Never mind that I live three minutes from the hospital. I was always afraid I wouldn't be able to leave there for days. And since I need constant stimulation when I'm not in a state of torpor, I had to take every single magazine, book and newspaper in sight (quite a few, for me). And legal pads so I could make endless to-do lists (I need to write a separate post about my compulsive list-making). And nail polish, facial scrub, a bar of my fav soap (Zest Aqua Pure), all my makeup and every single hair care product and device I own. Strangely, I always had the crazy idea of converting the hospital room into some sort of spa retreat. And that was before I figured out what clothes to take. I had to cover every season because hospital room weather is never temperate. It's either freezing or burning up. And if you're not the sick one, it's kinda selfish to adjust the thermostat to suit yourself. On top of that, it's important to think about how you want to look in every possible situation. Something kinda businessy when dealing with asshole, condescending specialists or bitchy nurses. A cute little outfit in case there's a handsome doc around who's not arrogant and condescending. That's never happened, but it's not worth risking a trip to the crapeteria on the outside chance that Dr. Right happens to get in line behind you. Speaking of behind, if I'm feeling booty-confident (a rare thing), there's one pair of my dozen or so black yoga pants that I'm comfortable wearing in public. Not that I can ever find that particular pair. And after two days of crapeteria food, don't even think about yoga pants. By then, you'd better pull out the fat jeans. I swear, why do they have all that disgusting, cholesteral/grease-laden shit in a hospital? I suppose it makes good business sense from a marketing point of view.
Wow, I've gotten way off track. Maybe I'm avoiding any real discussion of FF. So here goes.
When he called to say he was here, I threw on an outfit I hoped would suggest "smart, sophisticated, subtly-sexy CFO." I even wore panty hose. Dude has NO idea what a big deal that was. His dad did, however, comment on my legs, but that's neither here nor there. When I drove up, I jumped out of the car so he'd get the full effect of my carefully planned outfit. I guess it worked, because he said something about how I looked. I can't remember what, exactly, but I'm sure it was something nice. I went in for a handshake (in line with the business theme), but he hugged me instead. And then we stood there and stared at each other and smiled. Then I put my hand on his cheek and laid a big wet kiss on him. Right on the mouth. Said we might as well get that out of the way. I think it was well-received. He laughed and didn't recoil in horror, at least.
It kinda backfired on me though. I thought I'd be less nervous after that, but the opposite happened. When we finally got in the car, I started checking my phone for texts and emails and babbling incessantly. When the crossing guard started blowing his whistle and waving for us to move on, I managed to start the trek to his parents' house. I only had one near miss and one U-turn, but neither seemed to frighten him. A very good sign.
I suggested we stop by Fresh Market so he could get some flowers to take to his mom. And I needed some mushrooms for my never-fail goat cheese and olive tapenade baked mushrooms. By the way, Fresh Market has great prices on fresh flowers. $10 for a dozen roses pretty much all the time. They're loss leaders for all their outrageously priced food, I guess. It works for me. While we were standing in the checkout line, he put his arm around me and I think he patted or rubbed my back. I can't remember which. It's been a long time since I've experienced a public display of affection. It was nice.
We walked to the car and he asked me when I had to get to my client's office. I did have a meeting, so my outfit wasn't completely contrived. Never mind that I usually wear jeans there. We had an hour or so to spare. He said he wanted to see Good House. It's only a mile or two from his parents' house, which is incredibly convenient. He made a bee-line for my newly acquired guitar and sat and played and sang for a while. Dust in the Wind - which is really beautiful, but I hadn't realized that the lyrics were so sad until I heard him sing them. When he finished, I said I thought they were in keeping with my current Carpe Diem philosophy.
I showed him around the rest of the downstairs and then he mentioned my Enchanted Airie upstairs. Up we went and I came out with my most abused attempt at humor by saying "This is where the magic happens." Dumb, I know. But I was anxious. In another attempt to conquer my nerves, I took off my shoes and jumped on my great big new king-sized bed. It was my parents' and it's so great. Sturdy enough to jump on. I remember when we were kids, we'd jump on the bed and the slats would come out and the mattress would fall to the floor. Damn, we got in trouble for that all the time. But it was worth the risk.
See, jumping on the bed is a test I like to use. The world is divided into two kinds of people. Those who jump on beds (or are willing to, if asked) and those who won't. The latter group has a disproportionate share of picky eaters, and that's a huge peeve of mine. I'm sure you can connect the dots there. I told FF to come jump on the bed with me, and at first he refused. It didn't take too much wheedling to get him to join in. We jumped a little bit and I plopped down on my butt and he followed suit. Passed my test. The bigger test is jumping on someone else's bed. It's pretty easy to read their reaction. They're either amused or horrified. No in-between. And since I'm so sick of acting like a grownup all the time (well, some of the time), if it bothers someone for me to jump on their bed I figure it means one of two things. Either they're worried about their stuff getting broken or they think I'm stupid/weird/strange. Neither bodes well for a long-term relationship of any kind. The one thing I'll never forget from my trip to vist my girl Melanie (the dentist in Baltimore) is jumping on the bed with her. Her husband had gone up to bed to read while we gabbed and giggled like a couple of middle-school girls downstairs. When I said we should go jump on the bed, I didn't have to persuade her. She jumped up and we ran down the hall and stormed the bedroom and jumped all around, much to Roger's amusement. He told us he could take on both of us. Needless to say, he wasn't horrified by our antics. See, I always call Mel the Jewish Carol. We're scarily alike. In a good way. I'm starting to wonder if FF and Roger are scarily alike. In both good and bad ways. Mostly good, though. Hmmm... I'll have to think about that one. I'm overdue for a Melanie-call, anyway.
All this to say that jumping on the bed is good clean fun. It can be a little dangerous - you have to watch for ceiling fans and avoid beds with posts that could impale. And I did jam my finger in Baltimore. When I went to the orthopaedist, (for an unrelated ankle injury involving steps at the beach and a beer cooler a few months earlier) I showed him my purple finger and he asked me how it happened. He had a medical student or intern or someone with him. Which made it even funnier when I told him. Of course, there's nothing to be done about a jammed finger, but it was fun to see their reactions. And he probably got more from the insurance company since there were multiple injuries. He's a friend, so that's a good thing.
Wow, I've spent WAY too long on the bed-jumping thing. And I'm not even close to telling about the shrew reference. Not that I intend to. After all, FF reads this silly blog. I'll try to sum it up for now. I've frequently described myself as being "not for the faint of heart." And FF seems pretty fearless so far. It's still early, though. For now, I'm going to sign off and get started with my day. First on the list is devising my next test for Mr. Man...
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