Little Blackbird

Little Blackbird

You cannot start a fire with a feather.

My Grandma’s unique phrase was a perfect metaphor for my current situation. Trying to start a fire with a feather is like dating in your sixties – an exercise in futility. A feather is the wrong tool for starting a fire; it is not a match. How do you find a match – or what is the appropriate tool for dating in life’s later years?

One dating tool that definitely did not work for me was online dating. If Mr. Right was on any of those sites, he cleverly eluded me. However, the experiences did help me ascertain what I am NOT looking for.

I am not looking for someone who goes in for a kiss, in the parking lot, at the end of a breakfast date. I would have loved to have avoided that bit of awkwardness. I am not looking for someone who talks endlessly – as in hours and hours – about themselves, never once expressing interest in the person across the table (me). Those were some who passed the initial phase.

Warning! A good portion of the men on those sites are NOT who they say they are. I eventually improved my keen detective skills to identify the duds but it all became rather tedious. So I cancelled my memberships and decided to take my chances in the real world.

I also had determined what I do want. One paramount characteristic is a compatible sense of humor. Someone who can make me laugh is going to keep my attention. Someone who sees the world with all its quirkiness and is curious about, and amused by, life and all its wonders shows potential. That alone may not be enough but it’s a good start.

I won’t divulge, or bore you with, my entire history with men, but basically I am still searching for what my parents had – wedded bliss. I will never celebrate a 65th anniversary like they did but I still have one, teeny, tiny molecule of hope that one day I will find true love.

Please do not pity me. Life has thrown me for a loop many times and, while my tool selection abilities may not be perfect, I still consider myself pretty lucky.

Somewhere I heard that the quality of your relationships determines the quality of your life – including the relationship you have with yourself. So, while online dating was not for me, I adopted a new perspective and decided to date myself while being open to meeting Mr. Right.

What does that mean? It means I go about my life finding new interests, exploring new places, and minding my own business – thank you very much – while the possibility of true love lingers in the farthest reaches of my imagination.

Is it working? Well, the beauty of this is that, even if Mr. Right doesn’t show up, at least I’m still living my best life.

One day, while living my best life, I was shopping for bamboo poles at my local hardware store. My latest patio project included a string of lights hung from five cleverly positioned poles. My star-shaped plan did not turn out as intended but I’m a firm believer in progress, not perfection. I was rummaging through the bamboo selection when a man commented “I like your purple hair”. I was caught off guard. Purple hair? (I had recently experimented with highlights in my hair – a subtle rose gold blending with my ashy blonde.)

Rather than contradict his color identification ability, I made a comment about it matching his purple Vikings shirt. He asked if I was watching the game later that day; I got the sense he was “interested”. He attempted to keep the conversation going (mentioning a screen printing project he was working on) but, I was in project mode – and frankly a little anxious – and made excuses to be on my way.

I later considered this a missed opportunity. Should I have posted on craigslist’s “missed connections” section to see if this could be remedied? Well, I didn’t. Instead, I told myself it wasn’t mean to be.

The next week I was invited to a friend’s wine tasting party. I am not a wine aficionado. Pour me a glass of Mogen David and I’m more than satisfied. I read Fear of Wine – an Introductory Guide to the Grape for a book club meeting. Each member brought a bottle of wine and we spent the evening swishing and spitting and talking about tannins, legs, and a bunch of other words I don’t recall. Well, they talked about those things; I mostly stuck to the number scale of 1-5 devised to express our opinions. I basically stuck to that with one meaning “eww - not my thing” to five – “mmmm - give me more”.

I thought I’d give it another try. If nothing else, it would be fun to be among friends. And who knows, maybe my taste buds had changed; maybe I could learn to appreciate some of the finer wine subtleties like a true oenophile.

My friend met me at the door. She whisked me over to the wine counter and poured me a glass of red – a Merlot from a California winery she had recently toured. As I put it to my lips, I spanned the gathering of twenty or so others. My eyes stopped when I saw a somewhat familiar face. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was none other than the man from the hardware store. I asked my friend if she knew if he liked to silk screen. She seemed surprised by the question and suggested I ask him.

