Father Time plays tricks on us. Why not? He’s got plenty of—well,
you know.
In my last blog post, I shared how it took eighteen years to
finally go on a first date with Tim. That was nothing. A mere blip compared to
the week of waiting for Date Number 2. Actually, it’s a week and a day. That explains comparisons to
an eternity. So much more rational.
It’s like that old Heinz ketchup commercial—for those of you
who go back in time as far as the mid-‘70s. Cue the Carly Simon song, Anticipation.
Ah, it’s keeping me wa-a-aiting. And I am hoping for so much more than a dab of
sugared tomato sauce.
Even a decade ago, the specifics about a next date would be
firmed up through a phone conversation that followed a bit of phone tag which
had the added benefit of allowing you to play back the recording to hear his voice
and to feel something aflutter inside again. I remember having to towel off
after nervous phone calls during which I fretted over every word. Now
communication comes through text messages. Convenient, yes, and hygienically
more pleasing, but perhaps too controlled. We can type, delete, type, delete,
delete until any vulnerability and awkwardness are neatly expunged from the
record.
Indeed, Tim and I exchanged a few texts Sunday night and
Monday morning until a tentative plan was in place for Saturday. Not much
spontaneity in the words. Still, I will admit to rereading Tim’s opening words—Hey, handsome. He really wrote that. I
just went back and checked again. (Just for the sake of keeping this post
authentic, I assure you.)
There is no further contact, at least until Friday afternoon
or Saturday morning when one of us sends out a confirmation text. Just in case.
So much can happen in the span of a week.
My inner voice implores me to think of other things.
Pretend that the World Cup matters. Yea to any team wearing
green!
Watch another episode of an obnoxious celebrity chef berating
fledgling restaurant owners and wonder why I cannot swear off the #$%*@ show
once and for all.
Go outside and tame the blackberry bushes (but don’t get all
scratched up before the big date).
Sudoku. Another chapter in a YA book I cannot relate to.
Laundry. A valiant effort to rid the shower of any trace of mildew.
Anything to pass the time. Let another hour tick away. I am
that much closer to Saturday. It is important not to spend much thought playing
out the possibilities regarding the date. That is not constructive. There are
some really wonderful What ifs, but
given my track record, there are many more less hopeful ponderings. How will I
blow this? What better-than-me guy did he meet on Wednesday? When will it dawn
on him that I have a perma-pasty skin tone?
Ah, yes. If scrubbing the bathtub doesn’t temper the excitement,
self-doubt will. It is there. Always is during the early stages. I’d say I’m
not being too brutal with myself this time around. There is more confidence, a
sense that I deserve a great guy and a real hope that Tim just might be that
guy. But who knows?
Saturday still seems so far away.
