To Be Splendid

About six months ago a series of clicks started moving through the system of tumblers that lock my brain. I couldn't hear them but I felt the tiniest shift and ease as pins lined up, tension built, and I experienced one slight release after another. I am letting go.

I've let go before. I've walked away, I've moved on. This feels different. When I compare my previous life transitions to now it seems as if those times were like walking through a doorway into another room (leaving the room behind)and this is more like opening the windows to see what is actually in the room (to find I may want to spend more time in it).

When I turned 50 it bothered me to state my age. Now I throw it out like a challenge. I'm 51 and my skin will always look 20 years younger. I started growing my hair longer before my birthday. I'd worn it extremely short for years. I've embraced a couple looks that I've always loved on other people and hadn't tried myself. Why? I have no idea. I find myself wearing colorful silk scarves more days than not. I wear a denim jacket with dresses and I have a closet full of shoes that make me happy.

I was asked if I have plans for Easter. Would I like to have dinner with a family because I'm all alone? I declined, saying I have theater tickets. The inviter was surprised and said she was sorry I had to go by myself. Reader, I hope you're not sorry for me. I have 3rd row seats. I think it will be wonderful.

Now to one of the clicks I was talking about. It may take a minute to get there. I went dancing with a female friend of mine last night. We were outside - on the patio - taking in the night breeze and catching up on our lives. A most attractive, friendly, single man struck up a conversation and bought us a drink. This most attractive, friendly, single man eventually asked me to dance and at one point told me I was "splendid". Isn't that a wonderful word? Given that his native language is French, I take that as a sincere compliment and I felt bad that because the band was so loud he had to say it 4 times before I heard it. (Kind of.)

Here's the click. He was good-looking, single, seemingly-sincere, interesting and...more than 10 years younger than me. I'm aware of how my room-leaving, door-slamming self works.

Easing open the windows shows me that it's fun to dance. It's wonderful to be told I'm splendid. One day I may meet a man in my general age-range. Maybe. In the meantime. Click. Click. Click. Yes, he has my number.

©Michelle Scofield, April 22, 2011 All Rights Reserved

A Man for Every Day of the Week

I’ve taken to running errands on my lunch hour. I run to the bank. I get my car washed. Today I ran to the grocery store and picked up some fresh veggies. It would be great to have a delivery service to bring my groceries to me.

Today I was involved in a discussion about the milkman, a bit of reminiscing. Some of you may remember him. When I was a girl we had a big tin box on the front porch. The milk man would come around twice a week and place a couple gallons of milk and maybe some half-and-half or cottage cheese or whatever extra order Mom had placed for him on the little yellow slip of paper that she clipped on the box with a clothespin. If she forgot to order the extra before she ran off to work in the morning it was always a loud “shit!” when she got home that night and started preparing dinner.

Seems there used to me more “men” around who did certain tasks for single women in the old days. Please know that I’m smiling as I type this. I’m fully aware that a woman could have done those jobs. Today’s talk about the milkman disintegrated exactly as you might expect. Today a group of women began to talk about just who we might want to come around once a week. There were laughs and sideways smiles, smirks and talk of servicing us.

Mechanics. Plumbers. Cabana Boys. Chefs.

Here’s how it ended up.

Mostly we wanted someone to:

Wash our cars. Go to the bank. Do our grocery shopping.

Ha! So I guess all the old jokes of having the milkman come around are just that - old. We tried to keep up the jokes and the innuendo. We just couldn’t do it.

There is no sideways way to say it.

Sometimes an oil change is just an oil change.


©Michelle Scofield, April 20, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Hallelujah!

Could the moon be more full?

Please! I know I asked for help from my friends but...What. The. Hell?

Tonight (7:55pm), in my car, dressed in a cute new cocktail dress and my phone rings. My friend is backing out on plans for tonight. Fine. I get that his could-be date backed out. I get that he's not feeling it. Big ol' sigh and let's get on with it. I drive to the art show and, damn it! Where am I supposed to park for this thing? After 20 minutes of circling the bus station and the hobos (yes, I said it) I find a place next to the 24hour flower shop and traipse my new shoes over the train tracks to a complimentary shot of single-malt. That's better. The art is good but the crowd is on average 20 years younger than me and I don't know anyone but one of the artists. I'm out of there after praising her obvious talent. I leave the gallery and maneuver through the dark streets to my car hoping against hope that I make it in one piece.

I duck into one of my favorite restaurants. It's a favorite because it serves a fantastic steak and one of the bartenders is a real cutie that I've been flirting with for about 6 months. Would you believe that he's maybe leaving said establishment? Ack! Not to worry. He has my contact information and he wants to attend an art event with me. I'm feeling pretty good about the fact that I wore the right cute dress tonight and that he won't be "the help". I hate that phrase. I hate the "should I, or should we" debate. He's attractive. We're both single. Forget about it!

Now's where it gets interesting. A man sitting next to me starts up a conversation. I think, "harmless". Wrong.

By the end of my steak and partway into his conversation, I'm trying to think of an exit strategy where I don't get murdered by the Jesus freak to my left. What did I do to deserve this? Hail Mary full of grace, please don't let him see me when I exit to the parking lot after going to the ladies' room. (I'd paid my tab earlier and managed to confirm with Mr. Hottie Bartender that he would be calling me next week.) I excuse myself to the rest room before Ezekial enters the promised land of discussing his upbringing in Kentucky. What sends me running? Literal fists on the bar and finger pointing to heaven. For a little while I think Jim Baker or Joel Osteen is in house.

I slink into the parking lot, making furtive glances over my shoulder and heave a sigh of relief as I shut my car door. I am safe within the confines of my car for the second time this evening.

So I'm home. I suppose I could lift a prayer of Thanksgiving for a safe return in light of the hazards I faced tonight. Or I could just be grateful for another adventure in this wonderful city and call it good.


©Michelle Scofield, April 16, 2011 All Rights Reserved

With a Little Help From My Friends

So divorced eight (8?!?) years. Haven't seriously dated anyone for over a year. What do I know about dating? That's the question of the century. Guess what. I'm not going to answer that today.

Here's what's going on. I've asked my friends to consider their friends. Do they know anyone in my general age range, who is employed, who might possibly be interested in meeting me. I know that I'd like to meet someone who isn't fresh out of a relationship. I figure I've done that (dated someone who is working through his issues). It's not something I want to do again. Ouch!

Today I was told that I wasn't someones "type". I wasn't a little tiny woman and I was too smart for one particular man about whom I'd inquired (an acquaintance of a friend). OK...honestly? After awhile a girl just wants to throw in the towel and go back to the Internet (which I dabbled in BARELY for a couple of years). BUT that is no man's land as far as I'm concerned. So it stung a bit to hear this truth but darlings the truth is just that.

I'm just going to keep on being me. It's off to the bookstore and then working on my travel plans. If my friends know someone, awesome. If not, I'm going to change the name of this damned blog. :)



©Michelle Scofield, April 16, 2011 All Rights Reserved