So I did. And he did silk screen. We talked about that for awhile and then the conversation turned to wine. He seemed to know as much about wine as silk screening. I accused him of being a bit of a wine snob! He took it well. We spent the evening sipping wines, chatting with others, nibbling hors d’oeuvres, and occasionally picking up our conversation wherever we’d left off. We officially introduced ourselves at some point and at the end of the evening he asked if I’d like to go out for dinner some time. Much to my amazement, I did. I gave him my phone number and told him to text before calling or to leave a message as I don’t answer calls of unrecognized numbers.

The next day my friend who had invited me to the party called. She’d noticed I had spent a lot of time talking with this man and wanted to caution me. She warned me that several other women had indicated he was a bit of a cad.

Just my luck! Armed with this knowledge, I would be ready. If he called, my calendar would be seriously booked.

It didn’t quite happen that way. He called and we talked and we laughed and when he got around to asking me out I had already decided I had nothing to lose. He said he’d make all the arrangements and would pick me up Saturday at 3:00 pm. When I asked about attire, he said

“nothing fancy”. I didn’t know if I should be disappointed or thrilled. I was grateful I wouldn’t need to shop but wasn’t sure if this meant he was taking this a little too casually – as a cad might.

The day came and I was nervous. When had that ever happened? When doing the online dating thing I learned to keep my expectations low. Then, I realized I was on edge because I really wanted this night to be fun – and I had no input on what was happening. I also wasn’t sure if I was dressed appropriately. I guess we’d see.

Then I decided to turn my anxiety on its head and call it an adventure. Whatever happened, I was intent on making it memorable – either as a start of something good or another lesson in what I don’t want.

A batting cage was our first destination. Had he seen my bucket list? We donned helmets, selected bats, and headed to the “easy” cage. He was no expert himself and was relying on memories from his childhood softball experiences to guide him. At one point, as he was helping me with my stance, I swear I felt a small jolt of electricity. So now my stance was improved but my concentration was compromised!

We had worked up quite an appetite swinging the bats so we headed to the restaurant he had selected. I was surprised as it was one I’d been meaning to try out for quite a while. I was further surprised when he announced we had reservations; it didn’t’ seem like that kind of place.

We sat and almost immediately, the sommelier brought out a bottle of Merlot. He shared that he had taken the liberty of ordering ahead of time and shared that his observations at the party indicated that I was not a huge fan of wine. I remarked that the Merlot at the party made my tongue rebel. I reiterated that fruity, sweet, and maybe bubbly are my wine quality preferences. He was confident the wine he’d chosen would please my mouth, so we toasted to an extraordinary evening.

With some hesitation, I sipped. My mouth celebrated! I cannot adequately describe the sensation. The smooth flavor pleasingly tickled my tongue. It was new and memorable – like nothing I’d ever imbibed before. I had to wonder if it was the beverage or the present company that had my taste buds singing. But I kept that to myself. My expression – or maybe the

“mmmmm” – must have demonstrated my approval and he seemed pleased.

The meal that came along next surpassed my expectations. The aroma, presentation, and taste were all deliciously pleasant. When plates were cleared he told me that what we’d just eaten was made entirely with plant-based, whole foods. No salt, oil, or sugars were present. I could not have been more surprised. The restaurant did not advertise itself as that and I saw other diner’s meals which looked and smelled like meat dishes. In fact, they were; he had specifically chosen this place so I wouldn’t suspect. He told me he’d recently converted to this way of eating and was working with the chef to add some new dishes to the menu. I was duly impressed – and again, was he privy to my innermost desires as well as my bucket list?

Just as I wondered if the date was coming to an end, he pulled up in front of a nondescript building in the warehouse district. As we enter, I hear lively music – the kind that makes you want to move. And move we did! We spent the next two hours dancing – salsa, freestyle, a couple of slow songs. So. Much. Fun.

At one point, I allow myself the ridiculous (?) fantasy of dancing around the kitchen with this man as we prepare a delicious, creative plant-based, whole food dinner side by side. I had almost forgotten about the “cad” comment - but not quite. On the ride home, I felt compelled to share about what I’d heard. He laughed. I laughed. I asked if he had any idea why someone would say that. He said he did not and added “But you can let me know in a year or two what you think.”

The night ended when he pulled up to my house, saw me to my door, and handed me a feather. Then he gave me one last memory to complete the evening.

Maybe Grandma was wrong – I think you can start a fire with a feather . . .

Too good to be true? Maybe. But only time will tell. I have years of experience identifying and collecting red flags; I did not see any tonight. Even if this goes nowhere, I’ll always have my many, magical, Merlot memories.