e-elena

I saw her profile on one of those singles sites where more than a few veteran domestic pugilists seek comfort. I was sure I had company. The quantity of dating sites is staggering. Evidently, I am not the first to have an ill-advised marriage finally implode. Anyway, she and I corresponded, flirted and she gave me her phone number.

Was I ill at ease at the notion that I had been surfing the singles sites for several months in search of companionship? Hell yes. It was time to Gerry-rig myself into a more worldly kind of guy. I would become loud and intrepid, borderline brazen and arrogant. But crap! I was scared to death and the damn goose bumps were going to give me away. It was fine that she could see me on screen only -until now.

I had been overseas for almost 30 years, straight, was companion-less in formal fashion - an odd fellow in a strange, new world �" my homeland. And it was far less exotic than I had envisioned. So I was forced to make a rapid retreat from a real pipe dream. The world and the culture as I knew it when I departed for the Peace Corps in 1978 seemed to have sneaked off to somewhere else. I had no idea how to date someone any more. I felt like a dork . How was I to know that stowing a pair of platform shoes, my favorite bell bottom trousers and an abs-enhancing sweater shirt that snapped between the crotch would not be the cure-all that I thought it might be one day. Tonight, my combo of attire looked smart all laid out on the bed. And my karma looked just as sharp as I Travolta-ed past the mirror in my room. Unluckily , when I was all put together I looked like a first class dufus. How could I go on a blind date with an adventurous, nice, pretty, cultured, Pacific Islander I had met on-line - in a damn leisure suit? No way. I opted for an Orvis plaid shirt, a pair of wide-wale green chords with brown and white saddle shoes.

I map-quested her address right after she gave me her number, then drove over early to check the place out. I could ill-afford to get lost at the last minute and have to call her for directions. I parked outside her apartment twenty minutes early so I attempted to play Sudoku. This short hiatus turned into a Godsend since the garbanzos my sister made for lunch started to dance up a storm, down there by the duodenum. The insides of the Honda wreaked sulfur for about fifteen minutes. Man, I was never so glad to be early. I rolled down the window and popped the air system to “extraordinary blast” for as long as it would go without blowing the motor.

Elena was waiting for me in a long, loosely fitting, light green dress. It reminded me of those that Peace Corps girls wear to the Marine Ball. On her, it waxed eloquent. It had a blue-green hue and it draped gracefully down a flavorsome mass of bone and gristle (not without a nice curve or two). She had a light complexion, possessed blue-green eyes that matched the dress and she had carefully straightened, silky, smooth, dirty blond hair. Her teeth were white as snow and her lips were small yet wholesome, clearly a naturally pink, outlined against her chin. As is custom in the Peace Corps, I leaned over to give her a peck on the left cheek. She backed off so suddenly I thought she had slipped on a banana peel. I turned red (I think) came close to breaking wind again but stood up as straight as I could, knees hugging.

The rest of the night breezed bye, in line with the light but zesty Northerlies. She ate Tex Mex as I feigned sipping a Corona with a lemon wedge. I showed off my Spanish skills with the restaurant staff. I felt so hip. I just knew that Elena, of mostly Russian descent, was fittingly impressed with her Spanish speaking, cosmopolitan and trendy American host. Our meal was a bit eclectic as she wished to follow up with Bloody Marys and a dozen raw oysters on the half shell. She also insisted on dessert and chose the fried ice cream. She was happy and I was cool with everything.

I had not noticed a single person in the restaurant all night. It wasn’t that there were no other patrons, I just did not care to look. I was enthralled. Likewise, I do not remember if I paid the bill. I was not tipsy. The conversation turned out to be intoxicating. She was colorful, animated and fun, and made us both loopy and loose. We talked of sailing the reefs around Vladivostok and I described dancing with the Incas in Peru. She chronicled hikes around the Russian hills and I relayed how I had stalked snakes in the Amazon basin. When she described her adventures her eyes lit up like little campfires. Her face turned into a frothy grin (kind of like orange sherbet) and she swayed back and forth as she talked, as if she had placed herself back in time. I started to become smitten - and so did my tummy. I now was at total ease. I laughed. She laughed. We laughed together. And her Mediterranean accent drove my pants crazy.

I drove her home and walked her to the door. She opened it - a little. I was going to give her a good night hug but she back-pedaled and grinned. I grinned too and instead of fore-pedaling I thanked her for a wonderful evening. We agreed to meet again.

My saddle shoes clicked as I began to march back to my car in military lock step. I don't know why. For some reason, I almost broke into a skip. Just before entering the car, I jumped, kicked my heels together and said to myself in nonchalance … “far out”. Then the man in the moon saw me. Embarrassed, I drove home slowly.