I was 21 and had just survived what one could only describe as a prolonged stop in the deepest never regions of craaaazzzzzyyyyyy. After marrying and shortly thereafter divorcing my high school sweetheart who was hiding a little ailment the psychiatric community likes to refer to as a classic Criminal Personality as a DSM-III-R Antisocial, Narcissistic, Borderline, and Histrionic Personality Disorder, I was spent, or was it bent? I'm really not sure.
I had moved into this
I need to put this in perspective for you. I was not the sexy, outspoken Zen Mama of today. I had long straight hair past my waste, enormous Sally Jesse Raphael glasses and I frequently wore silk (pin on) girlie bow ties to work. I was an accountant.
And not just any accountant, I was a bitter, washed-up, man-hating accountant who had been in the biblical sense with only one man. A man with whom she had diligently saved herself; only to get screwed on the way out as well as the way in. How could I have known he was a murderer? Mama didn't teach me about such things. You can bet your sweet ass MY girls will know how to properly identify a psychopath.
After a few months of spending my lousy pittance of a paycheck on used furniture from the rental-return place, I felt ready to venture out into the world. I now had a couch, love seat and coffee table, a dining room set, some "artwork" and a bed frame. I was feeling empowered. So I did what any inexperienced, pent-up, southern girl who had been taught to always be a lady would do. I went a little wild. Okay, it was a subdued version of wild but certainly a change of pace for yours truly.
This was long before the age of internet dating. Hell, we barely had PC's at the time. Our work place was still functioning with a large main frame computer that took up an entire office by itself. Left to my own devices, I figured I had to get out there and meet people at the only decent place in town; no, not the church, too hypocritical - I went straight for the bars.
Let me break this down for you. You had your country line dancing bars with a bunch of "ladies drink free" specials. I saw right through that one, thank God. Otherwise, I could have ended up leaving with Booger the Red Neck in his monster truck. He would have fallen in love with me right there in his fancy double wide trailer and that would have been my life, except I would have then been forever known as Mrs. Booger and I wasn't having any of that.
My second choice for a watering hole in Oklahoma City was the remnant disco bars that had either refused to die or they simply hadn't heard that disco was dead. They were still all "I like the nightlife, I like to boogie" complete with flashy gold lame halter top wearing chicks (and dudes) and healthy doses of ecstasy. I had just begun to experiment with drinking and I had never done drugs so that was out.
My third choice was the neighborhood, friendly bar/restaurant. The kind of place where everybody knows your name, except without Sam, Diane and the gang. I found a place that was so comfortable for me, I didn't mind stopping by a la carte, or in other words available for meeting separate from others - by myself. Not sure where this new found confidence was coming from but I actually seemed to prefer it. It allowed me to find my spot in the corner and watch. I was a voyeur, like Dian Fossey, studying the order of tavern-dwelling primates.
One night while I was safely ensconced and happily perusing the crowd, I noticed a tall man with dark hair, big brown eyes and the most interesting facial structure I had ever seen. It appeared his cheek bones and chin had been chiseled by the hand of God himself.
And through my haze of cheap White Zinfandel, I imagined he could spawn one helluva a good looking baby. You see, somewhere along the journey, I had determined I would never venture into marriage again but after having lost two babies with Mr. Personality, I desperately wanted a child. A child of my own - for me, just me - not to share with anyone else. This was the mind of one fucked-up 21 year old girl.
I slithered out of my corner booth and made my way over to the young man, who as luck would have it, was my age and had his own share of issues. He was graduating from a liberal arts college with a degree in drama, hated his domineering mother, didn't smoke and loved music. Perfect. I invited him to come home with me. Somehow, he managed to see past those hideous glasses of mine, and he followed me home.
When we got there, we sat on the couch, listened to albums and made out a bit here and there. Then he pulled out his flute. Not a reference to his penis, his actual flute, which he played beautifully. He serenaded me with Led Zeppelin and Supertramp and we ended up cuddling on the couch together until we fell asleep. So much for wild.
To be continued......