Abstinence

    

Gerry tosses a green beach ball -- the color of a lime Popsicle -- to Anna.  Although she is seated in a wheelchair, Anna is able to catch the ball, which is slowly deflating and becoming cushy, and send it back to the physical therapist.

I have joined the half-circle of six hospital patients who are participating in this mild exercise class. My friend, Louise, who has a broken right arm, is seated next to me. I am able-bodied, but am allowed to accompany my longtime friend because she threatened to skip the session to have more time with me.

After class, when Louise choses a chair for her lunchtime, I perch on her hospital bed and attempt to cheer her. The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be, Louise sings as I remove the heavy cover from her vegetarian meal. As I cut the grain burger into fourths to make it easier for her to do a one-armed grab, I remind her, you'll recover and go home soon. I am trying to dissuade her from a track that typically veers from the ditty to depression.

As our conversation continues, several thoughts hit me: I am good at this and surprisingly, I enjoy caregiving.

Then, a scary one bubbles up: Could this sense of enjoyment propel me towards a new male in need of rehabilitation rather than an able-bodied one?

What if I haven't shucked enough of the comfort and care I had bestowed on my late husband, and have leftover succor that seeks a target?

That question frightened me so much, that on the spot, I made a resolution: To avoid falling for a failing fellow, I would abstain from getting involved with any male. I would give up the idea of dating; for surely, with my proclivity for caring, I couldn't be trusted.

Just then, I felt a soft tap on my shoulder. The touch was so tender I knew it wasn't real or earthbound, but instead, coming from a deceased loved one. It couldn't be Tommy because I knew he avoids topics where other males are involved. And, I had recently gabbed with both my mother and father. So, who was it that wanted a word in on my latest vow?

"Sweetheart," came the familiar voice.

"Rita?" I said. "It's great to hear from you. This is the first time you've come down to chat since you died 14 years ago. I'm thrilled to have your presence, but why now?"

"Just because you haven't heard from me doesn't mean we're not in each other's thoughts. I notice you dream about me quite a bit. And you wrote about me in your roman a clef, right?"

"You read that?" I said.

"It's an eBook, so I read it on iCloud. Loved your description of me: Rita had dark hair cut in a pageboy, eyes almost too big for her small face, earrings that overwhelmed her tiny lobes, and she wore a suit with shoulder pads that widened her slim figure."

"You memorized it!"

"Who wouldn't?" she said. "Listen, the reason for my visit is I heard you declare you were abstaining from men. Is that true, or did the words get garbled when they travelled between earth and heaven?"

Of course, it would be gorgeous, male-attracting Rita concerned about my total avoidance of the opposite sex. My dear friend was never without a good-looking, fun-loving guy at her side.

"I think it's for my own good," I said. "I realize I like caregiving. Sure, there were times with Tommy when fear and weariness took over, but generally, I got pleasure from it. I'm afraid I'll find myself back in a situation that can only end badly. Why not avoid it altogether and be solo for the rest of my life?"

"What about excitement, passion? Surely there's a spark left?"

"Rita, dearest," I said. "Up there, you're still a comely 67 or maybe younger. Down here, I'm a shrinking 75. And, I'm not only talking about height, but also libido."

"Stop, shush," she said. "That attitude is verboten up here."

"You mean..."

"Of course, we're still horny in heaven. In fact, I've got a date tonight, so I have to say so long."

"Anyone I know?"

"Think matinee idol," she said.

"Cary Grant? Marlon Brando?"

I heard Rita's adorable laugh; and then silence; she was gone, likely primping for her date.

Instead of considering Rita's view, I chose the couch and the remote. Here, my boyfriend Netflix and I cuddled, where the only caregiving required is a switch from Cable to HDMI2.

Driving Ms. Elaine

I watched as car after car slipped through the half moon driveway of my apartment building. I was on the lookout for a silver Passat station wagon that was being driven by a young woman assigned to pick me up for a holiday event.

The driver and the other women in the car were unknown to me, but we had a mutual friend, and it was this kind soul who had given the female crew my name, address, and instructions.

When the Passat arrived, I spun through the lobby's revolving door, and as I landed on the other side, realized I had also been transformed. I had now become a version of The Elderly Aunt Who Needs A Ride.

"Hi, thanks so much for picking me up," I said to the driver.

"My pleasure," she said.

