This past weekend my band played a singles “mixer.” From the stage I watched men and women as they went through the complicated dance that is the early stages of courtship; the light banter, the knee-touching, the feigned interest in personal histories.
Familiar territory. Because of my personality — which my kinder ex-wives refer to as “difficult” — I’ve spent a good deal of my life single.
Not all my relationship problems have been the fault of my lousy personality, though. Many were brought on by my equally lousy choices in women. For years, I was looking for all the wrong things.
I should have been searching for kindness, honesty, understanding, patience. Instead, I spent years burning through hotties upon whose backsides one might be able to crack a walnut. Though I’m still a fan of backsides, I have come to understand this should not be the sole factor in choosing a mate.
At any rate, playing for that singles group got me thinking about my early dating years, back when I was a single parent of two young children and trying to balance work, school and parenthood while maintaining some sort of rudimentary social life. It wasn’t easy.
My kids, four and six at the time, rarely met the girls I was dating, but sometimes it just happened.
I’m thinking of one particular afternoon about 30 years ago; I was having an early dinner with my daughter, Aubreii, at a downtown restaurant. At another table, a group of 20 or so girls were whooping it up pretty good. Balloons and a pyramid of brightly-wrapped boxes on the table spoke of the birthday party going on there. Based on the party’s volume, I assumed the girls were taking full advantage of happy hour drink prices.
Aubreii and I ignored the noise until one of the girls, a willowy redhead, detached herself from the group and approached our table.
“Mike,” she cawed. “I thought that was you! Oh, is this your daughter? She’s soooooo cuuuuute!”
“Yup,” I said. “This is Aubreii. Aubreii, this is Lucille, a friend.”
Lucille was a little more than a friend. We’d gone out half-a-dozen times, at least. She was a dancer at a west side nightclub, and though very sweet, she was not the sort of girl you bring home to mother.
Lucille (who, it turns out, was the birthday girl) and Aubreii chatted for a few moments. Lucille invited us to join her birthday party, I demurred. Eventually, she returned to her own table and recommenced with the apple-tinis.
Aubreii was quiet for a while.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked.
“She seems like a nice girl.” Aubreii said.
“She is,” I said.
“But…”
“Yes?”
“Well, she’s not very smart, is she?” Aubreii said.
When your six-year-old daughter can tell, it’s time to change your standards. It took 30 years, but I think maybe I finally have.
mtaylor@staffordgroup.com
(616) 548-8273
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