the local homeless population.

I have nothing against the homeless. In fact I think it’s shameless that there are homeless and hungry people living in this country at all. That being said, I must tell you that yesterday at Starbuck’s I harbored a fair amount of ill will against a few homeless people who had managed to scooch in front of me on the restroom line. And scooch they did. One minute I was alone and next in line for the W.C., the next minute they were in front of me. I honestly have no idea how this happened. Perhaps I was daydreaming or looking at The Empire State Building. Maybe I had a small seizure. I really couldn’t tell you. All I know is that they had somehow taken up residence ahead of me. Sure, I could have said something. I could have made a scene. But I’m a middle-class, middle-aged suburban white woman who has never even considered voting for a Republican. Tangling with homeless people in a public place istheempirestatebuilding just not my style.

I should have taken it as a bad sign when I watched as the two women went into the loo together. I should add that they did so with all of their goods and wares in tow. This, as you might imagine, took some time and maneuvering. Oh, and there was still one more poor soul with his cartful of supplies ahead of me. I weighed my choices. I could stay where I was or I could make the mad dash across Fifth Avenue to the Starbuck’s across the street. It was a classic case of choosing the known versus the unknown. I opted for the former. At the end of the day, I don’t know whether or not I made the right decision, having no knowledge of the goings on across Fifth Avenue. Though I imagined, as I stood there with a nearly exploding bladder (why? why? why? did I order a Venti? A less gluttonous person would have gone for the Breve!) that there was no line for their, more likely, swanky and sumptuous facility. I had, by this time, reached the point of no return. It was too late to get across the street in anything resembling a dry state. Having already shopped for sweaters and been successful, I could not imagine that I would have the same luck procuring new jeans and underwear (and, God forbid!, socks), but don’t think I didn’t consider it.

I stayed put and counted the minutes (13!) that the pair spent in what I was beginning to think was a mirage of a lavatory. I assumed that they were showering and doing some laundry. I cannot tell you how disappointed I was when they finally emerged (only to have their bedraggled compatriot go in behind them) looking much the same as when they had entered. For whatever reason, this annoyed me. I expected to see that they had at least made some minor improvements to their appearances. So, there I was, judging the homeless, tapping my foot, doing some kegel exercises, and, I am sure, rolling my eyes when one of the fine folks who is employed by Starbuck’s actually took notice of my discomfort and allowed me to use the employee bathroom. He was not wearing a name tag and I plum forgot to ask him his name. Whoever he was, I would just like to say that he is a fine human being who, in addition to rescuing a soon-to-be covered in urine person from her latte excesses, also has excellent taste in footwear. His patent leather kicks were to die for! Also, he wouldn’t even hear of taking the tip I proffered after emerging from the restroom. Who says New Yorkers don’t have a heart?

On most days this young man and the kindness that he showed me would have been the highlight of my day. But not yesterday. No. Yesterday I had the pleasure of being surrounded by exciting people. You see, the reason that I went to the city at all was to have dinner with a group of women from GenFab. GenFab is a Facebook group of (mostly) women of my generation. We’re not Boomers. We’re not Gen-Xers. We’re the ones that fall in between. I came to be a part of this group a few months ago at the urging of my friend and fellow blogger, Amanda Fox, over at The Fur Files. (Thanks, Fern!) They are a great group of supportive, talented, and wonderful women. Over the last few months they have been working on launching a website dedicated to issues that are pertinent to our age group. (Don’t worry, I’ll promote the launch!) They asked for contributions and have agreed to publish one of mine. This is not what drove me to join them for dinner last night, though. No. I really just wanted to be in the company of these dynamic women. (I’m hoping some of it will rub off on me!) They were all so welcoming and, given their accomplishments, not the least bit pretentious. Usually at 8 o’clock on a Thursday evening I am apologizing to some moron for bringing him what he ordered and/or dealing with my immature co-workers while covered in the barbecue sauce that I had spilled on my shirt during the lunch shift. Do I need to tell you what a nice departure this was from that? I didn’t think so.

