Winter can be a lonely time of year for people, and a couple of years into single life, I was no exception. I hadn’t had any meaningful interaction with men since the end of my marriage. Then, to my surprise, after many cold nights and a long time flying solo, I found myself flirting with the possibility of welcoming romance back into my life.
Still, I had strict criteria. The right man had to be strong, in body and in character. He had to be entrepreneurial, mainly to tolerate my own high level of irreverence and financial risk taking. He had to have a keen sense of humour. He had to come into my life with a natural synchronicity – no contrived blind dates or cheesy dating apps. Above all, he must bear absolutely no physical resemblance to my former husband.
Time went on for a while like that, with me hauling around this checklist for the ideal mate wadded up in an imaginary pocket inside my head. Every man I encountered on the street, behind the counter or in the grocery aisle was unwittingly subject to my evaluation. In a business meeting, I found myself noting with purely analytical interest the carefully manicured hands of a colleague, the care with which he penned his notes on a piece of paper and the slow and sensual way he slid them across the table for my review. I gave my head a shake scoldingly. Why was I going on about fingernails and penmanship? These things weren’t even anywhere on my list!
Finally, home alone on a frigid evening, I reflected that only one candidate had come anywhere close to fitting the bill, and that was a manly farmer down near Port Hope. He had offered me eggs and maple syrup a while back, but I hadn’t been interested. Now, facing yet another night on my own, I regretted brushing him off and timidly picked up my cell phone. I was new to texting at the time and an awkward texter at best. I took a deep breath and summoned my nerve. Hi, I began, are you around tonight for me to purchase some maple syrup and eggs? (I think you mentioned you might have extra on hand …). I gulped and hit SEND, then immediately regretted it. Too wordy! Too much punctuation! Argh, I was a terrible flirt in person, let alone text. I had only just hit SEND, and already, I felt humiliated.
I tapped my fingers impatiently on the phone for what seemed like eons. No reply. Damn. If I had texted me for maple syrup and eggs in the middle of the night, you bet your ass I would have answered me! I called it a night feeling lonelier than ever.
In the morning, there was a text waiting on my phone. But strangely, it wasn’t the farmer. It was the colleague with the great hands and perfect penmanship. We’ve both got a long drive ahead of us today, he was saying. We were travelling to the same meeting a few hours away. Would you be comfortable with me giving you a lift?
I stared at the text in disbelief. Comfortable? No, I would not feel comfortable! There were butterflies vomiting in my stomach already! Clearly there must be some mistake: this was not what I had ordered from the man-u.
It sure would make the drive go faster, he persisted.
I did not respond, my heart pounding. Aside from last night’s failed maple syrup and eggs pick-up attempt, I had never so much as made a pass at a man other than my ex-husband. I found myself clinging to my mental checklist like it was a crib sheet or a security blanket. This man checked out well. Strong: CHECK, at least in the physical sense, with wide shoulders and lean, muscular arms. Self-made businessman: CHECK. Already know each other: CHECK. Looks nothing like my ex-husband: CHECK. My husband would never have gone near a nail salon.
You’ll have to laugh at my bad jokes, he added.
Jokes? There’d be jokes? Oh, God. Humour: CHECK. This was really happening! Okay, I typed back with trepidation, but I’ll need control of the radio.
You will? Why?
To drown out the jokes. You know, if they get particularly bad.
Ah. LOL. Sure, you can have control of the radio.
Oh, and climate control, I stipulated.
What the …?
I’m very finicky about my internal vehicle temperature, I explained.
Uh, okay, I guess. You want the steering wheel, too?
Preferably.
LOL, what have I gotten myself into! And just when I thought I had lost him, he pressed, What time can I pick you up?
My jitters as I prepared for our car pool were almost unbearable. As often as I had been in this man’s presence, I was now struggling to remember what he actually looked like. The one thing that did stand out in memory – literally – was his hair, part sheep dog, part carrot top, and oddly out of place on the man. I honestly could not recall the face underneath all that hair, which was another notable point of distinction from my ex, whose mane was possibly one of his best features. Helpful as that was, I really didn’t know if I could get past the hair.
Of course, I could never force him to cut it. I know about Samson and Delilah. I know how that story goes. So to get around the hair, I would need a more creative approach. I pictured us in his car on the long drive back from our meeting. I could yawn with my arms stretched high over my head. “I’m bored,” I could say nonchalantly, “wanna get haircuts?” Or even more innocuously, I could pack an assortment of hats for the drive. “Oh, look!” I could exclaim in surprise, pulling them out of my bag at the opportune moment. “Toques!”
As it happened, no such measures were required. When he knocked on the door to pick me up, he was already sporting a toque of his own, topped with the biggest pompom I had ever seen on a man, woman or child. As my gaze lowered to his face I felt my breath catch in spite of myself. Smiling at me mischievously from underneath that hat, hair pulled back, was the handsomest man I had ever seen. Oh, boy, said the voice in my head. Here comes trouble.
A chapter started that day that I eventually ended for one simple reason: it did not compare to the height of joy, peace and freedom I had felt on my own. At some point during my years alone, I had learned to truly love myself – something I could not possibly have understood as a teenager when I had met my husband. Any romantic relationship would now have a bar to meet, and that bar was high.
I tried explaining this to my kids after dinner one night, borrowing a famous line by Irina Dunn that was a favourite of Gloria Steinem. “Boys,” I said as we cleared up the dishes, “your mother needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.”
My youngest son stared at me blankly. “Fish don’t ride bicycles.”
“That’s the point, buddy,” said his brother.
“Oh,” he responded thoughtfully. “Or a frog, then,” he elaborated, making the line all his own. “You need a man like a frog needs a bicycle, Mom.” And I nodded my agreement.
Sometime later, we were enjoying hot chocolates in the Pastry Peddler’s new lounge and reminiscing about my vintage bicycle’s best friend, Frog Cycles, which formerly occupied the space. I found myself worrying out loud what I would do now without the guys’ expert care for my bike, before my son put a hand gently on my arm and reassured me, “Frogs don’t need bicycles.”
BABBLE by Anita Odessa
