Post Game Highlights

I have showed my toes (done the taking off of shoe and sock upon request) to two different men in a bar scenario only twice in my life. (I’ve showed my toes plenty while in private—za-za-zing—or wearing flip flops, so that’s not where I am going with this.)

The first time my little piglets got a theatrical request, and I gave them their bar beseeched debut, it was years ago, during my early twenties, in a crowded sports bar in Colorado. (That seems to be a theme with me, doing everything in my early twenties.) The man asking me to twinkle up a foot for revue was some random dude promising, upon compliance, he’d give up his Colorado Rockies baseball cap. I didn’t want the cap. Not a sports fan. But…challenge a drunk young’n? Sadly, after I presented him naked toes, the fucker shot me down and didn’t give up the cap. Lying bastard. He didn’t deserve my digits.

The second time, I’ve publicly pointed my manicure in a man’s direction, when dared or goaded, that was the other night. His name is Rick. That’s what we’re going to call the guy who peaked my interest enough that when coerced, by both him and Cella (who I was doing a school night evening out with) during the course of a conversation about why I do my own pedicures, and have done so for years (I’m grossed out by going to the salons—with the threat of funguses and all) I surrendered my cherry-red painted ground-bound digits for review.

And, here we are. If Rick gets another crack at showing up in one of my posts, let’s get an overview of him first, before we decide if we like him. Right now, make no mistake, we are interested. Not like, HOLY SHIT! You’re it interested. But, hmmm, you are quite clever and handsome. We should talk more just so I can see.

If we never speak of Rick again, we’ve decided we don’t like him. Or, because of his baggage, or whatever (we’ll get to that) he decided not to call me. That’s where I’ll decide he’s not worth mentioning again.

Cella said, “He’s a diamond in the rough.” She recognized straight away that I was fascinated by this single/separated (ok, probably bad news—even if he’s been separated for 3 years now) brown, curly haired, bearded, fair skinned English man, who said he was a physicist. Yeah (leaning into it), me likes them smart.

Cella also, slyly, traded her seat next to him for mine so I could saddle up nearer him and find out more. Good, good wing woman, that Cella, especially when you consider she started talking to a dented tooth, gray haired man who had no business buying her a rose from the flower/rose pusher lady. (Can’t stand them rose peddlers. Don’t care for bathroom attendants while I am at it.)

Once Rick and I got to talking, that is when I learned he’s got a boat, a real boat. Not a motor boat that is, as Cella joked is an extension of a man’s penis, but a long ass sail boat with a cabin and wood parts and all, that he, himself, artistically, all craftsmen like, refinished the wood parts on.

Can I remember the name of the special, imported-something-a-rather, wood he put his grit into? What do you think? Can you say “Wine”?

But the artist in me has got some muscle sensory memory about him taking pride in creating, restoring, something, thanks. The asshole in me likes using the word “wood” for innuendo sake, even if I am the girl who discounts any man who’d use a sexual innuendo to flirt with me. From early on, I remembered something I learned: A gentleman reflects himself, not the woman he speaks to, and in that way a true gentleman treats every lady like a lady, regardless.

Anyway, somewhere in my conversation with him, I also got that his boat was a sail boat, and his love for working with wood, building something new or restoring something old, was his passion. That’s when my intrigue flagged a page on him.

Rick also said something about Martha’s Vineyard. Everything in my not pretentious spirit, but craving culture lust, shouldered up. I waited to want to gag, but also paused to appreciate the pleasure he took in speaking of things refined. He wasn’t bragging. He was reminiscing enjoyment. There is a difference. Once his use of the “F” word hit the same ground as his mention of the vineyard, the sucker in me, for smarts, culture, and cussing, got reeled in.

I read once that a good writer does not subject their readers to a list. Well, A) Who knows if I am a good writer yet. I’ve just got a voice and some commas, so B) A list is the only way I am going to succinctly get Rick’s highlights on the game map before I tire of him or find out more.

As such, the list commences. I’ve always loved me some dorky, sweet, handsome intelligent breed of a man who knows how to keep the conversation moving. Check. Didn’t expect super-duper firm guns when I did my flirt, and touched his left arm and felt the strength of a fit body scream through a pin-striped, cleaner’s pressed, collared shirt. Superficial? Duh. But who cares? Check! I’m not a physicist, and obviously am an artist, but meeting a man wholly unthreatened by my feminine strength, my need for mental stimulation…check, check, and CHECK.

Is Rick an “it” guy? No clue. He’s got at least 3 more days to get a hold of me before he pisses me off for playing it too cool. Did I have one of the best conversations with Rick, a man who didn’t make me feel like I needed to be younger or hold back age references or intellectual appearances, which makes me want more from him, because it was refreshing and inviting? Definitely.

We’ll see. That’s all I can do, with Rick, with life, with it all…is just see.