From across the lounge she sees him. Tall, dark and handsome, with a football player's build. He's dapper; sleek and stylish. And is that a Gucci suit? He saunters towards her and she can see that he's just her type--dressed to kill, with looks to match.
He entertains her with the type of small talk that has become so mundane that she could swear he's reading from a script. But no matter. He's cute and it's so hard to meet a nice man these days.
Where are all the nice guys anyway? At her age, they're either married, happy to be in the forever-a-bachelor-mode, happier to date women her daughter's age or, if she's lucky, widowed. Since when did a widow become a woman's best bet?
She takes note of his words, placing each slice of vocab pie on the scale that every woman uses when she's approached by a potential date. He said that he travels for business - one point on the positive side, the man's got a job! His diamond stud earring is so big that it could be mistaken for the sun - one point on the negative side - he thinks he's P. Diddy.
After a playful game of quid pro quo, and a delicate balancing act, which she admittedly tips in his favor, she agrees that she would like to see him again. They exchange phone numbers and go their separate ways, which was easy for her since the entire lounge was illuminated by the his 15 carat earring.
At this point, you might think the sleek dresser's affinity for over-sized bling and Gucci suits should have been a sign of things to come, but no one could have predicted just what this style maven had up his sleeve or in his closet for that matter.
***
First dates are never easy. They're always plagued by awkward silences and strange missteps. But this one seemed bulletproof enough. After all, he'd just asked her to come over to his place for a nice home-cooked dinner - a real come as you are type of affair. So now you're thinking
why would she ever go over to his place, he could be a serial killer or worse! Need I remind you that at this point, she's just happy that he's not married, dating her daughter or a total jerk, so she's a bit more forgiving than the average gal. But hey, don't fault her for it, she's a great woman and a great catch. And, damn, she's got courage!
So up she walks to his front door and knocks with the tender knock of a woman who's thinking
maybe this wasn't such a good idea. She looks around and notices a nicely manicured topiary and her nerves calm a bit. Serial killers don't keep manicured topiaries, everyone knows that. He answers the door and welcomes her in to have a seat on the sofa.
As she grazes past him in the entry she commences her ritural of taking mental notes for the scale. Decent casual wear - one point on the positive side. Subtle, yet alluring cologne - another point. She smiles to herself as she takes in the essence of whatever dish he's cooking, just for her. For her!
They engage in a bit of chit chat. He laughs and his masculine guffaw echoes outwards from his large, barrell chest. Two points for the healthy laugh and broad shoulders. She accepts his offer for a glass of wine and walks to meet him at the dark granite kitchen island. Another point for good taste. He asks her to go ahead and have a seat, as he'll be serving the first course: French Onion soup. A strange choice for a first date, killing all-too-soon the likelihood of a comfortable first kiss - one point on the negative side.
He walks in her direction balancing two bowls of soup with a carefulness matched only by the internal balancing act plaguing her every thought. She watched as the steaming broth escaped from one side of one bowl and fell to his feet. HIS FEET! What the hell does he have on his feet?
She could harldy keep from laughing (from exploding really) and all she managed to say was an inaudible combination of grunts, through which she really meant, "
Oh. My. God. You're wearing rhinestone pumps. Shiny, sparkly size 13 rhinestone pumps! How did I not notice this before?"
Once she got over the initial shock of it all and after he replied to her disjointed mumblings with nothing more than a smile and a look that said, "
I like them, so what?" she composed herself with enough grace and poise to deliver a timely, "
Nice pumps."
Before he could explain his preference for unusual footwear, the memories of their initial meeting raced through her mind. The Gucci suit, that stupid thing he said about having a "feminine side", that earring -- that huge shiny earring. If there was ever an inclng to clue her in on things to come, that was it!
He politely explained that he liked rhinestones and since women have so many choices when it comes to shoes that he felt it only fair that he also have such a vast selection from which to draw. But in her mind, a rhinestone pump was so far from a loafer, a sneaker, a clog or anything that resembled a man's shoe that she couldn't hack it, not even after his surprisingly convincing justification.
And, so she said goodbye to him and to each and every positive point she had chalked up in his favor. No matter his dapper good looks or the generosity of her initial scale nudgings, the size 13 rhinestone pumps were simply too heavy for her to handle.
Moral of the story? When a woman says she wants you to walk a mile in her shoes, she doesn't mean it literally.
***
As some of you're keenly aware, this new year has been one of great awakenings for me. Typically said "awakenings" occur when waking up from a dirty martini-induced coma, yet this particular stirring was one that crept deep within my consciousness and rested with a level of comfort that surprised even me.
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