Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, ~~WG, Romance. She didn't give him the time of day in high school, and he was too busy trying to blend in to notice. What happens now that they're all grown up?
The minute I walked into the country club I knew Id made a mistake.
Twenty years ago, I had been an average shlub who had survived the pitiless jungle of high school the way all smaller and weaker animals do: with effective camouflage and the ability to freeze and blend in.
Now I was 38, still an average shlub, only instead of being 5 foot 7 and 150 pounds, I was 5 foot 10 and 200 pounds: twenty years older and fifty pounds heavier, with chubby cheeks, a wobbly chin, and a paunch that pouched out over gabardine trousers. And if that werent enough, add one dead marriage and one boring-ass job. I was about to turn right back around and leave.
Ryan?
Crap, Id been spotted. Reluctantly I turned. Squinted at the name tag.
Uh Tiffany?
Tiffany Keeler, formerly Tiffany Richardson, grinned, and I recognized her then. She had always had a gorgeous smile, huge and genuine and frequent.
She said, You look great! She sounded a little awed, which was off-key, but maybe shed been drinking.
Tiffany Richardson had been average like me in high school, only instead of depending on stealth and camouflage to get through, she bounced along as though life was excellent, thanks. Her looks were okay but not hot; she was in the Book Club and the Latin Club; she rode an old-school Raleigh bicycle and worked at the drugstore on weekends.
She was waving her hand in front of my face.
I said, Would you like to go outside and talk?
Now: Whats wrong? she asked, as soon as we sat down on a bench flanked by low shrubs.
Wrong? Nothing
She laughed, her nose crinkling. Her dark hair was a cap framing her heart-shaped face, the cut an improvement, I thought on the Dorothy Hamill wedge shed worn in school, but then, in our junior year Id gotten a perm.
Word of advice? Dont play poker, buddy. She clapped a hand on my shoulder, lowered her head, and lifted her eyes to meet mine.
Tell me the truth, please. What are you thinking right now?
I swallowed hard. I would get out of this mess, then leave. Quickly.
That you didnt used to be malicious. Id hoped to sting her, but her face and eyes registered no change.
You feel that Im being malicious, she said.
I dont think its very funny for you to pretend that you think I look good, that youre attracted to me.
But you do. And I am, she said. She leaned in, and now her eyebrows were furrowed and her dark eyes wide.
I laughed shortly. Where were you twenty years ago?
Tiffany shrugged. Twenty years ago you werent that good-looking.
I kissed her, hard, taking both of us by surprise.
Neither were you, I said, when we came up for air.
I was never a Tiffany, she said. By now it was after 11 oclock, and we were ambling along the cart paths of the golf course. Tiffany had her high-heeled sandals off, dangling by the straps from an index finger.
So when I left for college, I started going by my middle name, Megan.
I nodded absently and returned to the question I still hadnt gotten answered to my satisfaction.
How. Can. You. Find. Me. Attractive, I asked for the fifth or sixth time, chopping the air with my hands.
How does anybody explain what appeals, what attracts, why does one person find Robert Pattinson hot and another prefer, say, Russell Crowe?
Um, because Robert Pattinson is sparkly?
She giggled. Seriously, attraction is literally something thats felt, on a number of sub-aware levels, and so while we can speak about symmetry of facial features, or why were evolutionarily predisposed to find certain physical aspects attractive relative to a mans or womans ability to perform certain life-critical actions, its not something that can easily be put into words, if at all, she said didactically.
Whoa. Who are you in real life? I asked.
She giggled again. I got a masters degree in psychology and counseling, worked in a practice for four or five years, then went back and got a doctorate. Now Im a marriage counselor.
Married? I blurted.
Widowed.
Oh. I bit my lip. She slid her arm around me and rubbed her hand up and down my back, which felt marvelous.
Its all right. This was ten years ago, she said quietly. It was an aneurysm. No one had any idea, and the whole thing took less than half a day from the time he fell over in the bathroom to the time they pronounced him at the hospital.
