by Cj Paul
Peter is picking me up tomorrow night at seven, which means I’ll have to skip my new Tantric Yoga class – the one Mom has no idea I am taking and, God willing, never will. Then again, it is more than likely she wouldn’t even understand what it’s all about anyway. Perhaps I’ll mention it to her in passing just to see what happens. If she clues in, I can always tell her she misheard me and blame it on her advancing years. I can just imagine how well that would go over. Either way, I’ll be in hot water, but it is awfully tempting.
A little later, as I drift off to sleep, thoughts of tomorrow’s impending perfection crowd out all plots of maternal harassment, and I fall into a peaceful and unhurried sleep.
* * *
The next day, I awake refreshed and cheerful, ready to face that sociological experience I’ve heard so much about, but really know so little of: dating.
With a tinge of regret at missing out on one of my weekly rituals, I forgo my usual Thursday plans, including the Farmer’s Market at the Embarcadero. Instead, I feverishly start Googling beauty salons. I’ll need a blow dry and styling session, finger and toenails that look human, and should probably swing by a department store makeup counter for a mini makeover. Heck, I’ll even buy whatever it is they’re promoting, just to have an experienced hand apply some war paint.
Being an utter cameraphobe, I have always been grateful that my choice of profession allows me to be heard and not seen. Having the proverbial ‘face for radio,’ I am far from the polished newscaster type. I wouldn’t know the first thing about proper glamming techniques, and frankly I’m not sure I even own mascara.
The menagerie doesn’t seem to mind. In fact no one in my life does...except my mother. I can just picture the look on her face when I tell her I am going out to dinner with a respectable, educated, single gentleman. That priceless moment alone could make the whole outing worthwhile in and of itself, even if Peter were not fabulous in every way imaginable.
I am really looking forward to meeting him at last. He came into my life as something of a knight in cyber armor when I was going through intense heartbreak over David, the love of my life, after finding out he not only had a girl, but was living with her in Italy, and not just there for business, as I had believed.
We’ve all had people who get under our skin. For whatever reason, whether they’re sinners or saints, we just can’t shake our attachment to them. And that’s exactly the way it’s always been for me where David’s concerned. But he is no longer foremost in my mind. Today I am just grateful for Peter’s emergence on the scene. It lessens the sting of the David situation. Now, after a spate of online flirting – my first on Facebook, and initiated by him – I am actually doing the unthinkable. I’m getting together in person with a Facebook friend – with the prospect of it turning romantic, if not downright lusty. Well, why not? The guy is hot!
6:51pm finds me waiting by my front door, sweating despite the chilly weather. Peter had messaged earlier bidding me to dress ‘appropriately.’ Only he didn’t stipulate appropriate for what. I opt for a fetching, classic 50’s-ish, black dress, heels and pearls, with my hair actually down and cascading in long flowing tendrils, curled just for the occasion. My kohl-laden lashes feel heavy on my eyes and I do my best not to touch my face for fear of soiling the makeup artist’s handiwork, complete with an assault on some unruly eyebrows that were trying to break from the pack. Despite my tomboy tendencies, I feel all girl tonight...and rather pretty, if I do say so myself.
April often refers to me as a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a mystery, and frankly, she’s not the only one. I get that sort of comment a lot. Apparently being a tomboy but only wearing dresses and skirts poses a paradox. I eschewed pants a few years ago and even went so far as to divest myself of jeans – something I never saw myself being able to live without. Maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of Mad Men in recent years, but there is something incredibly freeing and spirited about wearing girl apparel exclusively.
Suddenly self-conscious and bashful, I look down and note the sassy heels elevating my stature, and I consider how after running around madly to ensure I got a pedicure, my colorful toes are now ensconced in black leather, hidden from admiring eyes. Oh, no matter. It was fun, and a treat I never give myself. If the date proves to be nothing more than something to laud over Mom and the impetus to get a mani/pedi, I will still regard it as a triumph.
