Both attempts were miserable failures. Someone had to take the blame, and I was the logical culprit. Clearly, I was not marriage material then, and nothing has changed since. The first union lasted 15 years; the second ended after five months. Given the mathematical progression (exponentially speaking), another attempt might last for approximately three minutes. Hardly worth the bother, I figure, so why try again? Besides, I have been so badly traumatized by the second failure, which occurred in 1995, that I currently have no interest in women or relationships of any kind. Casual ones present unacceptable risks, since there are always possibilities that something more serious might develop.
This is fine. I have my own life to live and I value the freedom. Strange things happen as you get older, however, and I am now faced with a rather perplexing dilemma.
For the past 13 years, I have lived the life of a Trappist monk as far as women are concerned. This monastic existence has rendered me sexually illiterate. On rare occasions, I meet interesting women but I have forgotten how to play the game and I don’t know the rules. My friends tell me it’s like riding a bicycle … you just have to get back on and keep peddling. I am not convinced. Catastrophic train wrecks have been caused by men who attempted to re-acquaint themselves with this two-wheeled form of transportation; as embarrassing as it is to admit, I have potentially life-threatening problems with anything that has wheels … even shopping carts.
Generally, I am oblivious to women as sexual beings, yet in the past three months I have found myself surprisingly aware of things I haven’t noticed for more than a decade; like emerald green eyes, a certain vocal inflection, or perhaps some asymmetrical feature I once found attractive. In each instance, a conversation ensued, I felt that electrical current and ran away. Not literally, but I extracted myself from the conversation as quickly as I could.
I do not understand why these things are happening now. I know it could be random, coincidental or perhaps even hormonal. In all honesty, I can’t even be sure that anything at all is happening – it might just be my imagination playing tricks on me. But this last incident three days ago, well … that definitely was not my imagination.
It began as a simple shopping expedition. I was moving quickly, hoping to get it over with as fast as possible. I threw the coffee in the cart and made a sharp U-turn, accelerated around the corner to aisle four, headed for sugar, when the collision occurred. I broadsided her cart with sufficient force to knock it free from her grip. Of course, I apologized profusely.
“You know,” she said with a hint of good-natured sarcasm, “you forgot to signal.” There was instant eye contact, and sure enough, she had emerald green eyes and auburn hair. She might have been in her early 40s. Technically, that meant I was old enough to be her father.
“You’re right,” I said. “I think my right blinker is out.”
“You should have that fixed – you might get stopped for that.”
“Yeah, that could be bad news – it’s a moving violation. I sure don’t need any points on my license.”
“Do you have a license? I might have to report this.” She flipped her hair back and smiled – that’s when I noticed the slightly turned-out incisor. This woman was pretty, but that’s the kind of thing that transcends “pretty” for me – she was beautiful, and right there, in aisle four by the flour, I fell in love with this total stranger.
“Well,” she said, faking a frown, “Can I see it?” I was somewhere else.
“See what?” I asked.
“Your license.” She did the hair thing, and I knew for sure she was flirting. That was great, but I had forgotten how that game went. There was gravity to this, though, so I decided I would wing it and hope for the best. I pulled out my wallet and handed her the license.
“Wow. I live right down the road from you. You know, you photograph well for a man,” she said.
“You mean women photograph better?” I asked, hoping I could find a way to verify my instincts.
“Women …” she smiled mischievously, “do everything better.” OK – this was my chance.
“You seem awfully sure of that. I don’t suppose you can back it up, can you?” The pause seemed to last for an eternity as I held my breath waiting for her response.
“I know I can. The question is, can you handle it?” Bingo! I was back in the game. She invited me to dinner and … they were right. You never forget.