Not Dumb, Ugly and Incompetent

I've mentioned numerous times that I grew up feeling (i.e. being treated by my mother as . . .) dumb, ugly and incompetent. I frequently wonder what my adoptive mother's childhood was like; what was it that formed her into the harsh and critical mother that she became. I truly believe people who don't have the knowledge, understanding or instincts to parent in a nurturing fashion should not become parents. Of course, if that were so, the world would be much less populous. Hell, I probably wouldn't have my own children. And I wouldn't trade them for anything, so let's just toss that concept out the window.

Last night I had a second date with a very lovely man—Peter. We met for coffee on New Year's Eve day. I was entranced by him at that time, and could easily envision having a long and close relationship with him. Of course, twelve hours after that coffee date, my "chaos of house" began, and then the interviews in Ohio started falling into place. In our first hour-plus conversation, we talked about many things, including our musical experiences. He mentioned that he wanted to see the "Hanson Conducts Hanson" concert taking place this weekend, and I mentioned that I had tickets. When I got home, I e-mailed him and asked if he would like to attend with me. He said he was expecting a houseguest that weekend, but if that didn't materialize, would love to and would like to take me to dinner beforehand.

I did not hear from him the rest of last week. Earlier this week he saw me on AIM and IM'd me, asking how things were. I told him about my house fiasco and he commiserated. He said his houseguest was not coming and asked if we were still on for Friday night. We agreed to go to Rio Café — he had not been to that restaurant in its present incarnation, only earlier when it was Nonie's.

Clearly, this man is not pursuing me. A man who is pursuing me calls and e-mails every day. That ain't happenin' here. And because of that, the entrancement that I felt upon first meeting him had diminished. Completely.

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Did I mention before that he is 74 to my 57? And has significant health issues? Has survived some cancer threats and has some very rare slow-progressing terminal lung disease. So to get romantically involved with this man would be to potentially step into another caregiver position. For me that is both negative and positive. Negative in that it would be yet another loss in my life. Positive in that I wore that mantle very well with John. But let me insert that this is a very vital man. Takes excellent care of himself, doesn't drink or smoke, golfs frequently. Slim, trim, and very handsome.
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So by the time we met at Rio last night, I was totally neutral on him. When you add to that neutrality the fact that since we last spoke I have scheduled two interviews in Ohio and am feeling that my move is imminent, I was feeling like this wasn't really a date. Not a date date but more like two acquaintances spending an evening together. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Dinner was great. The owners and the wait staff were very cordial and welcoming to him. As I was waiting for Peter's arrival, Eduardo brought me a sample of the stuffing he had created for the evening's quail special. And of course they all hugged me and wished me well in the interviews. It seemed that Peter was rather taken aback by all the attention I received. He said something about my being the official taste tester there. I didn't interpret his comments as being critical at all, more "I see how they like you." (Oh, and by the way, he paid for dinner. Did not ask me to pay my share. Now that's how a gentleman behaves when he invites a lady to dinner!)

Let me do a little more stage-setting. Last night I was wearing Eileen Fisher: calf-length brown knit gored skirt, soft ivory t-shirt, ivory bouclé jacket, the long strand of pearls that John gave me a thousand years ago, plus the matching pearl earrings and bracelet, and brown pointy-toed boots with 2.5" heels. My hair was lightened this week and, if I say so myself, I looked fine. Very understatedly elegant. I am 5'8" in flats, Peter is around 5'9". He was wearing a navy blazer, gorgeous glen plaid slacks, a pink shirt with a cerise tie with yellow woven into it. Very preppy, very East Coast, entirely delightful. A much-needed drink for my parched eyes.

We rode in his Lexus SUV to the concert hall and I showed him my favorite easy-in, easy-out parking lot. As soon as we walked through the door of the hall, we started running into my friends. First Terry, in yet another cashmere sport coat. Then I introduced him to the executive director of the Symphony, who remarked about the man she had known in St. Louis with the same name as Peter. Peter knew of him and said they shared a great-grandfather. Then we took our seats and noted we were behind Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and the mayor and his wife. As we opened our programs, I pointed to the copyright at the end of the program notes and said, "That's my son." The concert began, after a way-too-lengthy raffle pitch (when will these people learn that less is more and the human brain can only retain so much information?). And then it was intermission. The mayor and Ms. Giffords went up on stage to surprise George with a congressional citation and the key to the city in honor of all he's done for Tucson and recognizing his 50th birthday later this month. As we left our seats for intermission, I spoke to Mrs. Mayor, reintroducing myself and reminding her I had played the piano at their house a year ago. We walked outside and I introduced him to the executive director's husband, who also mentioned the second-cousin in St. Louis. Then the chorus director came out and we hugged and chatted for ten minutes.

From start to finish of the time in the concert hall, it was clear that this was my turf and I was known and loved by many people in that venue. Peter has lived a highly successful life in business, is quite well-to-do, has served on the boards of many companies and organizations, has a college building named for him, and must be used to having people clamor for his attention. But suddenly I could see myself through his eyes, and what a power player I must appear to be in that environment.

I consider myself to be plain and simple. But dear friends frequently attempt to disabuse me of that opinion. My friend to the north tells me how excellent I am. The man on the Potomac tells me I'm the standard by which all the women in his life are measured. My son tells me men should consider themselves lucky to go out with me. And I pooh-pooh it all.

But suddenly last night I was on the same page as these men. I felt like I had the world in my hands. And I didn't need to chase after any man. One of these days some man (some Ohioan?) will meet me and have his socks knocked off. I don't need to be anxious or in a hurry for that. It will happen in due course. And he'll be one lucky guy.