I’m Not Fine

Saturday morning.  I don’t want to get up, so I don’t.  Who needs yoga?  I’m engaged in meaningful discourse with random strangers I meet on dating sites.  Surely this is the best use of my time.  Today, I’m texting back and forth with The European, and he asks if I want to meet that day.

He’s good looking and dressed strategically hip.  I later learn he has a model friend in Europe who picks out his clothes.  He’s Belgian and his English is a work in progress.  I don’t talk much, and when I do, I make jokes, so I’m down to nearly zero material.  I listen to him talk about his life philosophy and vision and priorities.   I guess this matters, but can’t we talk about something else, like the flavor of toothpaste we like?  Truth be told, many of our interests and ideals are aligned.

He calls me the next day, and we make plans to meet Wednesday night.  Wednesday morning arrives, and like many others, I’m bewildered, shocked and sad.  I stumble through the day, and despite my mood, decide, what the hell, I’m hungry, and since he’s yet another guy that talks on autopilot, I’ll go and at least be distracted from my dispirited thoughts.

He’s smiling.  He smiles a lot, which I find a little unnerving.  Again, more talk about vision.  He says “I’m fine,” not in response to me, but to drive home the point that whatever happens during the course of the day, his response is, “I’m fine.”  Can I really be with someone like this?  I’m the person who watches sad movies and listens to sad songs, because I really, really like them.  Another refrain of his, “no problem.” No problem, no problem, no problem.  In my mind, that is starting to become a problem.

After dinner, he walks me to my car, and his kiss is what stirs my interest.  I don’t know what to say to this guy, but I do know how to kiss him.

Friday night, and yup, another Tiki Bar. I’m having an existential crisis over these Tiki Bars, but I suppose that’s a topic for a different blog.  We arrive at the same time, and he greets me and goes right in for the kiss.  And, well, the kiss is legit.  Really legit.  This is how I get into trouble.

After dinner, we amble over to the band. They aren’t that good, but I admire their heart.  He asks me to dance, and I reluctantly get up and walk over to the brightly lit, sandy dance area that is unoccupied other than us.  We start to dance, he tells me he has no rhythm, and walks off.  What?  I look up at the band and make the same gesture my son used to when he disagreed with a ref – that “I can’t believe you just made that call” gesture.  I decide to stick it out anyway, so there I was, on the dance sand, rocking it out until the end of the song.   When I got back to my seat, I told him I was ready to leave.

Which was followed by a very, very long goodbye in the parking lot.  It ended when the tide rolled in and we were standing there, two 50 year olds, acting like teenagers, kissing with our feet stuck in the wet sand.  Is there a metaphor in there somewhere?

Two songs. I just really needed Frank Turner this week, and well, the second one is self-explanatory.



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