'you actin' kinda shady, ain't callin' me baby, better say my name'
So the other day, I'm at the YMCA swimming pool with the boys. While they swam in the mysteriously warm waters of the cement pond, I sat out to keep one eye on them and the other on the year old copy of Self magazine I was carelessly flipping through.
I know what you're thinking. "A year old issue? Don't you think it's about time to let go of the past and move on?" People, I still have semi-regular contact with an old boyfriend, so randomly tossing an old issue of Real Simple in the recycling bin would be nothing short of traumatic to me. Call me quirky. Perhaps dependent. Either works.
Anyway, I'm watching and reading, reading and watching, when I sense a presence near me. My boys have started watching all those ghost hunting and scare me stupid shows, so my first inclination is to feel a bit paranoid by this sense of doom I'm having. Steeling my nerves, I dog-ear the Self article on acting upon one's sexual fantasies (FYI - Mine don't all involve my old boyfriend. Maybe two) to look around for zombies or ghostly figures, I hear "Hey! How are you!?" and glance up to see an older man standing in front of me, dripping with what was either that gooey crap Carol Ann came back to her family covered in in Poltergeist or the remnants of that mysteriously warm pool water.
(sidebar - Backpacking Dad? If Poltergeist shows up on TV one of these days, is it a date? Call me, yeah?)
I smile and respond to the hulking gentleman, who by now has placed a tiny towel down beside me on the bench and has shoved over to see what I'm reading. "Hmmmm. Interesting," he says, and I avoid eye contact for a moment, for, while I'm perhaps intrigued at the thought, I don't truly wish to know this person's sexual fantasies. Those kind of things are best shared with a loving partner. And sometimes the Internet. I looked around, but I didn't see either option there at that time.
From there, the man engaged me in a rapid fire conversation about kids, his gout, the weather, his time in the military, and how hot I am. OK, not really that last one, but seriously, they keep the pool area at the YMCA just a tad under 'surface of the sun' hot, and I was becoming increasingly crestfallen the longer I sat there. Between each topic, the man would ask my name, then use it as a transition into the next phase of our conversation. Now, I like my name, but at about the 40 minute mark in our conversation, I was to the point where I was ready to invoke the playground rebuttal of "That's my name! Don't wear it out!" but the dude never seemed to take a breath before introducing the next topic of conversation, thus depriving me of the chance to figure out how I might then be able to zing him with the bonus "Take a picture, it'll last longer!"
More than an HOUR LATER (!!!!) (I'm super nice, people. Also, I'm a former reporter, so when I felt like we were losing our connection, I was right there in the game with follow up questions!), I stand up, stretch, and call out to my boys to come gather up so we can go home.
"What's your name again?" My new friend asked. I glance back at him, my face conveying a full on look of "Are you kidding me with that question? You've just spent the last hour plus saying my name with such affection I was beginning to think you wanted to marry it, and now you're playing fickle with me?"
So I told him again, smiled, tucked the unfinished, year-old Self - now a day older - back in my bag for the next time, and thanked him for spending his afternoon with me. He reached for my hand, said my name AGAIN, and closed our day with "I never forget a name, INSERT MY NAME HERE. Especially those of such pretty girls, INSERT MY NAME HERE. Now, I may not remember it the next time we meet, INSERT MY NAME HERE, but believe me, I never forget a name, YOU KNOW THE DRILL BY NOW."
I stood there, smiling, wanting my hand back, and thinking, "Really? You already forgot my name, even though you used it nonstop. Also, I believe not remembering my name the next time we meet, then following up that declaration by insisting you never forget a name constitutes a FAIL!"
I've been back to the pool a few times since this encounter, and between flipping my magazine pages, I've scanned the place for my new friend, but he's not been there at the same time I have. My guess is he's seen me sitting there, then dashed out quickly because he can't recall who I am. That would also be kind of like how I approached this blog post. I had some idea in mind for it when I sat down to write, but before I could blow the embers of that idea and watch it spark into a blazing post, I was bombarded by the use of my other name.
"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!"
Yep, it's going to be a good day, my friends.
Oh, it is actually going to be a good weekend. Tonight, my Tool Man and I are ditching the kids (perhaps in a real ditch!), and attending a wedding, where I anticipate doing the Cha Cha Slide with a few of my coworkers. Then, on Saturday, I'm running away with my first real pretend boyfriend because it's the moment I've been waiting for - THE RICK SPRINGFIELD CONCERT! Tool Man has again blessed the never-ending, burning union between Rick and me.
I'll cap my weekend on Sunday by observing the Sabbath. Oh, and also doing something special to recognize National Duran Duran Appreciation Day! I plan to slather on a lot of make-up, ala 80s era Duran, blow the dust off my old grey fedora, and learn to play keyboards. Then kiss my posters of Simon and John. I 'heart' you, Simon and John!
(Yes, and you, too, Rick!)
In conclusion, blame the dude at the pool - whose name, I should point out, I never got! - for my lack of blog topic focus today. Also, you in the back? I know you weren't thinking about the fact I was reading a year old magazine. You were wondering what kind of swimsuit I was wearing. Sorry. It was a one-piece. Maybe next time. Now, all of you leave me some love (especially all of you who come here and bail! I had well over 200 visits the other day, but some of you must be shy. Don't be. I'm nice. And I have brownies. With stick figures of Simon, John, Nick, Roger, and Andy stuck in them, but we can cut around them), and have a good weekend.
video: ABBA's The Name Of The Game. Because I like to pound on my themes AND my obsessions head on!