I've Still Got It (Part Two)

Back when I was in high school, I dated the girl who would one day become my first wife (let's just call her the Wicked Witch of the West Coast, since she deserves it). As with most high school romances, there were highs and there were lows. There was much passion, and there was much crap I had to take to get to that passion. Sometimes the crap was too much to take, and I'd say, "the hell with it," and break up with her. By coincidence, this was usually just before a gift-giving holiday or anniversary.
     On one of those many occasions, I began dating a sweet girl. I'd tell you her name, but I don't want you to see me crying from the memory. She was the nicest, the prettiest, the sweetest-smelling girl I had ever dated, but, alas, before our relationship could develop into anything more serious, my future ex-wife must have noticed how happy I was and couldn't stand it. So she pulled a Roe Versus Wade on my relationship by winning me back with the one thing she had to win me back with. (Come on, guys. You know what I'm talking about.)
     The rest of my life I've spent wondering what that sweet girl was doing, where she was, and what would have happened if only...
     Now, I told you that story to tell you this story:
     My Dad and I went to Wal-Mart on the 4th of July to buy some last minute supplies for a cookout we were having later that day.
     "Dad," I told him as we were walking into the store, "this has to be quick. Let's just get what we need, and get out."
     I told him that, because the Wal-Mart was packed. I didn't want to spend all my time walking up and down the aisles window-shopping and avoiding people who look like what was left of the human race at the end of the Pixar movie Wall-e.
     "Yeah, yeah," is what my Dad said.
     "Whatever," is what he meant.
     I grabbed a cart, and we quickly went through the produce department. Tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, and I forget what else. My Dad's doing a good job of keeping up with me, and I think he sees it as one of his walks, because I see him high-stepping it when the crowd of shoppers parts like Moses and the Red Sea, and he has enough room.
     Boom! We grab some charcoal, some lighter fluid (I like to do things the way our caveman ancestors used to), some beer... and I think we're done. I check my list. Yeah, we're done.
     "Okay, Dad," I told him, "I think that's about it."
     "We're done?"
     "We're done."
     ...pause...
     "I'm going to look at the tools."
     What? Look at the tools? I thought we were done. If I had known he wanted to look at the tools I would have left him there, done my shopping, and then picked him up on my way to the checkout.
     "Dad," I told him. Pleaded really. "We don't have time."
     "It won't take long."
     "But our cookout."
     He starts walking in the direction of the other side of the store where he assumes the tools will be.
     "We have guests coming," I say, and then he really starts high-stepping it.
     "I'll be quick," he assures me. F.U. is what he means.
     Twenty minutes later, he's still looking at the tools, and I'm parked at the end of the aisle, out of the way of the cart traffic, waiting for him to get done. There was no use trying to hurry him up, because if he thought I was trying to hurry him up, he would just take twice as long out of spite.
     "Excuse me," a voice said. A female voice. "Do you work here?"
     I turn to see two old ladies. I'm dressed casually in shorts, t-shirt, athletic shoes, and a baseball cap.
     "Do I look like I work here?" I think to myself.
     "No, ma'am," I say instead, "I don't."
     "Oh," she said. "You just look like you work here."
     "Thanks, old lady," I think to myself, "and you look like..."
     "No, sorry. I'm just waiting for my Dad," I explain, and I nod in the direction of my high-stepping, tool-appreciating father.
     "Aren't you a sweet one," she told me, and I could swear she batted her eyes when she said it.
     I looked at her and her partner. I didn't know if they were friends or sisters or Don't Ask/Don't Tells.
     "Well..." I said, and I shrugged.
     "Do you always bring your father with you?" her friend said.
     "Not if I can help it," I thought.
     "Of course," I said.
     You know, those two old ladies weren't that bad looking for two old ladies. In their prime, during the Great Depression, I bet they were really hot stuff. Maybe I could set one of them up with my Dad. Maybe both of them. My Dad exercises.
     But, as they continued making small talk, I could swear they were flirting with me. The way they'd playfully laugh and bat their eyes and lightly reach out and touch my arm when they made a point.
     I guess old ladies need love, too.
     Meanwhile, my Dad was taking his sweet time looking at everything and buying nothing. He didn't even notice me with those two ladies and the potential for a double-date.
     Somehow our conversation came around to where we went to high school. They went to school locally, while I went to school in a different city, in fact, in a completely different state.
     (Now here's the part of the story where it gets really sad in a kind of Twilight Zone kind of twist.)
     "So... when did you graduate?" I asked them, expecting them to tell me a date that probably included those cavemen ancestors I had mentioned before.
     Lawyers have a rule (I mean the one other than the one where if they see a rock they must get blood from it), and that rule is: Don't ask a question you don't know the answer to.
     I have a rule, too. It's: Don't ask a question you don't want to know the answer to.
     To my great shock and surprise, those two old ladies, whose Social Security Numbers I could swear were #000-00-0001 and #000-00-0002, graduated from high school the same year I did!
     Hey, I've got mirrors. There's no way I look as old as those two ladies. I exercise. Just like my Dad.
     My Dad! Wow! Now that I've found out these ladies are as young as I am, I think my Dad would be more open to dating one or more of them. Only, they weren't interested in my Dad. They were interested in me.
     "Well," I told them, "it was nice talking with you, but I've got to go."
     They both opened their mouths to say something, but I could guess what they were about to say, so I beat them to the punch.
     "My wife's waiting for us," I told them, and the flirtatious spark went out of their eyes, replaced by the dull look of disappointment.
     Then again, maybe it was all my imagination. I probably looked as old to them as they did to me. They were probably just being friendly, and my ego was getting the best of me. We all want to feel attractive. We all want to feel like we've still got it.
     It may be heavier, hairier, and closer to the ground, but we've still got it.
     In my mind, I'm still the goofy high school kid I once was. My body, however, tells me something different. Never mind what the mirror says.
     As my Dad and I walked to the checkout, I started thinking about the girls I used to date in high school, the girl I told you about at the beginning of this story in particular. I wonder what she looks like. In my mind, she's still 16 years-old, but, like those two old ladies I was talking to, time has since danced her forward into maturity.
     Sometimes it's better not knowing.
 
 

Raising My Father

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