So I am dressed and date ready, and frankly a little apprehensive. As Madonna would sing, I am dressed up to the nines, and at sixes and sevens. Don't cry for me, Argentina.
Is this a mistake? I am supposed to meet shiny new people, not go into the wayback machine to reevaluate people with whom it didn't work out all that swimmingly before. Am I completely crazy to be doing this? Of course I am. I am my own worst nightmare. And I have the goods to prove it.
Oh right. We are stepping out under the guise of friendship and having a friendly little bitch-fest about our recent dumpees. Not a date. No risk. No harm, no foul. No expectations. No dreaming of rising off into the sunset. We are going out to have a few laughs. And more than likely, I will provide them, however unintentionally.
As Scott rounded the corner to find my nearly impossible to find if you haven't been there before house, he called to see if I was awake and alive. I replied that of course I was, the secret cup of iced coffee now coursing through my veins, and I would open the front door and put on the porch light so he'd know which house is mine. (I am not kidding, delivery people, trash men and service people, paperboys, the fire department, most notably, have driven laps upon laps around the block looking for my house with two addresses. Scott would be no different.)
I see the lights from his car coming around the corner as I open the front door. He pulls up in front. Zippy little luxury sports car. A good start, but I am figuring myself to be the worst judge of all things male lately so we'll put a tentative check in the inoffensive column. Not quite a Win. Points for not showing up in something that looks like it was driven off the set of Sanford and Son. But lets not assume it isn't a rental.
And then he steps around the car. And even in the shadows, his silhouette is familiar. The gait recognizable. Same Scott. And as he steps into the light from my porch light I can see his smile. The very one that used to get me every time in high school.
I swing open the door and can't help from stepping out onto the porch to greet him with a kiss (he was always a kiss-hello-er) and not being able to suppress a wide smile and remarking "Well look at us all grown up!"
He gave me a hug and a kiss that said "Great to see you after all these years," and we were instantly first date nervous and shy and smiling like a couple of dorky teenagers.
Maybe this could be a date. Should be a date? Did he think it was a date? OMG I am a hazard to my own self.
I make a mental note that he neither smells like Altoids or the horror they were invented to try to keep from anihilating all living creatures in its path. In fact he smells delicious. Great start.
He remarks that my house is beautiful and very Christmassy. (More points. Now miles ahead of Casey and he just stepped across the threshold.)
He'd brought two bottles of wine. Chardonnay. You could practically hear the pinball dinging away racking up the bonus points.
We step into the kitchen to open one of the bottles. He is dressed very nicely and looks very handsome. No need to take him somewhere dark where he won't be noticed. Glad I churned out the hype with my attire, even if my motivation at first was to give him nothing but admirable scores to report back the people I know that he still talks to, like Lynda Spumoni, with her big fake smile on Facebook, who would surely be asking if I had ever outgrown the training bra or had ballooned up when I'd had the kids. A beyotch to the end. (I am still in high school in my heart of hearts, dontcha know...)
We began to talk about the usual things - what our kids are like, their interests, how they are like us or not like us, how we got into our careers and what about us makes us good at them. Little updates on people we both used to know...including Lynda Spumoni, my sister Charlotte and her family and how they figure into every day life, his sister Gillian and how she is the matriarch since his mother passed away. I made him laugh. He made me laugh. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Exactly ten minutes had passed and I was completely at ease and it had nothing to do with the (outstanding) chardonnay he'd brought. I realized that I had had absolutely nothing to worry about. Nothing.
We were the Liza and Scott of 30 years ago flashed forward as though we'd kept pace with one another all along. Divergent paths that wound up at the same point. We were essentially the same people, a little weathered, a little wiser, a lot more mature, but at our hearts, the same.
This was going to be a fun evening. Don't cry for me, Argentina. The truth is I never left you.
I see the lights from his car coming around the corner as I open the front door. He pulls up in front. Zippy little luxury sports car. A good start, but I am figuring myself to be the worst judge of all things male lately so we'll put a tentative check in the inoffensive column. Not quite a Win. Points for not showing up in something that looks like it was driven off the set of Sanford and Son. But lets not assume it isn't a rental.
And then he steps around the car. And even in the shadows, his silhouette is familiar. The gait recognizable. Same Scott. And as he steps into the light from my porch light I can see his smile. The very one that used to get me every time in high school.
I swing open the door and can't help from stepping out onto the porch to greet him with a kiss (he was always a kiss-hello-er) and not being able to suppress a wide smile and remarking "Well look at us all grown up!"
He gave me a hug and a kiss that said "Great to see you after all these years," and we were instantly first date nervous and shy and smiling like a couple of dorky teenagers.
Maybe this could be a date. Should be a date? Did he think it was a date? OMG I am a hazard to my own self.
I make a mental note that he neither smells like Altoids or the horror they were invented to try to keep from anihilating all living creatures in its path. In fact he smells delicious. Great start.
He remarks that my house is beautiful and very Christmassy. (More points. Now miles ahead of Casey and he just stepped across the threshold.)
He'd brought two bottles of wine. Chardonnay. You could practically hear the pinball dinging away racking up the bonus points.
We step into the kitchen to open one of the bottles. He is dressed very nicely and looks very handsome. No need to take him somewhere dark where he won't be noticed. Glad I churned out the hype with my attire, even if my motivation at first was to give him nothing but admirable scores to report back the people I know that he still talks to, like Lynda Spumoni, with her big fake smile on Facebook, who would surely be asking if I had ever outgrown the training bra or had ballooned up when I'd had the kids. A beyotch to the end. (I am still in high school in my heart of hearts, dontcha know...)
We began to talk about the usual things - what our kids are like, their interests, how they are like us or not like us, how we got into our careers and what about us makes us good at them. Little updates on people we both used to know...including Lynda Spumoni, my sister Charlotte and her family and how they figure into every day life, his sister Gillian and how she is the matriarch since his mother passed away. I made him laugh. He made me laugh. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Exactly ten minutes had passed and I was completely at ease and it had nothing to do with the (outstanding) chardonnay he'd brought. I realized that I had had absolutely nothing to worry about. Nothing.
We were the Liza and Scott of 30 years ago flashed forward as though we'd kept pace with one another all along. Divergent paths that wound up at the same point. We were essentially the same people, a little weathered, a little wiser, a lot more mature, but at our hearts, the same.
This was going to be a fun evening. Don't cry for me, Argentina. The truth is I never left you.
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