Everything changed today. I joked with my colleagues, “I just met my next wife.” Ug! What a dumb thing to say. I was struck senseless this afternoon by a woman in a white tennis dress sitting at a cafe table. She waved at me. I asked her if she was a tennis player, or just into the gear.
“Into the gear, I’m afraid. I did play in high school, though.”
“Ah. Well, you need to pick up a racket again.”
“Tennis is great.”
Our banter flipped across the net like a competitive match. She was careful not to give too much ground as she smiled and demurred. And, I’ll admit, too young for my natural tastes. That’s just me. I think the current administration is making the case that there is no “too young.” Fucking Gross!
I don’t know her age, marital status (she was not wearing a ring), or name. Or, I didn’t. I do now.
Be careful about dating a writer, they will describe you. For me, it’s more about describing what you did. I don’t judge. Okay, I try not to judge. I judge. We all do. I didn’t judge myself for getting carbonated by this lovely young woman. She was buying a lunch box with a freezable liner. A mom? Don’t know. I know nothing about her. Her smile. The amazingly bright white tennis dress. And I blacked out.
That’s not true. Ten minutes later I passed her a note. I gave her my number. What? So much for my self-imposed time out.
But seriously, what am I going on about? I know NOTHING about her. I am blinded by the dress and direct sunlight on a September afternoon. I will reset. I will not follow up or pine for her. I have already let go of any expectations.
Also today, at my register, I had some excited banter with a customer and my helper. The customer said to the helper, “He is an incredibly good-looking man.”
Damn! What?
What if… Oh shit… Now I recall, before I left for prep school up East I was one of the top 1%, the in club, the chosen. Beautiful people. I can see it in my dad and my mom, but those were glamorous times. Then, I recall, at schools through college, I always had beautiful girlfriends. I, apparently, was a catch. And it’s possible that I still am, white hair and all.
Okay, so what would be good about the tennis venus on a half shell? Fit. Fine. F-able. (Sorry.) Um, she could be an astronomer. Recently divorced and ready to sew some oats. With millions in the bank and no concrete plans.
I’m the plan. I will be the plan. I can entertain and juggle, sing and diddle, toodalooo and boogie. I’m here. I feel now, like I was practically waving my hand in the air. “Pick me. Give me a try.”
So, what is made up and not so good about venus d’ courte?
No inner life. Loves reality television and processed cheese spreads. Has not read a book since Moby Dick in high school. That one almost killed her. But the one from The Catcher in the Rye guy, the girl one. Franny. Now, that’s a killer story. The second half of the book is about her brother, Zooey, and his obsession with this Jesus prayer thing, “Praying without ceasing.” Fills in more of the story, but a bit flat.
Turns out, according to a biographical documentary, after Sallinger silenced himself he continued to write every day. Our access to the genius ended with the voice of Holden Caulfield. Imagine what other books and stories he must’ve written. In the movie, they said the books would be coming out from the estate, now controlled by J.D.’s son. None have been published. The film is 20 years old.
The tennis skirt is my undoing. They don’t even have to play tennis.
“But it would be a lot cooler if you did.”
I said something similar today, in my most alluring voice, “You’re closer to playing tennis again than you know.” Ha! I bet that’s why she hasn’t called or texted me yet.
I think a few hours later, I spotted her across the store talking to two other ladies. I tried to see, establish recognition in either direction, but I was called to go help in another department, so we didn’t make contact. I sort of like that. I would’ve continued the hot pursuit. That’s my DNA. Even if I know that appearing disinterested or busy is an attractive thing. I will not pursue. I have sworn it off.
I will ruminate and write. I will use the idea of her as a muse. I will write her love songs.
The woman who said I was handsome had begun telling me about her writing. “I write poetry,” she said. My helper and I both nodded. Then we went on a quick journey into the young poet who made such a big splash several years ago with the little drawings. Both of them expressed their love for her poems.
“It’s like a gateway drug. Getting hooked on poetry is a great thing. And the way she tied in the poem with a few squiggly drawn lines was amazing. I get it. Extending the vibe of the words with a little icon.
The poems were more like Pringles’ Potato Chips. They’re not really potatoes anymore; they are slurry molded into a perfect unnatural curve. I’m sure the ingredients are just as palatable and unhealthy. And, who am I to judge?
Is it poetry? Yes. Is it fun? Yes. Isn’t that enough?
Like this here, is this enough? Is it a novel, a Proustian exposition? A mental illness that continues to build in pressure and pressured speech? What is this sentence? What is a poem? If I don’t like that type of poem, it’s okay; it doesn’t make it a bad poem. And Pringles are not bad potato chips. They are not very fulfilling, but they get the job done, delivering salty crunch to our stimulated nervous system.
Is the girl in the tennis dress like a potato chip? I am hoping for something more substantial for my next investment of time. I have the time. If I am going to sell it to a partner, they are going to have to take as many moves, make as many overtures to get together as I do. If it’s not balanced between us, I will fall into the weaver-of-stories-and-passion. I will woo, cajole, poem, sing, perform for her until she says no or gives in.
That’s not the plan, however. I’m not entertaining a partner right now.
You know, the person will show up when you stop looking for them. Fine, I killed my online dating profiles. I am focused on my fitness, writing, and cash flow. I need some changes in my life. I need to get on with the business of selling book one instead of starting book five. Of whatever this is.
She flittered by today as a sign. The woman’s comment, also a tonic, may have led to my delivering the note to Venus less than an hour later. I was high on myself. Ready for my four-day weekend, which started exactly one hour and forty-five minutes ago.
What will this moment be about for me?
Nothing. Stop. Write. Sleep. Play tennis. Spend time with my guitar and my old tennis buddy.
I just bought a used version of the Ram Dass book “Be Here Now.” I’m cultivating a mindset of “Be There Now.”
Even in these moments, these long uneventful days, I am growing, stretching. I am learning to respect each hour I get back from the machine.
I can be pulling off the tennis dress “there.” I can sleep, eat, and write without distraction. *OM*
