March 21: Why I Never Wear Red.

 

I am sitting here tapping out a post as I wait for our time to leave to arrive.  John has finally agreed to go on a date.  It's not really the sort of date I had in mind, but I made no special request, so he planned what we'd do.  We are going out to eat and he's already chosen the restaurant which sounded good to me.  

A date...For whatever reason I was remembering my first 'date' yesterday.  Ready for a bit of life twist sort of tale?

I was invited to come to a party just before Christmas by my bosses.  I think everyone had determined at that point that I should have a boyfriend since I was about to turn 19, was out of school, had my own car and was gainfully employed. Grown up sort of things, you know.  The bosses were there to chaperone and keep an eye on me, etc.  

So off I went, and I was immediately introduced to a man.   I'd seen him before in his workplace.  He was a rather tall, thin, handsome man.  We spent the evening talking.  He told me he'd been in Georgia for over six months, told me where he was from, about what he'd been doing with his life. He was older than I, enough that I didn't think he could possibly be interested in me, but not so much older that he looked a fool for talking to a young woman.   He told me he'd been separated from his wife for several months, longer than the six months he'd been living in our state.    

As I said, we spent the evening talking and enjoying out conversation.  When I was leaving, he walked me to my car and asked if I'd go on a date with him and we agreed upon an evening and time.  He kissed me, my first kiss.   

Christmas came and in my gifts was a red skirt and top.  It was pretty and I thought how perfect it would be to wear on my first date.  Date day arrived.  I spent the day grooming myself.  I did all the girly sorts of things and then I put on that red skirt and top. I looked in the mirror and thought I looked pretty.  It wasn't something I'd typically wear but it wasn't fancy or anything.  It was just....red.  I had long dark hair and eyes that switch between green and brown and it seemed to look good on me.  I took a deep breath.  I was ready.  I sat down to wait.

And I waited and waited and waited and waited.  The hour he was meant to pick me up came and went.  Another hour began to tick down.  I quietly went to my room and put on my pajamas.  That's when the phone rang.

It was my date explaining that he couldn't go out with me after all. He said how sorry he was and admitted he'd meant to just stand me up, but it seemed an unfair thing to do.  He apologized again.  I was cool and collected and told him I'd pretty much figured out he wasn't coming.  I thanked him for calling.  We both said, "I really had a nice time talking to you the other night."   I hung up the phone.

In the days between our meeting and time for our date, I had made up my mind that while I wanted to go on this date, this wasn't the guy for me.  I was a practical person, even back then.   I was somewhat naive and innocent about male/female relationships, but I had already realized that the age difference was just one barrier.  A man who was separated and had been for months, wasn't really sure where he was emotionally.  I knew that the odds were this would be a nice date or two and that would be that.  And I was fine with that.

All very mature thinking, right? 

But the impact on my very low self-esteem was harder than anyone could fathom.  I was convinced that my family was right.  I was a freak, too fat, too ugly, stupid, not worth anyone's time. I felt like I'd been a fool for even thinking anyone might look once at me, much less want to look twice.

I didn't shed a tear, not one.  I didn't act like it was a big deal or let anyone see how emotionally raw I was.  But inside I was a mess.  And what hurt just as much was the fact that not only did my family know I'd been stood up, but my workplace also knew I was stood up.  No one breathed a word.  No one said anything at all.  Likely they all felt rather sorry for me but in my mind, I felt sure they too thought I just wasn't the sort of girl that a guy wanted to date.

The next weekend, another co-worker asked me to come to a New Year's Eve watch at her home and I met the man I would marry 3 months later.  We broke up six weeks into our dating (which wasn't really dating.  We had one date and then he had no money he said so we mostly just drove around the back roads.)  

During the two weeks we were broken up, my mother bemoaned the fact that I seemingly couldn't keep a boy interested in me and hinted that I should expect never to marry, among other dire warnings.  And very foolishly, because secretly I was already convinced by years of being told what I wasn't, I thought she was right.  So, when he called after two and a half weeks, I agreed to go out with him once more and we were married by the end of March.

Fast forward a few years, not quite ten, but nearly.   And I was at a family dinner with my children and parents. My husband was absent as he often was during that time.  I'm not even sure how the conversation turned to my aborted first date nor why.  Truthfully, I hadn't given it much thought and never mentioned it to anyone.  It was my secret shame, you see.  A failing I saw no point in flaunting.  But somehow the subject came up and my dad said, "And that's why I went to see him and told him he wasn't taking you out and that he needn't come to the house to pick you up."   I remember uttering a curse word and saying how I wished to God he'd minded his own business.  I grabbed up my children and left.  No one ever again brought that subject up to me.

I was stunned.  I truly was.  My dad had done pretty much what any dad might have done, at least in that era.  But at the same time, I realized how life altering his interference had been.  Had he talked to me, I could have told Daddy my thoughts on the guy, his age, his ambivalent single state, my own determination that he wasn't going to be a love interest.  The truth was I'd felt safe with Jim.  He didn't attempt to push me into anything.  He hadn't made me feel uncomfortable or uneasy.  He was just nice.

But reality was I'd been stood up, humiliated, hurt.   I'd grabbed at the next guy who expressed interest, even though I was uneasy with him and the places he pushed me to go were always beyond my comfort zones.  I'd taken to heart my mother voicing her fears, which were already in my own head, that there would never be a guy for me.  I realized that whatever good intentions my dad might have had, my life had been altered to a path that had been unhappy and painful but which I was determined to stick with despite all the things wrong in it.  

I was 29 at that time of Daddy's revelation.

Suffice to say that it was another catalyst in my life just as being stood up had been.  I changed my life.  I gave up compulsive eating, I fought hard to overcome the lifelong depression I'd dealt with. I went to therapy. I went back to school.  I joined a school Helping Hands organization, and a civic group and became rather well known for my volunteer work.  I became frantically busy, all trying to prove that I was worthy of something.

Eventually, I realized that I needed to correct the biggest mistake I'd made in the past and I separated from my husband and divorced him. And after a very rocky spell of time, I met John.

Now looking back from this distance, from 66 to 30 and even back as far as 19, I'm not angry with my dad about his interference.  As a parent of children who went through their teens, I understand his intentions were to protect.  I get that.  

I've said more than once, looking back is a great way to see that while it might not have been the original path of my life, the one with all the messy, ugly places to be got through, all the angst and such, it had led me to meet John who truly has been the love of my life.

So, I as I stand here looking back, I thank Jim for being the man he was and not only respecting my father but being kind to the 19-year-old me who deserved to be told that he wouldn't be calling on me rather than being stood up.  

And I finally understand my aversion to the bright red which I haven't been able to have in my closet since I was 19.

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