A Cup of Comfort for Couples (14 page)

“I graduated in 1986!” I said, deciding to focus only on this same-age alum of my “brother school” and to ignore the eavesdroppers.

“You did not!”

We proceeded to drop names, and our pasts started overlapping. As the world shrunk, I noticed his confidence and warm smile.

“John,” he offered his hand.

“I'm Gina.” His firm grasp made me swoon. Beaming, I felt a sudden heat reddening my face as the line moved us along.

Pam and I found our assigned places at neighboring tables. Each woman sat at her own table, and the men rotated to talk to us, one at a time, for three minutes each. Everyone received a form listing the name and assigned number of each “date.” Next to each name was a line for taking notes and the words yes and no. People with matching yes's would receive each other's e-mail addresses from the organizers the following week.

Scoping the room, I spotted John sitting across from his first partner: Ms. 34, a pretty, young blonde. An announcement told us we had fifteen minutes before the three-minute dates officially started. As a man matching my number, 43, approached, I saw John walk toward the bar. I suddenly felt quite thirsty and darted away before Mr. 43 found our table.

“Gina from the South Side,” John said and welcomed me with a one-sided hug, which felt really natural considering our new acquaintance.

We joked and spoke briefly about nothing in particular with a man who stood near the bar.

“Say yes to everything,” John insisted when I debated passing up the bartender's offer of peanuts. “If it's free, you want it. Yes, wash my sheets! Yes, bring water! Yes, leave the peanuts!”

I laughed, possibly too much, suddenly a school girl with a crush. I felt oddly at home, despite my rac- ing heart and those piercing blue eyes of his, which seemed to look right through me.

His number was 34, which was both our age and the mathematical reciprocal of my own number, 43. We had grown up only six minutes away from each other, had attended mutual proms, and knew many of the same people. We'd lived almost parallel lives. I wondered how many times we could've met before. Was this fate?

The monitor called for the beginning of the three-minute intervals, and we walked to our waiting “dates.”

Before I could sit down, Paul 43 asked, “Do you go to church?”

“Yes,” I replied honestly, even though I was put off by his opening line.

“Do you go because you believe in God or because you are afraid of going to hell?”

How long can one-hundred-eighty seconds actually
last?

Several men I met that evening presented varying degrees of charm, intelligence, and humor. Jason, who indiscreetly picked his nose, had none of these.

“Will you circle yes for me?” he asked. “I've circled yes for you already.”

“Oh! I'm flattered.”

“Don't be. I've said yes to everybody. I always do. This is my third event.”

“Then you must have lots of great dating experiences.”

“No, I've never been matched up with anyone. No one has ever said yes to me.”

Trying to act surprised, I surreptitiously circled no.

Though this was my first experience with speed dating, three minutes was enough to determine if someone was worth meeting again, just as I'd predicted to Pam. Other un-marketable men I quickly weeded out included a guy whose wedding ring had left a tan line (duh!) and one who objected to every basic question.

I did meet a few dateable guys early into the evening. That helped me to feel more comfortable and confident; after a while, I found myself having fun. Of course, having a good time didn't mean I desired a follow-up of any sort with most of them. Take, for example, one gentleman who introduced himself as a PhD.

“So, Doctor Ned 38, what do you do for fun?”

“I like rollerblading.”

“Do you really? I like rollerblading as well.”

“Then we should go rollerblading at Navy Pier. Have you ever done that? I love to take all my first dates there.”

“Rollerblading on Navy Pier does sound like fun,” I said, omitting the “but not with you” that would have finished that sentence most candidly.

When John 34 sat down for our three-minute date, we really clicked.

We'd talked for only a minute when I heard myself telling him, “If you asked me for my phone number, I'd give it to you.”

He leaned forward as if to conceal our conversation from others and to seal the deal. “Really?” he breathed.

With my nod came a rush of giddiness, followed by a warm flush of anxiety.
Maybe that was too eager
.

“That's awesome!” he exclaimed, almost shouting.

Relief washed over me. Then a thrill tickled my spine from tailbone to neck.

We each wrote down our phone numbers and slipped them to one another.

“I'd never call you first, especially after just being so bold,” I said.

“Of course. I wouldn't expect that,” he said. “I
will
call!”

I believed him. But over the course of two decades of dating, I'd been wrong a few times before.

At the break, John 34 came over to Pam and me and said he was getting tired of answering questions.

“Do you know what I really like to do in my free time?” he asked wildly. “Nothing!” It may've been an honest answer, but in a speed-dating marathon it would've marked him as a loser.

He grabbed my hand and said he was ready to go out for a steak dinner. Giggling, my knees buckled with excitement. I declined — but not before noticing how well my hand fit into his. I was enjoying myself too much to leave. I also wondered if he were joking.

The break was over by then, and we all went back to the tables for the second half of the three-minute dates. At the end of the event, I'd circled yes and taken brief notes for eight of the thirty-two men on my score card. Of course, that meant twenty-four un-dateable guys as well.

Afterward, John and his friend asked Pam and me to join them at the bar. We had drinks, talked, and laughed well into the evening, which for John and me seemed to come to an abrupt stop when our friends were ready to call it a night. Walking out together as a group, we said goodbye in the parking lot.

On the drive home, I became lost not only geographically but also in my thoughts about John 34. Maybe I should have found a way to say good night to him alone. Would he call? He would probably call. He certainly would! . . . Wouldn't he?

