Jim

Jim

You have a genuine and irresistibly sexy smile.  I would love to see it in real life. Jim.

What is it about my smile?   The double blow of absentee canines and tea/coffee addiction surely has a negative net result?  Quite possibly these are Jim’s standard words of introduction.  But I’m a sucker for flattery, it’s very affirming.  Being ‘long in tooth’, I will gracefully accept all compliments on offer, veneered or not. 

Jim’s picture is inspired; in it he proffers a perfectly chilled glass of white, judging by the opaque frosting on the glass.  How compelling is that?  He too, has a genuine and irresistibly sexy smile and intense indigo eyes with diverting dark lashes and brows framing them.  The surprise is that he’s totally bald.  I've never touched a bald head in my life, this could be a first…let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Anne.  Hats off to him for not covering up the fact with a toque.

Jim’s list of interests hint at a romantic and thoughtful man.  A sampling:  

Sipping wine on the beach under a full moon.   Ooh lovely!  An illegal activity that I would enjoy hugely.

Stars seen from my hot tub.  This sounds good in theory, but two questions come to mind-‘ How many other women have been in said tub?’  and ‘Does the water ever get changed?’ A third consideration flashes unbidden.  Participation in this activity would require donning my bikini (I would NOT go nude – the girls would float as two flat lily pads on the surface…  waahhh!)   I give an involuntary shudder. This lure is positively repellent. I never did like hot tubs much, even in the days when I looked good in them.

Throwing together a gourmet meal for you.  There can’t be much that is sexier than watching a man cook for me, though I've yet to experience this first hand.  My thoughts on this subject are informed by a brilliant young UK poet- Hollie McNish.  I will link to her reading of ‘My boyfriend can cook’ at the end of this posting.   After you’ve listened, your attitude toward men cooking will never be the same.

The Economist. Promising, a reader!  Interested in world events! But troublesome… a Right-Leaning inclination? 

I enjoy other cultures and foods. Me too.  Very much.

Hello Jim-

Thank you for your kind words about my smile, though I am not sure I agree.  Either you’re a genuine romantic or have had professional help with your profile writing.  If it’s all true, you must be sensitive, open-minded and talented.  Your hot tub activity did elicit a twinge of alarm.  I would have to know someone VERY well before they see me in my bikini.  However, that consideration aside, I am intrigued.  Anne

He replies, telling me not to worry about the hot tub issue at this stage, and asks if I’d be willing to drive to Victoria to meet him.  What the heck?  I’ll live dangerously and agree, despite our minimal message exchange.  After all, a protracted back and forth correspondence can be impositional on a girl’s time.  Experience has taught me that length of time spent corresponding proportionally increases the risk that I’ll blow my prospects with hastily written or ill-thought out messages. Perhaps it’s wiser to meet in person before I cause train smashes.  Also, it’s better to meet earlier in the game and be shot with the man right off the bat if it’s not going to work out between us.  

Ever aware that these tasty masculine morsels may be snapped up by the other women, I should not to let the grass grow under my feet. This one may well be a Prize Catch. Did I mention he’s an engineer and stands 6’2”?  

Such is my motivation regarding Jim that I agree to drive to Victoria for a walk together along the harbour front.  It’s a beautiful day, and being overdue to see a girlfriend in Victoria, I will be able to knock down two pins with one bowling ball. 

***

As I drive the Malahat highway, the summer wind messing my freshly washed hair -wayward strands sticking to my lip gloss- and my African music playing, I am suffused with joy and hope.  Without exception I approach each new encounter brimming with optimism that perhaps this one will be special, will think me special.  A friend likened it to going to look at a house for sale.  After the initial viewing, one already envisions oneself moved in, visualizing  where each piece of furniture will go, seeing oneself drinking morning tea on that window seat, snoozing under that maple tree; then it all comes  crashing down when the sale falls through and you have to muster strength and start over.   Meeting new people is exciting, but it’s buffeting on the self esteem to be assessed and found wanting.  What a privilege it is to feel secure in one’s single status, to believe that male companionship is a bonus in one’s life, not a necessity.  How empowering to come from that position of strength and independence.  Yet beneath my veneer of capability and contentment resides a girl that is vulnerable and fearful of the scrutiny attendant with each encounter.   Adolescent insecurities about appearance, conversational skills and clumsy gracelessness which plagued my teenage years have not altogether vanished.  Our human reality is that we just want to be liked.  Correction.  We just want to be loved. 

