I had dinner with an old friend
the other night. Not old friend as
in, someone who is old – Old Friend as in, someone I’ve known a long time.
You know, one of the best things
about time-worn relationships is the ease, the familiarity – the groove. As always, our conversation
started exactly where we left off, as if we had merely been interrupted for
moments not years.
First we talked about careers.
Mine more than hers because it is new and shiny and a little bit crazy. We
discussed moms. Her mother has just moved in with her and she is adjusting to
the ‘not-empty-nest’ syndrome. Mine has just been widowed. Diets, weight, (ugh!)
the indignities of aging. Common friends
came up next, and then kids and grandkids. Lots of laughing. Lots of pictures.
Lots of eye-rolling at the antics of 4 year olds.
But eventually – inevitably – gravity pulled the chit-chat down to the
nitty-gritty of it all - relationships.
Shit got real.
For once, I had nothing to bring
to the table. Zero. No drama with the ex. Nothing. So, I leaned forward, ready
to listen to her tales of man-woe… but it seemed she was equally impaired. Words
dwindled to silence as we studied the sweet potato fries.
“I’ve given up on men,” she
admitted.
Given up on men… my brow
furrowed. Lots of things darted across my mind, I admit. I mean, sexual preference is ambiguous these
days.
“You mean…”
She stabbed a fry into the
dressing. “No! God, no. No no no,” she laughed. “I’m just done with the whole
dating thing.”
I should insert here - I don’t
date either. Hell, I don’t do a lot of things. I don’t win the lottery. I don’t
win American Idol. But I haven’t given up on them. I still imagine what I’d do
with the big cardboard check. Still wail along with the radio.
Still hope there is soul mate out
there somewhere, drinking his morning coffee, thinking of all the little things
in his life that he wants to share with me.
I asked if she got lonely.
She said she bought a dog and whipped
out a picture.
I admit. It scared the shit out
of me. If this confident, attractive, smart, witty, financially secure,
emotionally stable woman had failed to find a mate, where did that leave me?
I studied the little shaggy beast.
A flop of hair fell over his eyes. Admittedly, he was cute. He probably didn’t
leave dirty dishes in the sink.
We visited
a bit more and then parted ways but two weeks later the image of that damned
dog laying in the middle of her sofa is still stuck in my brain.
Friends, I beg you this – the day
I start showing pictures of my dog/cat/fish on my phone, just shoot me… because
if my soul mate wears a flea collar, life is simply no longer worth living.
