Tonight, I have a date. Something in the 70s and 80s I had more than my share of, probably not deservedly so. I was a product of the 60s: Woodstock. Vietnam. Janis Joplin. Jimmy Hendrix. All of which had a profound effect on me, and perhaps some not providing the best role modeling for a late-blooming young lad with an abundance of hormonal tendencies. I played hard, too hard at times, scaring away many young ladies of virtue. Hearts were crushed, equally so, and I never seemed to cultivate solutions based on any reasonable interpretation.

Back to my date. Over the last 14 years, I can count on one hand how many I’ve had. Why? The reasons show their manifestations on two hands. No bars, new friends, and an independent streak a mile wide. It was April 1st. [The day fools are made of.] I wasn’t the superstitious type, but I may have suggested we delay the date a week or so. Mary’s brother, Bill, was a pastor and a good friend, and her protective family thought she was ready to date again after losing her husband in a tragic snowmobile accident a year or two earlier. She was shy but so was I.

We met at Bill and Pam's for conversation and Trivial Pursuit. But it didn’t take me long to formulate that my personal pursuit was anything but trivial. I couldn’t have been more serious. I had waited years for an opportunity to address itself in this way, and my fear of blowing it was, I think, showing up on my sleeve. I needed to slow down, as this obviously presented itself as a marathon, not a sprint. She was sweet, quiet, reserved, and thoughtful. Everything, after thoughtful speculation, I failed at that night. What a doofus. I necessitated some diligence when it came to my social dexterity, and could only wish for another bite at the apple.