In person, Jim is even more handsome than his picture.  I bask in his warm smile and hug as we meet at the Inner Harbour. It’s hard to tear my gaze from those eyes.   He’s beautifully presented in a freshly-ironed pale grey cotton shirt, cuffs rolled to expose forearms, and beige chino trousers.  A charcoal sweater is slung over his shoulders, even my untrained eye can tell cashmere when it spots it.  Wow!  I am flustered and determined not to blot my copybook.   Thank heaven we’ll be walking rather than sitting opposite each other. This way I won’t be reduced to distracting palpitations by his indigo eyes or tempting forearms.

As we stroll side by side in the sunshine,  Jim speaks in glowing terms about his two exceptional sons and their many academic achievements.  I, in turn, try to make my own offspring seem reasonably successful; none of which is incarcerated, addicted or homeless.  

Before long, our conversation touches on the recent train accident in Lac Megantic, Quebec. There is bleak sadness as we exchange thoughts about this disaster.  Jim mentions that he lived in Quebec City a few years ago.   I can’t contribute much; my overriding memory of Old Quebec City comprising sublime recollections of the most delectable Maple Crème Brulee I've ever eaten, so I listen. At length.  Alarmingly, he becomes more and more agitated as he rouses to this theme, ranting about the Language police there, the way the French would happily tear apart the country, and how unpleasant life is there for the minority English speakers.  Unease replaces my enchantment. I don’t, however, feel in a position to judge, never having lived there so not knowing what it is like, day to day, being English and living in Quebec.  

Unsettled by his diatribe, I reel the conversation Westward and comment brightly that it’s seldom, if ever, we encounter much French here in Victoria.  This prompts him to respond, “Yes, I moved to Victoria because it’s so very English.  I love it here.”  There’s time for only a flicker of my (‘irresistibly sexy’) smile, before Jim’s remarks, like BC ferries, head to the mainland.  He declares he could never live in Vancouver, as so many of the neighbourhoods have been ruined by the inundation of Chinese and East Indians.  “It’s worse than those floods in Calgary! If you go to Fraser Street, where I grew up, you would think you’d been transported straight to New Delhi, not a white face to be seen!  The same for Richmond, except there its hoards of Chinese!”  In conclusion, he adds emphatically, “Nothing could induce me to live in Vancouver.  Hong-couver!  Har Har!” 

 

I am halted in my tracks by a tsunami of disbelief.  He stops too, and turns those blue eyes to me.  There is sharpness in them that was not there earlier.  “I appreciate that you have every right to your views,” I say, “but I am diametrically opposed to them.”  Red blotches bloom on the skin of his neck.  His anger frightens me but I say with measured calm, “There is no way I can see things working out between us.  I’m sorry, but I think it’s best that we part company before I say something I regret.”

“You’re right, Anne.  The last thing I want is to be with someone who feels superior and continually judges me.  And by the way, your smile isn’t that fantastic after all.”

Jim’s cutting voice rings in my head as I make my way back to the car.  Retail therapy is necessary to blunt the edge of his words, so I avail myself of ‘Bonus Time at Clinique’ offered at the Bay, and a stop at Patisserie Daniel for a heavenly almond croissant.  Experience has taught me that yummy food does assuage pain.  Fleetingly.

Later, after tearfully recounting my ordeal to her, I take a glass of perfectly chilled white, proffered by my dear friend.  Like Jim, she has blue eyes and a winning smile, but unlike him, has a generous and inclusive approach to all who share our planet.  As we raise our glasses, she says that my smile really is genuine and lovely, sexy as anything, as are my dimples. 

I believe her.