I get scared. I get scared that I'm enjoying this relationship too much. The Jazzman is a good man, a fine man, an upstanding and honorable man. I told him the other day that he doesn't realize what a rare creature he is. Many, if not most, of the men in his age range (60 +/-) and marital status (available) are scoundrels. I've written about several of them, if you care to dig back through the archives. Most notable among these was Mr. Match, whose daughter even told me he wasn't good enough for me! We women—or I—go into relationships with hearts on our sleeves and our souls wide open. And the scoundrels of the dating world dash our spirits against the rocks. We become scared to stick our necks out. To suddenly and unexpectedly meet a man who doesn't have "Scoundrel" embroidered on his ball cap is an exquisite experience, joyous beyond belief.
And yet I wait for the other shoe to drop, for the real man to emerge from within the thoughtful, kind and considerate man. We—the 50-something, 60-something women who are alone—have been taught to expect failure rather than success.
But maybe, with the help of this patient man, I can grow beyond the old, ingrained fears. Yesterday when the fear washed over me, I stepped aside and told myself, "The Jazzman is not [insert name of any predecessor scoundrel]." After repeating that mantra for ten minutes, the fears subsided.
If, upon reading about it here this morning, he is surprised that I was fearful yesterday, then I have successfully taken one more step toward maturity.
Aren't hard-won victories the sweetest?
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