Lost in my thoughts, I don’t even notice the polished, vintage, bathtub Porsche pulling up in front of my drive. Hearing the car door snap closed, I come to and grab my little black Prada bag and emergency satchel containing sweats and sneakers, should my ‘appropriate’ apparel be way off base. I open the door just as Peter is about to knock and my breath catches at the sight of him. Wow, he really is handsome. Yikes, maybe intimidatingly so. I miraculously locate the keys in my purse and manage to secure the lock on the door without too much embarrassing fumbling. I turn around and find myself smack dab in the middle of a big 6’3” bear hug, and just sort of melt into his arms. Oh, this is already fun.
Before I know it, he is pulling me by the hand over to the car, tucking me in and motoring us who knows where. Considering he’s wearing a classic tailored suit, we look awfully ‘appropriate’ together. Next thing I know, we are at our destination: the samples bar at Trader Joe’s! We had discussed its merits online on many occasions and I regard the move as genius and the perfect ice-breaker. My buddy Sarah is on duty again and does a jaw-drop double-take upon seeing me, but then plays it cool enough so as not to make me appear as dorky as I actually am.
If we had gone home right after our TJ stop I would have considered the date a success. Instead, we head to the city, where he takes me to Aqua for dinner, followed by a stroll around the Palace of Fine Arts. In rating the evening as a whole, I dub it ‘the best date ever.’ It not only goes off without a hitch, but is enjoyable in every way imaginable. We laugh, we flirt, and ultimately we smooch out like teenagers. He is gentlemanly, interesting, a joy to be around and just plain cool. April is right. This guy really is perfect. So then why don’t I feel anything for him?
Chapter ThreeMy Facebook wall has been buzzing with “Well?”s and “How did it go?”s after my perfect date with Mr. Perfect. Fortunately, Peter left for a business trip a couple of days after our meeting, so I have a handy alibi as to why I’m not seeing him again this week. My plan to taunt my mother with Peter’s existence backfired big time. Now I will never hear the end of how ‘perfect’ he is and how if I am efficient I should be able to plan the wedding for three months hence. One word comes to mind – karma!
April, of course, immediately grilled me for the details of the Peter Perfect tryst. Throughout my retelling, she was uncharacteristically stoic. And at story’s end, after a pregnant pause, she said, “You’re just not that into him, are you?”
“Not a bit of it,” I replied.
“Blah blah blah, could you be any more dramatic?” April mocks.
“Hahahahaha. I know. I’m just starting to wonder if everyone is right – that I have unrealistic expectations of what a relationship can be.”
“Hey, only you know who or what is right for you,” she interjects.
“...and that I really am the ice maiden everyone believes me to be, incapable of deep, intense, all-consuming love.”
“Now we both know that’s not true. You were head over heels for David,” she says.
Suddenly I am aware of an enormous elephant in the room, or in my head, a great wooly mammoth, which is my pachyderm of choice.
April and I rarely discuss David, or at least try not to. What would be the point? He is there and I am here, and it’s as simple as that.
Who am I kidding? There’s been nothing simple about it. Finding out he has a girlfriend whom he lives with, and not finding it out till eight m
onths into our torrid long-distance affair should have been grounds for dismissal. But oh no, not for this Pollyanna. I forgave him, dealt with it (badly) and moved on. Still, April’s mention of his name arrests me and suggests that my heart has just been run through with a blunt instrument.
Eventually I find my voice, “Yeh, at least we know I’m capable of feeling.”
“Aww Claire, I am so sorry. I didn’t...”
“I know, April. It’s ok. You wouldn’t be my best friend if you didn’t tell it like it is. Thanks.”
Long pause.
“So whatever happened with Nimo? Whatever became of him?” April asks.
