Well, as someone who's nearly lost all interest in dating, I'm happy to report that I'm not completely dead inside. Yeah, that's right – someone has recently captured my attention. Alert the press!
It's not that I've been against dating; it's just that no one has really interested me in a while. Oh, anyone who knows me, or who's read my book, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir, would tell you that I'm a good sport when it comes to dating. I generally go on most 'Oh, you two should just meet' dates; and for a while I was chatting with someone from my past (no, not Adam. Believe it or not – for the readers of my book – it was Boston Mark; but that's probably a whole different blog post – or at least half of one anyway), but what can I say? If I'm not interested – if there's no spark – why bother? See what I mean about dead inside?
So, I just go about my business, living my life – confounding those who just don't understand why I'm not 'out there' looking. Part of my life is the habitual hiking of this mountain near my home:
Boy, I really do go off on the tangents, don't I? Sorry. What you don't know is that I'm sparing you my whole Pinnacle Peak Miss Congeniality story. I think, perhaps, I'll just save that one for another day.
So… I hike this mountain – in the morning. In the summer our sun comes up so early that it feels almost like mid-morning to begin hiking at 6:00 a.m. – and, while that's the time I start, there are some that are already done by then. But now it's fall and the sun only starts to rise at about 5:45 or 6:00. So what this means is that I must roll out of bed at o'dark thirty to be on the hill by 6:00. This is no small feat. There are those who can't even roll out of bed at that hour just to shuffle to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, let alone to climb a mountain. A mountain – 2, 289 feet at the highest climbable elevation – a mountain!
I do this hike about four times a week, sometimes more. And, although I go by myself, I am not alone up there – there are the 'regulars,' the folks I see almost every time. A regular doesn't start out as a regular, though – he starts out as a newbie. It's not until you hear yourself saying, 'Oh, here's that guy again' that you even begin to notice a regular developing in your midst.
This particular regular I'm telling you about – yes, that's what I've been working toward – reminds me of someone that I had an affinity for long ago. Who? Okay, he reminds me of Adam's father, George. I was telling my friend Debbie about this when she nearly choked, asking me if I had 'a thing' for Adam's father. I did not have 'a thing' for Adam's father. I just really liked him. There's nothing wrong with that.
As I told Debbie, one day this guy and I each arrived at the same time and began our ascent together. He was annoyed, and grumbled about how crowded it was – and where he had to park. He told me he was a recent transplant from
Debbie asked me what he looked like. I didn't want to go back to 'reminds me of George Vogel,' so I just said, "He's tall, has broad shoulders. I think he's handsome. I'd say he has light eyes (I could be way off on this one though), and brownish hair, but I'm not sure what's really going on up top because he wears a hat. "A hat?" she said, somewhat surprised, then added, "What kind of a hat?" What kind of a hat? "A top hat," I told her. Then, without missing a beat, through a laughter that welled up instantaneously, I added, "He looks completely out of place up there." As I regained my composure, I said, "He wears a ball cap."
"So, how did you leave it with him?" she asked. When we hit the 1-1/2 mile marker I told him that's where I turn around, then I asked him his name and said, "Enjoy the rest of your hike."
Of course, since that day, I've had my eye out for him – and, as the carrot motivates the donkey, I've been using him as the impetus to get me out of bed in the pitch dark of the early a.m. – in fact, I now refer to him as C (as in C for carrot, for those slow on the uptake).
Unfortunately, I've only seen him a couple of times since that shared hike. Each time we had flirty interchanges as we passed each other like two ships in the night, but that's it. But that's okay – it's nice to have someone to look for. It's nice to have an interest in someone again – however subtle it may be. So what if my interest lies in what may be a gay, divorced Amish man with a chip on his shoulder – it's still an interest. And people say I'm picky. C'mon.