I’ve added a little more content from my current work-in-progress. I’ll be adding more excerpts on a semi-weekly basis, so be sure to check back!
The Walmart Special
I finally, almost, dived into dating. Actually it’s been more of a toe wiggle in the deep waters of a very imposing pool filled with an assortment of balding combed-over newly divorced men on training wheels, and I’ve already had enough social exercise for this week.
Having grown more accepting of my own company, I think it will take a remarkable man to make me give up my lounge chair. But I waver on this. When mellow with wine and imprudent music selections, I ache for a deep back rub and light caress. And in my “epiphany” moments, I kind of wish I had someone to nod along with me. But I think I can teach my dog Mozart to do that… And for sixty bucks, a stranger will rub my bare back with no further expectations. See what I mean? Still wavering… Toe in. Toe out.
After what I term the “Walmart Incident”, it seemed appropriate to take practical measures toward meeting dating candidates. And when my sister Katie started picking out guys on Yahoo’s match site one night, I decided I’d do better making my own selections. Not that she has bad taste; Katie just thinks that I’m younger and wilder than I really am. A little projection on her part, I think. I’d like to be that woman: “Free diving adventurer who’d rather rake leaves than watch TV”. But the truth is, I’d rather swim at my own pace and not worry about whether my mascara is waterproof.
The Walmart Incident began with an invasion to my peripheral vision somewhere near the bread aisle. I spotted a double-take from a guy in a plaid button-down and allowed the implied compliment to put a little spring in my step as I headed toward the checkout. But Mr. Double-Take was a bold and daring man. When he found himself to be only three short checkout lines away, he left his cart and approached me with a close-mouthed, sunken smile that made me wonder if he had enough teeth to prop up his lips. A single strand of his nondescript brown hair floated up on an invisible draft of store ventilation. His brightening smile seemed mismatched to his bespectacled, slightly worried eyes.
“Hi there.” He beamed at my forehead and clutched a rubberbanded stack of neatly clipped coupons.
“Hi.” I smiled slightly. Well… I moved my lips and hoped my expression was at least within the ballpark of graciousness. Awkward polite nod.
The cashier had already begun ringing up my order and I hated not being able to check prices. It was so much easier to catch errors before they printed onto the register tape. I risked one impolite sideways glance at the price screen, but compassion head-locked me and swiveled me back. Mr. Double-Take was still smiling, his gaze drifting down finally to meet my eyes now. I had a feeling there had been an earlier dress rehearsal in front of his bathroom mirror.
“I couldn’t help noticing that you have a beautiful smile,” he said. I was lost for a moment and then remembered my relief minutes earlier at having not dropped my grocery list as feared. There must have been a little flicker of joy back there by the bagels, I decided.
My lips locked into smile mode, seriously straining cheek muscles that were not feeling the magic. “Thank you,” I murmured, uncomfortably aware of curious glances from the next aisle over.
He was oblivious to my deer-in-the-headlights moment, scrolling through his mental script with the confidence of a hungry understudy debuting before his first actual audience. “You look like a very nice lady.”
“Lady?” My mom was a “nice lady”. My cheeks were already reaching the twitching stage.
MORE…
Beep, beep, beep, beep… Quick glance at the price screen. Paper towels – $1.89. Peanut butter – 1.99. That sounded about right.
I pulled out my own script. “Thank you.” I smiled awkwardly.
“I see you like the whole grain tortillas,” he remarked raising an eyebrow suggestively as my groceries paraded past the scanner.
I was uncomfortably aware that a box of tampons would be rolling by on the conveyor belt for him to assess at any moment. “Um. They’re actually for my kids,” I stammered.
“Kids are great,” he enthused like a man who had watched them perform many times on TV. “How many do you have?”
I almost said twelve, but honesty and a vague suspicion that I recognized the woman two carts back from spinning class at the gym prevailed. “Three.” I offered him no more information, my polite smile fading a little as he continued to milk the connection he had apparently felt during our five-second moment by the bagels.
“I would love a chance to talk further; buy you a cup of coffee sometime…”
It was as if someone turned up the volume, the dimmer switch and the thermostat all at once. This is it and I’m not ready!! Damn! What did I say when the wrong guy asked me to high school prom?? At that moment either someone began surfing in my ear or my blood pressure spiked. Excuses piled on like the defensive line in a pee wee football game. Too busy. Too soon. Too many kids.
As he thrust his business card toward me, I had to give him points for courage, but it was the sort of valor that might propel a tone-deaf drunk to center stage on karaoke night. However, I wasn’t about to reject him in front of so many people, several of whom had access to the store’s public address system right at their registers. Attention shoppers, we have an attempted pick-up in checkout 8.
“Maybe we could continue our conversation somewhere a little more comfortable.” He paused to acknowledge our surroundings, wincing slightly as if to question the wisdom of storing so many perishable food items in one place.
“Thank you,” I managed. The phrase sounded odd to my ear this time. My temporal lobe was at risk for a repetitive stress injury. Had I said “you” or “ew” that time… and which one should it have been? My dialogue needed a rewrite.
I turned the card, acknowledging its presence in my hand with a vague nod. No business was listed. Just his name and phone number with an inspirational phrase: Create your next opportunity.
There were no waves, but I did welcome a splash of relief upon realizing that I might not be pinned down with a direct invitation. But hovering near my bagged groceries (which I suddenly remembered I should have been placing into my shopping cart), Mr Double-Take had at this point completely lost his own place in a line. His cart had been roughly pushed aside and his items were at risk for restocking. And now the only scanner beeps were coming from adjacent checkout lines.
Crap. Walmart was waiting, and I was holding up the line. My eyes darted to the cashier who was shrugging apologetically at the lady behind me. I quickly handed the clerk my credit card and tried to give an equally remorseful smile to the lady behind me, but she wasn’t having it. She lifted her arm and glared at her watch without reading the time. Mortified, I turned to sign the sales slip and help Mr. Double-Take find his final line. Oh! But he was leaving.
A dainty wave. “Talk to you later!” he chirped.
“Thanks.” I saved a syllable and put it all into expression that time.
I rolled to the exit, holding the card and resisting a convenient trash can on the off chance that Mr. Double-Take was a Triple-Take kind of guy.
So this is how it works. This is how one meets people at a grocery store. Mr. Double-Take had carpe diem-ed as he stocked up on canned soup. One of those “what can it hurt; I’ll never see her again anyway” opportunities, I guess. I scurried through the December chill to my car, still gripping the calling card and rewinding the exchange for a replay on the way home from the grocery. It felt like a beginning and an ending all on the same page.
But never again came about two months later from across the bananas of yet another grocery store. It was the five-o’clock, prime-time for singles hour, and we each had a flash of recognition followed more slowly by ‘definition’.
“Oh! I know you!” he mouthed, sucking his lips into that almost-smile I remembered all too well and edging his cart closer.
“How are you?” I said quickly and insincerely, waving my shopping list to indicate my dire need for foodstuff before heading directly to dairy, leaving him beside a pile of unripe bananas.
Disturbing. I tried to admire his gutsy gusto, but segued rather quickly into feeling vaguely uncomfortable and edgy as I browsed the shredded cheese selection.
It depressed me to think that my future relationship options might depend directly upon where I buy my produce. Thriftiness was my virtue. Could I actually date a guy I met over a bargain bin? And my dating checklist would definitely include fit over flabby. Would I have to choose a store near the gym over one that had good tomatoes? Not a fair choice. In fact, why choose at all? I tossed a twelve ounce bag of sharp cheddar into my cart and headed for checkout.
Enter Katie, my youngest sister and second oldest friend…