When I realized I was driving in the wrong direction completely, I started to turn the car around. Just then my cell phone rang. “Hello?” I answered absent-mindedly, failing to check caller ID and forgetting the late hour.

“How am I supposed to leave a charming and adorable message if you answer the phone?”

I recognized his voice immediately. Laughing, I said, “This is my cell. You didn't even give me a chance to get home!”

We talked through the rest of my drive home, and he helped me navigate out of my unfamiliar environs. We continued to talk as we entered our respective homes and got ready for sleep. After climbing into bed, I talked with him for another two hours! We covered sibling rivalry, grammar school, high school, college, best and worst dating experiences, and summed up that we had gotten more attractive as our friends had married themselves off and the dating pool had narrowed.

“So will you go out with me this Saturday?” John asked.

“Why would I?” I teased. “I already know everything about you.” Translated, that meant,
I
can't
wait
to spend more time with you
!

For our first date we went rollerblading on Navy Pier, a great idea courtesy of Dr. 38. I wanted to rip off my wrist guard when John reached out to hold my hand, to feel the warmth and texture of his skin. Still, even through the metal and Velcro, I could feel the perfect fit of our hands. My heart beat faster from holding his hand — and from looking into his intense, blue eyes — than from the exercise!

All that seems long ago and far away as I sit across the table from my husband of nearly six years, both of us tired and overwhelmed. Dinner is on the table, and as we eat we talk about the craziness that is our lives, or try to, while our three young sons — four-year-old Martin, three-year-old Joe, and ten-month-old Tim — pick at their food, poke at one another, and interrupt our conversation. Each of our boys has his own set of intensely blue eyes that seem to look right through us — just as their father's did during those 180 seconds that changed our lives.

“Is this what John 34 had in mind?” I ask him.

“No!” he retorts, and we both laugh.

Though we don't say it aloud, we both know it is so much better than either of us could have imagined.

—
Gina Farella Howley

A version of this story was first published in
Southland Family Time
Magazine
, February 2008.

Girlfriend

T
here are quiet, comfortable waiting rooms in hospitals. They have soft, clean living room furniture, a door that closes, and a telephone you can call long distance on, for free. It is not your standard waiting room. If you find yourself sitting in one of these rooms, someone you love is dying. It is where you grieve in private.

Last year I found myself sitting in that room while the internal specialist examined my father. She walked into the room and informed me that my father was nearly brain dead. She said she would try to keep his body alive as long as possible, maybe a few hours, so the family could be called in. Then she hugged me.

If the internal specialist hugs you in that room, you know it's the real thing.

My father did not die within a few hours as predicted.

Miles away and unbeknownst to us, the love of his life, Mary, had also taken a turn for the worst. Somehow, Dad knew. He heard her silent call for help and he responded. My father had one last job to do and he was determined to do it.

Mary and my father dated for nearly a decade before they got married. After twenty years of marriage, he still referred to her as his girlfriend. Having survived a failed first marriage, Dad said he knew what a wife felt like and Mary was definitely more like a girlfriend. It always made her blush or smile . . . or swat him on the side of his head.

Having married later in life, they had a few years of work and drudgery but spent most of their married lives retired. They had time to enjoy one another and they took full advantage of it. There was none of this sitting around and knitting business. No! They lived life to the fullest.

They worked together.

They mowed the lawn as a team of two. She wasn't strong enough to start the mower, and he didn't have enough lung power to push it around the yard, so he pulled the cord to start it and she pushed it.

They played together.

Dad tricked Mary, at sixty years of age, into going to her first strip club. Instead of being embarrassed, she thought it was great fun and laughed and clapped along with the rest of the audience. She asked Dad for money so she could tip the dancers.

Mary bought Dad his first pinky ring. It had a shiny sapphire that she thought matched the color and sparkle of his eyes. She introduced him to an Andy Capp style hat and encouraged him to wear it at a rakish angle.

“She likes me when I'm handsome,” Dad would boast.

They lived life together.

Soon after they married, they began traveling together. Winters in Florida or Texas and summers at the lake. They drove across Canada just so they could enjoy the view. There were a few stops at friends and relatives, but most of the time was spent on the road or in each other's company.

On one of their road trips it became apparent that Alzheimer's had become an uninvited guest in their home.

They fought, together.

Mary's bright wit began to fade. They researched everything there was to know about the disease, saw every specialist possible, regardless of how far away he was. They tried every drug, experimented with alternative therapies, prayed to any god that would listen. But they never accepted their fate. They fought the good fight.

As Mary's condition became harder to manage, people suggested that Dad put Mary in a home. He refused. He agreed it would be easier, but reminded us all that he had made a vow to love, honor, and cherish this woman of his heart. No matter the difficulties, he meant to keep his word to her, that he would always be there.

He sold their home, and they both moved into an assisted living complex. It was the right move for a while. Dad fought to take care of Mary for as long as he could. The stress of fighting against the downward spiral caused him to have a heart attack. He survived, but was admitted into the hospital and had to stay there for two weeks. Mary was assessed by the staff and it was determined that she could not stay on her own. They moved Mary to the lock-down unit in the Alzheimer's ward.

When Dad emerged from the hospital, the staff encouraged him to leave Mary where she was and to just come for visits — which he did, every day. Most days he arrived with ice cream. He spent much of his time going to the mall to shop for special treats, regardless of her inability to acknowledge the funny card he would read to her or the fuzzy headed ornament he would show her. He still hoped it would make her smile.