Found

I was looking through old posts this morning. I want to do a blog post on Peter Pan syndrome. Instead, I got lost in the past. I found these two entries. Due to editing down the number of entries neither made it into my book. I still think I was a better writer back then. I miss the larger audience I used to have. Back then, I would get a dozen or more comments from my largely female audience on every post.

The Date 
Originally Posted, Wednesday, March 10, 2010

The date was a lunch date. I do not know why I always allow myself to be roped into first meetings involving meals. I should know better by now. It should always be coffee or drinks. Because at the end of the story, no one will be saying, "Well, at least you got a free meal out of it." 

I was dressed in my new work clothes, a bright blue button-down shirt, and dark blue pants. I even pulled out a pair of dress shoes. They are a little dated (squared toe), but I don't think she would have known. I felt I looked good. We arrived simultaneously and were immediately seated in the non-smoking section. She had shoulder-length hair, perhaps to shades above bleach blond, and was desperate for a hot oil treatment. Maybe she dyed her own hair and not just the roots when the gray became prevalent, whatever the reason something was taking a toll. The ends needed product. She ordered fish, and she has a thing for seafood. 

I would have guessed her late husband had died of cholesterol issues, not a car crash. I ordered the chicken Parmesan sandwich-- damn the cholesterol. I felt rushed with the meal. She finished quickly, though I asked the questions and allowed her to talk. We talked about our children, cellphones, and concerts (believe it or not), but there was no chemistry. We started talking about work, and she made a face and said she was happy being a stay-at-home mom. I couldn't help wondering who's hard work and death had given her that luxury.

She was religious, went to bible study groups, wine tastings, and went to concerts in limos. I am agnostic, hang out with strippers, and still abuse the occasion prescription drug (yes, most of those habits I could easily clean up). I was not what she was looking for. Which actually was a relief because I already knew this. I allowed her to link to me on Facebook. She was proud of her technological accomplishments over the last few months, like texting and Facebook. Once she viewed my tattoos and my friends, I figured that that would put any interest to bed. If I am 45 and she is a year younger than me, I'd say she would be more comfortable with a guy around 50 with a six-figure income.

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Wendy's Tattoo
Originally Posted, Monday, March 29, 2010

Now that you think I am harshly judgmental and wouldn't want to go on a date with me either, I will continue with the rest of Thursday evening.

In every good Peter Pan story where there is a Tinkerbell, there is a Wendy. My Wendy lives an hour to the west of my major Midwestern City, so our visits are few and far between. Wendy and Tinkerbell (no I have not been talking to Tink) are like oil and water though they have never met.

After the date, I had already made plans to see Wendy later that evening. Wendy rents a basement room from her aunt. When I got there she was sleeping, which seems to be her usual condition when every I arrive.

The room was freezing cold. "Get in here and cuddle with me," she orders holding open the comforter, "I've still got six minutes before we have to leave for the bank."

I take off my shoes and oblige. I lie on my back and she snuggles in half on top of me. "What are we doing tonight?" I ask.

She explains her unexpected windfall for choreographing the local high school girl's flag guard and then announces her intention to get another tattoo.

"Sounds like a great idea!" I had been seeing her posting different tattoo ideas on her Facebook for the last couple of days.

She pushed out of bed exactly at the six-minute mark and we drive off to the bank. Her tattoo artist's shop is locked in the center of College Town. We had to park and set out on foot. I expected a night of drinking and playing pool so did not dress for a stroll in the 30-degree weather that decided to return for the evening. We were shivering by the time we entered her preferred artist's studio.

She showed him the pieces she wanted, disappointingly but not surprisingly he was booked for the rest of the night. She makes an appointment to get a tribal-style lion on her right hip for next Wednesday. We headed back out into the cold. Wendy pulled me into a Mexican restaurant around the corner where we eat while she culls her phone for referrals to other artists. She is determined to get something done tonight.

I described my date from earlier that afternoon to her. "See, you always do this," she rebukes me, "you go out a few times, say see I tried, then you end up back with strippers and floozys."

I haven't mentioned Rose to her yet. "So maybe I just like to know when I'm being fleeced."

She doesn't have an answer for me. She knows it would take someone in between to relate to me. When we get back to the car, I hand her the keys, not because I have been drinking but no matter how many times I come to College town and its cluster of nearby cities I refuse to learn my way around. It saves her from having to tell me which way to turn every two minutes. No matter which way she takes us it always seems like we are driving in circles to me.

Ironically the next tattoo parlor is next to a local strip club (no we didn't stop in). Wendy wanted to get a small moon and stars on her left arm to balance out the moon on her right arm. Don't ask, she is OCD that way. There was an artist ready and willing to do the work. While he drew up the piece, which was no bigger than a quarter Wendy and I argue over the quality of the tattoos in the various artist's portfolios.

Wendy's New Tattoo

She didn't flinch and it took all of fifteen minutes. After we went around the corner to have a few beers in celebration. The whole adventure has me excited to add to the tattoo I have on my left arm. I have to find my original sketches and figure out something.