genfabdinnernyc2713This was first “in real life” meeting with folks that I have met through blogging. I won’t lie, the idea of this was a little daunting. More daunting, though, was knowing that I was going to meet virtual strangers, most of whom I admired. For a couple of weeks prior to the dinner I was both excited and a little bit worried. I thought about dying my hair, getting my nails done, wearing better clothes, whitening my teeth, and making other adjustments to my appearance. Basically, I wondered if I should change who I ultimately am. In the end I decided to just be myself, warts and all. I’m happy to report that it went well. I don’t think anyone cared that my hair was in need of a dye job and that my nails were in need of a manicure. If my teeth weren’t white enough, no one mentioned it. And my attire? It was fine. Here’s the thing: these women were more interested in WHO I was than in what I was wearing. Many of them seemed genuinely interested. And some of them had even read my blog. And they admitted not just to reading it, but to actually liking it. Wow!

So, now comes the hard part. I really want to mention, by way of a “thank you”, everyone that I met last night. I want to encourage you to read their blogs and their books, subscribe to their web magazines, watch their movies, and, just generally, get to know them, but I fear that I will leave someone out. I’ve decided to put that fear aside and not squander this opportunity to promote them and GenFab. I’ll do the best I can and list everyone that I can remember. If I forget any of you, please remind me who you are and what your blog/website is and I will update my list. I promise you that my intention is not to exclude anyone! For those of you who fall into this “fabulous” generation, consider joining GenFab. You won’t regret it.

Better After 50
Grown and Flown
An Empowered Spirit
The Chloe Chronicles
Connect with your teens through technology
The Louise Log
Relocation: The Blog
100 Sleepless Nights
Books is Wonderful
Second Lives Club
Oh Boy Mom
Boomer Wizdom

photo credits: starbucks logo (, The Empire State Building , GenFab dinner pic (Cathy Chester), Mood Fabric logo (fashion

How I Met My Husband: GenFab Blog Hop

80shairI don’t remember the exact details, but I know that I was refusing to go to the club that summer Sunday evening. My friend, K, who had promised to meet up with “Mr. Right Now” had other ideas. I had just come off of my first real heartbreak and was really in no mood for the dating scene. So, I wasn’t going to go. And I wouldn’t have gone, except that she needed a ride. Grudgingly, I took her to the club. I told her to go inside and find whoever it was she was trolling for and I would wait outside until I got the thumbs up from her that it was safe to leave. She came out a few minutes later to tell me that he wasn’t there, but that she KNEW he’d be coming. Couldn’t I just come in and wait with her until he got there? “Ugh!”, I remember thinking, “Why do I have to be such a good friend?” For sure most people would have just left her there, but I couldn’t do it. Plus, if he didn’t show up, I’d just have to come all the way back to get her. So, in I went.

I was not dressed for “clubbing” in the ’80s. I had on a tank top, sweatpants, jelly sandals, no make-up, and my hair wasn’t even teased or shellacked, nor was I wearing the requisite Jersey Girl bow. (After the big break up I had actually gone “punk”— short hair, shaved at the sides, but with a long pink tail that I braided down my back. I am fairly certain that all photographic evidence of that particular hair style has been obliterated— at least I hope so!) In any case, I was a sight. But, in I trudged for what I was hoping would be a short stay. I got a beer and hung out on the sidelines, like the proverbial wallflower. I did not want to engage with or be seen by anyone. I thanked God it was dark in there.

Within a few minutes my cover was blown. Someone with whom I was acquainted (we’ll call him B1) came over and asked me why I was hiding in the corner. I explained to him the circumstances under which I had found myself there at all. He shook his head in an understanding way (he, too, knew K) and asked me to join him and some friends. (They had found a coveted table!) He introduced me around. Ho-hum.

