Copyright 1994(c) BACK IN THE SADDLE... Once I Make it Past the Stall By Cindy Lindley Divorce does funny things to your confidence. And just when you start getting it back on line, it's time to date. Memories of awkward moments with stumbling hormone-ridden boys in their fathers' souped up station wagons with windows that steamed embarrassingly easy return to haunt me as I prepare to venture back out into the jungle, leaving Tarzan and his new girlfriend, Cheetah, behind. Ten years was a long time to spend with a man who couldn't talk to me, and even if he did, I didn't understand what he was saying half the time. (If only he'd learned to grunt with inflection...) It is with some sadness and some excitement that I say goodbye to the jungle and return to the city from whence I came. Praise be to mass merchants, praise be to grocery stores, praise be to Alexander Graham Bell... (that hollering was making me go deaf...especially at night when, well, you know...) "Thank you for shopping at WalMart." An attractive young man hands me a bag filled with a new kind of underwear called THONG. It doesn't really look comfortable, but I decide to try it because anything I don't have to kill, skin and sew myself is worth the investment. "Me Jane!" I blurt out, thumping my chest. His eyes follow my thump, then move down to my bare legs and dirty feet. He smiles. "Hi, Jane. Go visit our shoe department then come back and see me." Hmmm, I can't imagine what there is to visit in a shoe department so I leave. A few hours later I find out I was right about the discomfort of the thong underwear. Not having any REAL hard feelings against my ex, I pack the things up to mail to him, figuring if he can't convince Cheetah to wear them, maybe he can use them for slingshots. Three weeks after the strange invitation at WalMart, I feel once again confident about being in the city as a single woman. My father is not so confident. "Things have changed, girl. Nowadays you shouldn't go on a date without bringing a raincoat. Hell, you shouldn't even go out of the house without one." "I think I'll stick with my umbrella." I respond, looking heavenward with the faux patience of my thirty years. "An umbrella ain't going to protect you from lightning, girl. Only rubber can protect you from lightning." I offer my father a wry grin that should, after all these years, be a warning to him. "Actually, Dad, I'm kind of hoping for lightning. It's like natural fireworks..." I let my sentence drift off with mildly suggestive humor. Humor that my father usually appreciates being my good friend as well as my patriarch. He snaps at me, "I ain't talkin' about THAT kinda lightning, girl." With a heavy sigh, I raise my hands in surrender, "Okay, Dad. I think I've got the message. When it rains, it pours and I'd better be prepared, right?" He grunts, using the inflection I once sought in my husband, and awkwardly pats me on the shoulder. He is satisfied. His mission was successful and he never once had to use the word condom. It has been two months since I waved goodbye to Tarzan with a flip of my middle finger. My confidence is finally returning. I have a date. "How about lunch tomorrow?" Ralph asks, his voice dropping an octave in an attempt to be suave. I study his waggling eyebrows and slightly wicked half-grin trying to figure out why a man who just met me a few hours ago would invite me to lunch with the slight implication that he's been on a forty-day fast and I'm the main break course. Shrugging offhandedly, I accept his invitation with only mild interest. What the heck, I've gotta start somewhere. The next day we meet at a pre-arranged spot. I exit my car with a smile and just a little more confidence in my step than I've had in a while. He is less energetic. "Sorry, I'm not feeling very well." He apologizes, shifting uncomfortably. Immediately the mother instinct emerges. "Well, why don't we do this another time? You go on home and get some rest and take care of whatever ails you." I'm not offended. Sickness is a fact of life, not a slight of it. "No, no!" He waves away my offer with impatience. "I've really been looking forward to this. I'll be okay. It's just a little stomach problem." "A stomach problem? Then you don't want to be around food. Let's just forego today and you call me when you're feeling better." I start to move back to my car. Ralph puts a restraining hand on my arm. "Come on." He replies firmly, "I'll be alright." "If you say so..." I answer doubtfully, but move toward the entrance of the cafeteria style restauraunt at his prompting. As he opens the door for me a cacophony of smells pour out an assault on my nose. I turn to him quickly, "Run. It's not too late to save yourself." I can't imagine what the odors might do to his stomach. He laughs shakily, "Don't be silly. Go." I hesitate for a second, then obediently join the line and work my way past acres and acres of steaming aromatic food. Ralph studiously ignores the offerings and settles for a glass of water. We find a table, and I attempt to make witty conversation using anecdotes that I have practiced all night long. I am halfway done with my meal when Ralph excuses himself to go to the men's room. Thirty minutes later, I tap on the stall*. "Are you okay?" His reply is muffled. "Yeah, I'll be right out." He exits the men's room looking like he's been stuffed into the toilet by a bully. Returning to maternal mode, I take his arm and lead him from the restauraunt. "You need to get home. Are you okay to drive?" He looks uncertain. I take pity on him and usher him to my sporty new car that I bought after leaving the jungle. "I'll take you. You can make arrangements later to pick your car up." He does not argue and in minutes we are on the expressway speeding toward his house. We hit a gridlock where 3 of 4 lanes are closed for construction and he says, "You might want to pull over." Frantically, I look at the highway cement divider wall on one side and at the traffic converging on me on the other side. There's nowhere to go! Seconds later, I hear Ralph saying his own name, over and over. I cringe in sympathy for him and my car. Jerking my wheel over, I force the cars to let me pass so I can run over the traffic cones blocking access to the side of the road. I screech to a halt. He yanks open his door and continues saying his name, punctuating the litany with, "Shit, I can't believe this is happening." I feel bad for him, but worse for myself as I watch the self- confidence I had dwindle. How many other guys would I make toss their cookies on the first date? After handing him a few banana leaves left over from my time in the jungle and giving him a few moments to clean up and compose himself, I start the car back up and pull back into traffic, not caring that I'm doing 40 over the speed limit to get this guy home before he decides to see how much space is left in the glove compartment. He is mortified. I try to ease the embarrassment with humor. "Look at it this way, after this, our dates can only get better. "Hey! One day you'll laugh about this. You'll be telling your son what NOT to do on a first date, 'Yeah, boy, and don't forget to bring a condom and a barf bag. Better to be prepared.' "Then there's the fact that you've guaranteed I'll never forget you. "You know, I was afraid you wouldn't like me, but I really didn't think I'd make you SICK!" After all this, he is cracking up, but still embarrassed I think. When we arrive at his house, he gets changed and cleans up my car. "I owe you bigtime. Why don't you let me detail your car when I'm feeling better. You won't believe the job I can do...It'll look like NEW!" I smile weakly at Ralph H. Earl and murmur, "it WAS new." My Dad was right. And that's the last time I'll get caught without a raincoat. END