She stopped, so I stopped too. She turned and patted my belly as though it were a teddy bear or a puppy and then we resumed strolling.
High School Redux
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
The minute I walked into the country club I knew Id made a mistake.
Twenty years ago, I had been an average shlub who had survived the pitiless jungle of high school the way all smaller and weaker animals do: with effective camouflage and the ability to freeze and blend in.
Now I was 38, still an average shlub, only instead of being 5 foot 7 and 150 pounds, I was 5 foot 10 and 200 pounds: twenty years older and fifty pounds heavier, with chubby cheeks, a wobbly chin, and a paunch that pouched out over gabardine trousers. And if that werent enough, add one dead marriage and one boring-ass job. I was about to turn right back around and leave.
Ryan?
Crap, Id been spotted. Reluctantly I turned. Squinted at the name tag.
Uh Tiffany?
Tiffany Keeler, formerly Tiffany Richardson, grinned, and I recognized her then. She had always had a gorgeous smile, huge and genuine and frequent.
She said, You look great! She sounded a little awed, which was off-key, but maybe shed been drinking.
Tiffany Richardson had been average like me in high school, only instead of depending on stealth and camouflage to get through, she bounced along as though life was excellent, thanks. Her looks were okay but not hot; she was in the Book Club and the Latin Club; she rode an old-school Raleigh bicycle and worked at the drugstore on weekends.
She was waving her hand in front of my face.
I said, Would you like to go outside and talk?
Now: Whats wrong? she asked, as soon as we sat down on a bench flanked by low shrubs.
Wrong? Nothing
She laughed, her nose crinkling. Her dark hair was a cap framing her heart-shaped face, the cut an improvement, I thought on the Dorothy Hamill wedge shed worn in school, but then, in our junior year Id gotten a perm.
Word of advice? Dont play poker, buddy. She clapped a hand on my shoulder, lowered her head, and lifted her eyes to meet mine.
Tell me the truth, please. What are you thinking right now?
I swallowed hard. I would get out of this mess, then leave. Quickly.
That you didnt used to be malicious. Id hoped to sting her, but her face and eyes registered no change.
You feel that Im being malicious, she said.
I dont think its very funny for you to pretend that you think I look good, that youre attracted to me.
But you do. And I am, she said. She leaned in, and now her eyebrows were furrowed and her dark eyes wide.
I laughed shortly. Where were you twenty years ago?
Tiffany shrugged. Twenty years ago you werent that good-looking.
I kissed her, hard, taking both of us by surprise.
Neither were you, I said, when we came up for air.
I was never a Tiffany, she said. By now it was after 11 oclock, and we were ambling along the cart paths of the golf course. Tiffany had her high-heeled sandals off, dangling by the straps from an index finger.
So when I left for college, I started going by my middle name, Megan.
I nodded absently and returned to the question I still hadnt gotten answered to my satisfaction.
How. Can. You. Find. Me. Attractive, I asked for the fifth or sixth time, chopping the air with my hands.
How does anybody explain what appeals, what attracts, why does one person find Robert Pattinson hot and another prefer, say, Russell Crowe?
Um, because Robert Pattinson is sparkly?
She giggled. Seriously, attraction is literally something thats felt, on a number of sub-aware levels, and so while we can speak about symmetry of facial features, or why were evolutionarily predisposed to find certain physical aspects attractive relative to a mans or womans ability to perform certain life-critical actions, its not something that can easily be put into words, if at all, she said didactically.
Whoa. Who are you in real life? I asked.
She giggled again. I got a masters degree in psychology and counseling, worked in a practice for four or five years, then went back and got a doctorate. Now Im a marriage counselor.
Married? I blurted.
Widowed.
Oh. I bit my lip. She slid her arm around me and rubbed her hand up and down my back, which felt marvelous.
Its all right. This was ten years ago, she said quietly. It was an aneurysm. No one had any idea, and the whole thing took less than half a day from the time he fell over in the bathroom to the time they pronounced him at the hospital.
She stopped, so I stopped too. She turned and patted my belly as though it were a teddy bear or a puppy and then we resumed strolling.