As we rode, I was desperate to erase the unpleasant label I had given myself. I wouldn't sit dumbly as if I were being chauffeured, but instead be friendly and inquisitive. "So, what do you do?" I posed to the car's occupants, and listened as each drew a picture of their lives.

But as they responded, I couldn't focus because a figure from my past came knocking on the door of my brain.

"I'm disappointed in you, Princess. I never thought you'd give up driving; never thought I've find you in the back seat." It was my father, Irv, who taught me how to drive when I was a teen. Dad died in 1958, and although many decades have passed since then, he has visited me often to praise or needle.

It was tricky trying to take in the women's responses with my dad nagging in the background, but I was eager to defend myself. "I didn't give up driving," I said to him, "I just no longer own a car. It was too expensive, and..."

"Do you remember my Buick?" Dad interrupted. "I think we had to use three pillows to get you up over the steering wheel."

In my imagination, I saw him take a drag of his Camel cigarette. I was about to reach over to the window to let the smoke out, but stopped when I realized I'd be accommodating an illusion.

"Of course I remember your car," I said, certain to reply silently so that the other riders wouldn't think I was indeed a doddering old aunt. "And you know what I remember most about the drives," I said, "your arms."

"You mean because they were so powerful from the swimming I did at the Y?" Dad said. I could see him preening, growing taller than his 5'4" stature and even slimmer than his Santa-like shape.

"No, Dad," I said, "I remember your arms because your left was tanned from the tip of your fingers to your elbow, while the upper part was chalky white. You always had that arm out the window so you could flick ashes."

"Not when I was teaching you," Dad said, reminding me of his crucial tutoring role.

"No, when you were teaching me, you were using the overflowing ashtray and pounding an imaginary brake at each light."

Dad laughed. I saw his brown eyes brighten, the thin mustache that almost looked penciled in, and a smile that revealed teeth I saw nightly floating in a drinking glass. The image of him was so vivid I could almost smell the cigarette's smoke.

Our real life driver had reached our destination and was about to park. "Let's watch, Dad," I said, "let's see if she can do this in one shot."

The driver positioned her Passat alongside of the car in front of the empty space. Dad and I stared, but he couldn't resist coaching: "As you back up, turn the steering wheel to the right. Fix your eyes on the right headlight of the car parked behind. Aim for your target, and then reverse the direction of the steering wheel."

This time, it was my turn to laugh. "That's the way you taught me to how to parallel park. You know I passed it on to your granddaughters and then to your great grandson."

"We're here," the women chorused. As the three of them exited the car and were walking to the restaurant's entrance, I lagged behind. "Time to go, Dad," I said. "But, you can see one major advantage of giving up driving: I don't have to concentrate on the road, so I can let my mind wander."

"You mean we can continue on the ride home?" Dad said.

"Count on it."

 

To Be Adored

I winced at my dear friend's words. "Why in the world would you want ANOTHER man in your life right now (or EVER)?" she wrote in response to my blog post about a JDate fiasco. "You would probably wind up being a nurse for him. You should be a caregiver for YOURSELF."

Was my friend trying to guard me from a future I wouldn't allow myself to consider? Why indeed did I -- now happily independent in my new downtown digs -- sign up for JDate in the first place?

And, why have I been spying on physically fit grey-haired men at my health club?

Furthermore, why have I asked my paired-up friends to keep me in mind if they know an older single male who meets my criteria; i.e. strolls without the aid of a walker and drives at night?

"Someone to hug," I shot back, believing my pathetic answer would win sympathy and stall further scathing. My response seemed reasonable, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn't bodily contact I missed. After all, there's any number of friends and relatives who would welcome my arms wrapped around their torsos.

If not an embrace, what then have I been seeking in my attempts to find a date? To find clues, I stretched out on the couch, closed my eyes, and reviewed past examples of familiar marriages. And, what I came up with is this: I miss the feeling of being adored.

In my stroll through wedlock history, I realized Tommy spoiled me for future relationships. When I rummaged the drawers of our house before I put it on the market, I found stacks of yellow-lined notes that I had saved and bundled in rubber bands. Each one a sentiment from a love-struck middle-aged man who paused every day to let me know he felt as if he had won the lottery.

Tommy's heartfelt emotions were a revelation because they were unfortunately missing from my first marriage, and tragically one-sided in my parents'.

In my initial go-around, my husband and I appreciated, admired, and cared for each other. But, did we adore one another? Perhaps in the stars-in-our-eyes early years; but after that, with our own personal struggles blinding us, the word went missing.

