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.