One of the guys told me I looked familiar and asked me if I had worked at the local supermarket. I told him that I had, indeed, worked there. He said that he had worked there for several years, so he must have seen me there. “Yeah, that must be it”, I replied. I can’t help but think that I must have been delightful company. At this point I spied my friend talking to a guy. “Great!”, I thought, “I can leave now.” Of course, this guy turned out to be just A guy, not THE guy. So, I went back to the table for more pointless and boring conversation about where we all knew each other from.

At some point, “Dancing in the Dark” came on. I think I said something along the lines of, “I love this song.” The supermarket worker (we’ll call him B2) asked me if I wanted to dance. Up to then I had really not been all that engaged in the conversation and I felt bad because he seemed like a nice enough guy, so I said, “Sure. What the hell.” We danced. We talked. As it turned out, he was a pretty nice guy.

We returned to the table to discover that someone new had joined us. I knew this woman, F. She was actually friends with K. I was pretty psyched to see her because I just wanted to get the hell out of there and I figured she could take K home. F agreed. She told me that she was supposed to be meeting someone there, a blind date. F wanted me out of there nearly as much as I wanted to be out of there. Because F and I had a weird history. The night that I had met my former boyfriend, it was she who had dragged me to a party to meet this “awesome guy” that she had connected with the night before. As it happens, I met an “awesome guy” at that party and dated him for two years. Unfortunately, my “awesome guy” turned out to be her “awesome guy” from the night before (in the end he didn’t turn out to be all that “awesome”, either— still, he was cute and she was pissed). Oops!

During the scintillating conversation with B1 and B2, prior to F arriving, it was established that B2 and I actually lived a couple of blocks away from each other, on the same street even. When I saw my opportunity to leave the club, B2 told me that he had come with B1, but since I lived so close, would I mind dropping him off? Early shift at the supermarket and all that. I agreed.

As we were walking out, there was a line of people waiting to get into the club. As we were passing the line, someone grabbed my hand and said, “We should talk.” My former boyfriend. In the flesh. We hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in months. It was the strangest thing. Because up until that point I would have done just about anything to see and/or speak to him again. In that moment, when the opportunity presented itself, instead of telling B2 that he would have to go back in and get a ride home with B1, I said, “Sorry. The Chestnut Street Express is leaving. And, what would we talk about exactly?” It was liberating and exhilarating.

As B2 and I got into my car, he looked at me and said, “Now you look like the girl I remember. You’re smiling. It’s your best feature.” I was confused. “Remember?”, I asked. He said, “Yes. I told you before I remembered you from the supermarket.” “No”, I said, “You told me that I looked familiar.” “No”, he said, “I remember you. How could anyone forget you?”

He’s spent the next 28 years making sure that I never forget him.

P.S. The guy that F was there to meet up with? Her blind date? B2! He revealed to me on the ride home that she was the reason he wanted to leave so suddenly, that she wasn’t his type. That was the first time I wanted to smack him, but surely not the last. (So much for “Mr. Nice Guy!”) Oh, and not that I blame her, but F? She never spoke to me again.

THIS IS A BLOG HOP! <<<Click for more info!

Here are some more posts from the blog hop. Enjoy!

How—and Why—I Met My Husband – Empty House Full Mind

How I Met My Husband – Books Is Wonderful

How I Met My Husband – CarPool Goddess

Shopping at the Man Store – Midlife 2nd Wife

A Date with Destiny – The Giggling Truckers Wife

Soul Mates and Angels – Connie McLeod

How I met the Big Bison – Wild Life In The Woods

How I Met My Husband – The Boomer Rants

The Love Story With A Warning Label – The Chloe Chronicles

How We Met – Joy’s Book Blog

How I Met The Men Of My Dreams – Daily Plate Of Crazy

Joe And Heidi – Did You Exercise Today?

Bald Men Have The Prettiest Wives – Home Place

It Takes Two To Make a Thing Go Right – The Fur Files

Blind Date = My Fate – Forever 51

Rites of Passage: Mid-life Marriage –

Over 50 and Happy – Wanna Wrestle?

The One Night Stand That Lasted 25 Years – Really Real Atlanta Housewife

Don’t I Know You? – Life on Wry

photo credits:80’s hair