The long and winding road

It’s deer mating season. Like us, the deer are looking for love while hunters are looking for deer.  As usual, they, like us, are looking for love at the wrong times and in the wrong places. How many bad boyfriends and experiences have to take place before true love walks in the door. While I’m listening to the sound of rifles and running deer hooves, I’m reminded of a few of my own misplaced “heart” occasions. 

Once upon a time, a mild mannered man whom I had seen and oftentimes talked with at the gym asked me to attend a concert with him. He was somewhat shy, charming, and courtly so I said yes. Later, not clear on what kind of concert we were to attend, whether at the music center or at a rock jam, but believing the genial gentleman to be of a more bashful nature, a more conservative venue was probably in the forecast.  I settled on an understated black pants suit, thinking I would be ready for anything in that outfit. I was terribly wrong. He arrived at the agreed upon time, dressed elegantly in a jacket and tie, and then took me to a Jesus concert, where we spent the evening chanting great vocal Hallelujahs. 

I was only slightly more nervous when a co-worker suggested an evening with a newly divorced old friend who taught high school history. I reiterated some of my more tragic dates, including the Jesus concert story. She assured me that nothing of that nature would occur. He was agnostic, articulate, and well traveled. We met at a local bistro. True to her words, he was a pleasant enough man, well spoken, affable, and well mannered. Throughout the dinner, though, he kept quoting his "mama", which was only slightly tiresome, but did so in her native German language, which was extremely tiresome.  After a long long while, I suggested he stop quoting his German mama or I would be forced to respond with a few of my mama’s well chosen Italian quotes. I understood clearly why this man was divorced. 

Daunted, I was nonetheless game to go out with the engineer from our twice weekly hiking group who had suggested an outdoor jazz concert in Pasadena. An excellent choice. He called 20 minutes before his scheduled arrival time to say he would be ten minutes late, which was very considerate, until I realized that ten minutes translated to an hour later. Evidently, he had had his new Escalade washed to impress me. I was not impressed, particularly when he appeared wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and enough Navajo turquoise jewelry to fund the restoration of the entire nation’s beaded moccasins. We traveled to Pasadena, during which time he allowed as to how it was too late to attend the concert; he didn’t want to pay full price for a small portion of the show and suggested we ought to just “grab a bite” and wander around Old Town. Mildly disappointed, since jazz is one of my favorite music genres, I steered him to the usual parking lot I frequented when visiting the Old Town area, but he “was not about to pay to park” so we drove around and around town. Now I was mildly irritated. It was summer. Pasadena is a huge tourist area, there was no free street parking in the entire city, and he was not about to squeeze an Escalade into any tiny space. Another 45 minutes later (surely the gas expended equaled the cost of parking), we parked at the outer edge of town. I was not wearing walking shoes and I was hungry, not to mention cranky and more than slightly annoyed that this cheapskate would not spring six crummy dollars for parking.  Every maitre d’ told us the wait was at least 45-60 minutes. Now I was low on blood sugar, really ticked off and determined that somehow this stingy bastard was going to pay for my pain. Luckily, we entered a little Italian bistro just as one couple left and grabbed their seats. I perused the wine list only to be told that he preferred a glass of beer.  Beer . . in an Italian restaurant. That was the last straw. I ordered the most expensive glass of wine and took two sips. Then I ordered the most expensive appetizer and took two bites. Then I ordered the most expensive main dish and ate two bites. And then I ordered the most expensive dessert but only took one bite before I remembered that I was dieting. He didn't return for a second date and kept a wide berth during our group hikes. 

And just as I returned to my previously settled upon single life, convent / retirement plan, my two ‘bestie’ girlfriends talked me into one more date. They had found love, their daughters had found love, their fathers had found love, all on the same dating web site. One more date, one more time, one more wasted evening, just once more into the breach they pleaded, even after hearing my regrettable dating sagas.  I asked them, I asked the cleaning lady, I asked the pharmacist, I asked the cosmos, “How hard could it be to find a man who’s (a) intelligent (b) possessed of a sense of humor, and (c) kind.” That was all I wanted, just three little things in a man. I was patient. It wasn’t much to ask I thought, but for 50 years I had asked, until. . . finally. . . Scott stood at the door; my prayers were answered. The long and winding road that led to his door. May it never disappear.