Nimo, short for Geronimo – no one actually knows his real name – is a great guy. He’s very cute with an infectious laugh and is quite the humanitarian, volunteering at a homeless shelter, and saving recyclables to give to the local middle school so they can raise money to get new sports equipment. He is ex-military, Airborne to be exact, and now earns his living as a skydiving instructor. In fact, that’s how I met him. I had always wanted to try skydiving, but my dad, an ex-paratrooper himself, was not thrilled with the idea. A few months after he passed on, I consoled myself by taking my first and only jump in his honor. Nimo was in charge of the little band of strangers who had signed up for the activity, and was engaging and enthusiastic in explaining how to plummet from the heavens. I liked him immediately.
Evidently, the sentiment was mutual, as he flirted with me from freefall to touchdown. I was strapped in tandem with his silent-type co-worker, and Nimo made the jump with an adorable foreign exchange student from Japan, who kept her eyes closed and giggled throughout the whole affair.
He and I have been on a smattering of dates, which is a feat in and of itself considering he lives a couple of hours away. I always enjoy his company, despite the fact that he is so smitten he can hardly see straight. And of course, my mom is on me about him constantly, making sure to mention how happy it would’ve made my dad to have a military man in the family, and how if I ever really cared about my father I would marry Nimo for my deceased dad’s sake. Oh brother, for her sake would be more accurate.
“I’ll tell you what became of him. He became creepy!” I explain to April.
“Oh no. Is he still convinced that you’re going to marry him because a psychic at a fundraiser told him so?” she asks.
“Yep, absolutely. Until recently, we had fun together. But then he became possessive and started telling me how to live my life. He’s taken to giving me unsolicited advice in just about every area. He says it’s his duty as my ‘future husband.’ He really is a sweetiepie, so we stay in contact, but at some point it always gets awkward. Every now and then he pats me somewhere that gives me the heebie-jeebies and shoots me knowing look while muttering something about ‘patience, all in good time.”
“Oh.”
Another pause.
“Well what about that hot investment banker from the Marina who hit on you at Starbucks?” April suggests.
“Oh yeh, Bret! Wow, I’d forgotten all about him. I haven’t heard from him since I left the station. That was where he used to contact me. I wonder if Mark from the station’s IT department can retrieve any of my emails with Bret?”
“You should ask him, definitely!” April says encouragingly.
My wheels begin a spin class and my cheeks begin to flush. Bret is rakishly attractive. He’s incredibly intelligent with a deep, melodious voice, dark wavy hair, pouty yet manly lips, and the debilitating combo of a rapier wit coupled with an overdeveloped penchant for debauchery. Add to that his confidence, bordering on cockiness, and his determination to stop at nothing when he sees something he wants, and you’ve got a heady cocktail of charm and charisma. Yes, I do think I will ask Mark for Bret’s contact info. In fact, I think I’ll do it right now.
* * *
Being a creature of habit isn’t as monotonous as it may sound. We all love traditions – the things we look forward to over and over, year after year. Whether savoring a favorite dish served only at a particular holiday, reliving a first date each anniversary, or engaging in an elaborately choreographed handshake or fraternity song, we all have things we like to do because we’ve done them before. As a self-employed single, I have the luxury of controlling my schedule and doing exactly what I want, barring acts of nature or mechanical failure. And I have chosen to adopt a schedule that is a marvel of tradition and gastronomic satisfaction.
Monday
Breakfast - Almond croissant purchased from Boudin’s bakery on the Wharf the day before
Morning - Online fitness dance class via Siren School, currently with a Genie Bellydance theme
Lunch - Soup or salad with sourdough, also from Boudin’s the day before
Afternoon - Read! I am a voracious reader and since I usually have a variety of books in the rotation at once, I set aside Mondays for enjoying a biography. Right now I’m reading one about Ginger Rogers
Tea - It’s always Yorkshire Gold, one lump and a splash of milk, plus a few mini chocolate chip cookies...or dough
Dinner - I cook something to eat throughout the week while worrying about Wednesday’s show – all the while cursing myself for taking the time to cook and messing up the kitchen when I have a show that I’ve not begun to plan
Evening - Board meeting for the Community Youth Ballet. Fortunately I am not president this year
Tuesday
Breakfast - Bagel & cream cheese
Morning - Major procrastination including housework, and anything I can think of to avoid working on the show
Lunch - Last night’s leftovers
Afternoon - I start looking up images to use in tomorrow’s show – these don’t amount to a hill of beans come show time, but I convince myself they are vital, in order to put off the inevitable: work!
