Old Boyfriend Panic
Better is the sight of the eyes than
the wandering of the desire:
this is also vanity and vexation of
spirit.
-- Ecclesiastes 6:9
I was invited to a town a few hours away last week to give a
speech. A long-lost boyfriend of mine was probably going to be there.
ALERT!
AA-OO-GAH!
EMERGENCY!
I admit it. I had fantasized about him over the years. We
would meet again, and he would slap his forehead and wail, "How did I EVER let
you get away?"
Listen: I am very happy in my longtime marriage. It's just that
. . . when the stewpot boils over and the toddler bites your ankles and the
hubby gives you a socket set for Valentine's Day . . . you sometimes play that "what
if?" game in your head. You know?
But now I had a big problem: reality.
Back then, I at least had some semblance of babe-osity. Now,
I kind of look like Boris Yeltsin in a dress. How could I re-hottify myself
practically overnight?
That hair! Frump City! With a snazzy cut and some "cheat
juice," I looked maybe a half-hour younger.
That middle-age pudge! For days, I did the stressed-out
gerbil thing on the elliptical machine, and fervent underwater gyrations in the
workout pool. Lost one pound. Big whoop.
That eyebrow! It has "gone Andy Rooney." My right eyebrow
lays flat and sleek, like elegant sealskin. But my left eyebrow has gone SPRRRRRONG!!! It's as unruly as a class
of third-graders on the last day of school. I've tried everything: Vaseline,
hair gel, even udder balm. For this high-stress reunion, I might have to call
NASA for some special sealant used in outer space.
That facial hair! My upper lip is starting to "go Gene
Shalit." I'm pretty sure the old boyfriend didn't have a moustache, either, the
last time he saw me. It's hard on middle-aged men to see others with more hair
than they have, anywhere. Waxing? Youch! Laser hair removal was said to take
weeks; if I tipped them well, could they zap me a quickie?
Eww, my stubby nails! The East German scrubwoman look! I was
letting my nailbeds rest after years of having luxurious fake nails mortared
on. I'd just have to keep my hands in my pockets, even if he wanted to shake
hands.
Enough! The big day arrived. I picked out a doable outfit, maximized
the makeup arsenal, and surveyed the ravages. Oh, well. Maybe he's nearsighted
now.
The two-hour drive zoomed by. One mile to go.
Hmm. What if I'd married him, instead, and was living here
in a darling farmhouse? With big, beautiful sunrises and sunsets? In glorious
peace, with the silence broken only by the trill of a meadowlark? Would we
picnic down by the old mill stream, toasting each other with wine from our own
vineyard, munching on cheese from our own 4-H champion goats?
Poof! My daydream vanished as I rolled into the very small town.
It was like something out of a 1950s horror movie right
before the aliens arrived, when everybody was hiding.
Where was the Panera?
Where was the library?
Museum? Stadium? Stores? Theaters?
For that matter, where was the traffic light?
What did they do for fun around here? Tour the SOD FARM?!?
Now, don't get mad. Rural living is fabulous for those who
choose it.
But my spoiled, city-girl eyes were opened. I realized that I
loved my life, and certainly my husband. I didn't need to daydream; my real
life was a dream come true. I was one lucky little wacky-eyebrowed East German scrubwoman.
Of course I still sucked in my gut bigtime when I walked in.
But guess what? He never showed up. The chicken!
So now, in my fantasy scenario, my handsome, beloved husband
and I are frolicking through Borsheim's, the world's best jewelry store right
here in Omaha, while up in Podunk the old boyfriend has an extreme combover, a '70s
bowling shirt and outrageously prominent nosehair that makes my eyebrow look
sleek and sophisticated.
That's the price you pay for chickening out . . . on the gorgeous
babe who got away. †