My parent's marriage was so impressionable that it spurred my memoir, "The Division Street Princess." As I wrote: Irv loved Min from the moment he saw the 19-year-old neighborhood beauty. But alas, Min didn't return his ardor. It wasn't until her old-world mother urged, "You'll learn to love him," that Min accepted Irv's proposal.

Bubbie, you were wrong! Despite Dad's longing, and his purchase of gifts he couldn't pay for -- like the mink stole cradled in tissue and presented in a white box -- Mom never grasped the lesson.

"Take it back, we can't afford it," I remember her saying as she stared at Dad's present. And bity me, channeling my father's pining, pleaded, "Just try it on, Mom, just try it on." She did and twirling in front of a full-length mirror like a 1940's movie star, decided to keep the mink while Dad paid for it in monthly installments.

I never did learn why Mom couldn't return Dad's adoration. I guess some of it could be linked to her disappointment in spending her pretty young life behind the counter of a grocery store on a tenement street. The neighborhood beauty deserved better.

So perhaps glum childhood scenes inspired me to take the part of my mother in my adult life? I would show her how an adored wife acts. When I would find Tommy's love notes, I'd squeal as if they were hidden jewels. Then, I'd get my own post-it and draw a heart with the words, "Love you, hubber! and tuck it into a gym shoe, golf glove, or some other spot he would later discover.

Among the other mementoes I saved was a letter Tommy wrote to me early on. It was the one I read it to him as I sat on the other side of the metal railings of his hospice bed. It was two pages long, written in pen on yellow-lined paper and began: My Darling Elaine, I don't know what lies ahead but I do know I want to spend the rest of my life loving you and taking care of you. We make a great team. When I think about all the years I was alone I realize now that you were the missing part of the puzzle that makes it all fit together.

That's what I'm talking about.

Holiday Parties

"Is this seat taken?" The question was from one of two handsome, smiling young men who approached the high table where my friend Diane and I had perched.

We were at a holiday party hosted by the management of our rental building. Both of us are single, and we had jokingly referred to each other as wingmen, encouraging one another if a viable male came our way.

"It's open," we replied in unison, waving our hands across the empty seat to prove there was nothing to stop either one of their nicely pressed trousers taking occupancy.

"Great, then we can leave our coats here," the other said, as he draped his outwear on the empty stool.

Diane and I laughed. Our next encounter was more heartening. "Good to see you both," said our building's chief engineer. He reached over to give each of us a hug and a few of his maintenance staff followed him and the sweet gesture.

Despite the sounds of chatter from the 30-somethings who are neighbors, and the booming music from multiple speakers, the hugs sent me back to another holiday party. And in that long ago celebration, it was also embraces from maintenance men that were springing up in my memory.

It was sometime in the '70s, let's say Christmas 1975, when my first husband and I, and our two daughters, were living in South Commons, a planned urban community on Chicago's near south side. Back then; I was both a townhouse resident and a secretary in the management office.

Mellowed by wine, and with Diane conversing with a friend, I closed my eyes and slipped back to that earlier holiday scene, stocking it with my long ago coworkers, and the music and mood of the times.

I was 38 years old, struggling in a marriage where both my husband and I competed for the title of unhappiest. 

"You're never home," was his complaint, and one I couldn't deny. What I understand now was that he really meant, what happened to the woman I married?

I wondered that, too, for after I landed in this social experiment that integrated races, income, and ages, I transformed from housewife to activist. I shifted from a wife who had dinner on the table every night to someone who wrote the community newspaper, produced the musical theater, and volunteered for every alluring cause.

Fortunately, while my husband rebuffed his revamped wife, the South Commons residents, and the staff, treated me as if I were queen bee.

While the 2013 party was held at a sports bar, the 1975 event occurred in an apartment of one of the staff. "You're welcome to come," I had told my husband, "but I don't think many spouses will be attending."

"No, you go, have a good time, be sure someone walks you home." (Despite our friction, at 39 he was very much the responsible man I had married 15 years earlier.)

As I entered the party site, Barry White's "You're the First, My Last, My Everything" greeted me. The lighting in the room was turned low, smoke rose from cigarettes, and muted conversations floated in the shadowy air.

My coworkers were already dancing and drinking; I was eager to join in and shed my winter coat and my conformist life. I sipped JB & Water,  danced to tunes like "Me and Mrs. Jones" by Billy Paul, "Midnight Train to Georgia," from Gladys Knight and the Pips, and White's "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Baby."