Tea - Desperate times call for a proper tea. I have a plain scone from my weekly supply shipped from Shamrock & Thistle in Garden Grove, SoCal. Being a tea room junkie, I am convinced they make the best scones in the universe, reasoning that I know of a certainty they make the best scones in the world, and I am relatively sure there are no scones on other planets. I choose plain scones for a very distinct purpose. Although they are themselves a bit of baked bliss, I prefer to reduce them to nothing more than a blank canvas on which to paint with Double Devon cream and strawberry jam – bliss indeed!
Dinner - No time to cook. No time to go anywhere. No time to even think! Thank God for delivery. I order from whichever local Lebanese eatery is in business at the time: Chicken Shwarma, extra Garlic Sauce, Taboulli salad, Pita bread, Tzatziki
Evening - AAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!! Why, oh why did I procrastinate so long? Don’t I know I have a show in the morning? %$#*@
Wednesday
Breakfast - A warm bowlful of maple brown sugar oatmeal settles my nerves and gets me in fighting shape for the morning’s madness
Morning - Showtime!
Lunch - Whatever I darn well please
Afternoon - I generally cozy up with one of the classics, fully expecting to doze off while reading, which is half the fun
Tea - Biscotti today, I should think
Dinner - I’m off to TJ’s for the weekly shopfest. After picking up one of the small, hand-held baskets, in hopes of limiting my gluttony, I hang a right and grab the first bouquet of fresh flowers that catches my eye. I haphazardly select some fruits and veggies as I make my way down to the samples bar. It stands awe-inspiringly, glistening by the light of the gods, serenaded by a choir of angels singing from on high. I engage in a friendly catch-up conversation with sample girl Sarah, then set off to collect whatever I may need or want in the way of cooking ingredients. I then sprint through the dairy section and toward checkout, doing my best to keep my head down and make it through the bread department intact... Okay, so one fresh meter-long baguette can’t do that much damage… and the double chocolate toffee bundt cake is on sale! Much too good a bargain to pass up. Oh and look, cinnamon crumpets!<
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Evening - After unpacking the groceries, including half the bakery section, and putting things precisely where they should be, I reward myself for my efforts, and for completing another show earlier in the day, by dining at Il Fornaio. Regardless of what I consume there, I always order a serving of tiramisu to go
Thursday
Breakfast - Tiramisu for breakfast! What foresight
Morning, Lunch & Afternoon – It’s Farmers’ Market day down at the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero, with everything from organic crops via local farms and ranches, to fresh-made samplings from the city’s top chefs. Invariably, I go for tacos!
Tea - Cherry scone with lemon curd… love!
Dinner & Evening – I nibble and nosh on freebies from the Farmers’ Market before dashing out to my Tantric Yoga class. What happens at Tantric Yoga stays at Tantric Yoga
Friday
Breakfast - One of my favorite treats – I skip on over to Mill Valley for breakfast at Dipsea Cafe on Shoreline – Chicken Apple Sausage Benedict with onions, peppers and
Morning - Usually spent window shopping and playing with apps on my iPhone, simultaneously, and for no real reason that I can fathom
Lunch - More of the week’s leftovers, which by this time are threatening mutiny
Afternoon - Last bit of reading for the week, generally a bestseller mystery
Tea - Shortbread cookies filled with raspberry and apricot jams
Dinner - I head to the Steam Donkey at Pinecrest Lake Resort for a relaxing waterfront dinner with a great menu. May I recommend the fresh grilled salmon with lemon basil butter?