Courtship, going steady, keeping company -- whatever you call it, it's quite a process, whether you're a pimple-faced teenager or a perimenopausal middle-ager. There's the first date where you're trying not to wear your spaghetti. There's the getting-to-know-you phase where you tell your stories, and he tells his. There's the moment where you go from thinking sunshine shoots out each other's hineys to realizing that's not sunshine.
And frankly, at my age, it can be exhausting trying to be the "Enjoli" woman -- to bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan and never let him forget he's a man. I once read a gal who blamed Revlon's Enjoli commercial for spreading the notion that women must have a career, keep house and satisfy a husband when the only sane thing to do is pick two and outsource the third. I started preferring a bowl of cereal and Columbo reruns to a steak dinner with some fella telling me about his beloved great Aunt Eleanor's incontinence.
But that changed when Trapper John entered the picture. I found myself leaning in to hear more about his daughter, travels, dreams, preferences and journey that led him to be seated before me. I, too, began disclosing everything from my deepest thoughts to random ponderings of whether penguins have knees. (They do. You're welcome.)
And if you keep company long enough, there'll come a time when you reveal a bit more than you intended.
I was feeling under the weather one Sunday afternoon, and Trapper kindly offered to fix comfort food for dinner -- chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. His face beamed as he hunted and gathered the ingredients, until he started to open a particular cabinet and completely halted.
"We, uh, we haven't toasted sandwiches at my house before, have we...?" he stammered.
"Nope," I replied. He stared at me with a pained expression.
"Somethin' wrong?" I asked.
"No, it's just, I don't want to ... lose my man card."
"Do what?"
"I'm about to lose my man card if I show you my sandwich toaster."
"I'm sure it's fine," I said dismissively. "I mean, it's not like an Easy Bake Oven or Hello Kitty, is it?"
Trapper took a deep breath and looked toward the ceiling.
I reached past him and pulled out a large white grill molded into the face of a kitten, complete with a huge pink metal bow across its left ear.
"Oh my," I chuckled. "Helloooooo Kitty!"
Trapper grimaced. I laughed until I was afraid I'd become ol' Aunt Eleanor and mess my britches.
"It's my daughter's!" he defended. "She got it when she was 8, it works perfectly fine, and I see no reason to replace it! It makes great sandwiches, just you wait!"
And it did make a great sandwich, and his vulnerability only made his membership in the man club that much stronger in my book.
With a side of catnip and a saucer of milk, I was back to feeling purrfect in no time. As for Trapper, he might be rethinking courting a columnist about now. It could make anyone paws.
NAN Our Town on 08/01/2019