I stayed at the party well past midnight. One of the guys walked me home and at my doorstep, I stretched to give him a kiss on his cheek for my safe passage.

My husband and daughters were asleep as I tiptoed in. As I prepared for bed, I hummed the playlist from the party, and the Stylistics "You Make Me Feel Brand New" was the first tune that popped in my head.

"How long do you want to stay?" It was Diane, possibly misreading my dreamlike state for boredom. I woke from my reverie and looked at my watch, 8:00 p.m.

"Ready whenever you are," I said.

In our building's elevator, before my friend exited on her floor, I kissed her cheek and thanked her for being my wingman. "My pleasure," she said. "Hope you had a good time."

"I had a great time," I said, as the door slid closed. Alone in my private sound booth, I couldn't resist crooning lyrics from Knight's "Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me:" I've had my share of life's ups and downs, But fate's been kind, the downs have been few, I guess you could say that I've been lucky.  

Offended2013

If a guy told you his grown children have refused to speak to him for 20 years, or that the wife he divorced was as silent as their kids, wouldn't your first question be: Another woman?

No? Then, obviously you are not as nosy as I, or not the investigator-reporter type.

My query occurred during a JDate phone conversation. (I realize that on these pages I claimed I was dropping the Jewish online dating site, but I decided to give it one more month.) He -- let's now call him by a new screen name, Offended2013, had given me his phone number and recommended that I block my own cell number. This was a point in his favor, I thought, a gentlemen.

According to my iPhone, we talked for 58 minutes. During that time I learned we had some things in common: we both lived in the city, were around the same age (he claimed 71; I fudged 70), we enjoyed plays, and had Spain and Greece on our travel wish list.  Our differences -- he was not a TV addict like I am, he liked being out frequently in the evenings -- might've been possible for me to overcome.

Before our conversation ended, we made plans to meet for coffee. But the following morning, I received this message from Offended2013, i am cancelling our meeting wed . i really was hurt and offended by your quick remark about my devorce having to do with another woman .i felt you were out of line. that was not the case . i just didnt appreciate it . that is far from the type of person i am .

"I apologize," I wrote in a message back to him. "It's your call. Good luck with your search." But he blocked any further correspondence from me, so my attempt to backpedal is floating somewhere in cyberspace.

Daughter Faith (yes, I had to share), responded, "I am offended he does not know how to spell divorce." From her sister, Jill, "The atrocious spelling is enough for you to block him forever."

Perhaps it was wrong of me to jump to the conclusion I conjured, but I speak from experience; my first husband of 30 years left me for another woman. Our clichéd drama began when I noticed he was looking exceptionally fit and well dressed. "I think he's having an affair," I said to my best friend, Judy.

"Don't ask him if he's having an affair," she said. "Just say, I know you're having an affair."

I'll never forget that 1990 prophetic conversation, which was held during one of our regular Saturday lunches at the Bon Ton restaurant on Chicago's Gold Coast. As Judy and I munched our poached chicken sandwiches, we kept our voices low because adjacent diners seemed to be leaning our way.

A few days after my friend's counsel, I put the phrase to use. I had been asleep in our king-sized bed when the phone rang. Because my husband's profession often brought emergency requests, I knew the call would be for him. "The phone's ringing," I said, as I rolled over to rouse him. But, there was an empty space where he usually slept.

I went downstairs, dumped myself on the couch, and waited. "What are you doing up?" he asked as he entered through the back door. He appeared to be playing a soap opera part. If he hadn't spotted me, he surely would've been toting his Oxfords and tiptoeing in on stocking feet.

Then came my line, "I know you're having an affair."

"How did you know?"

"Your new clothes, your slimmer body, your indifference to me and the kids."

He sunk down next to me on the couch. We both cried. (What can I say? I'm not the pottery slinging type and I held some responsibility for a marriage gone sour.) "Will you come with to a marriage counselor?" I asked.

We had one session. The morning after, he descended the stairs with a gym bag in his hand. "I'm checking into a hotel; I'll call you later." He was glum; I was, I must admit, relieved, and grateful to the other woman for handing him the bad guy role and me the sympathetic character.

Fortunately, in our intervening 23 years, my ex and I have remained good friends. He is my emergency contact and I am his companion for doctor visits.

So, with this history, I stand firm in defense of my question. Now I think Offended2013 doth protest too much. If not another woman, what then?