Do It Now!

The Big Story

By Rick Boettger

Love. Dance. Surprise her. And do it now, not next year.

 

I have two friends of my generation livin’ large in the Love game, one getting married and the other enjoying a fresh new passion. Both can be scary. Marriage is a commitment, the same word used when being forced into prison or an insane asylum. If both people are secure in their own lives, why bother to meld them?

 

That’s what Cynthia and I wondered nine years ago. For us, it was a case of our being so good at being “me” we didn’t need any help with that, or have any worries about losing our me-ness What we wanted and found was an extra strength, a synergy of having a best buddy you can always count on. I have gotten to know at least this one person fully and deeply in my life, and she knows me, and together we are doing it all. So, I am sure, will my friends who are tying their own knot.

 

Fresh love is scary because the exciting ups are matched by fearsome downs. New ways of being hurt by the very passions you crave are around every new corner the relationship turns. Many our age are simply not up for the drama, having been there, done that, and got the “Bad Divorce” t-shirt. So I applaud my friend for diving in there. Knowing from the start it will be a roller-coaster, he’s enjoying the highs and breathing deeply through the lows (being an aspiring Zen master helps).

 

I sing and I have friends who play tennis or dance with a similar joy and enthusiasm. If you have something like that going yourself, I suggest upping the ante. Go national, or at least to the state level. I’ve greatly enjoyed going to singing conferences where everyone is like me, most in fact with decades more musical experience and realized talent. We all sing to each other, learn esoteric topics for singing geeks, and basically like hanging out with our kind.

 

In tennis, one friend is finally going to start competing in senior tournaments on the mainland. I am sure he will do well. I can’t wait to hear his tales when he gets back. He will be so jazzed to have taken his intense competitive drive to the next level, and we, his friends, will enjoy living vicariously through his victories. Whenever he loses a set to one of us, we can feel, “I beat the guy who won such-and-such in Miami!”

 

I finally convinced another friend to head north for a dance convention. Yes, it takes time and costs money, but it’s as much fun for the same reasons as the singing conventions. Sure enough, he had a great time dancing with a large herd of dancers as good as he is, and even learning some new moves from real experts. As much as our little island offers, at times we need to grab more, and it’s out there if you try.

 

I am so terrible at buying people gifts I rarely try—they always return them, after uncomfortably trying to act pleased. So it is a minor miracle that I figured out not one but two gifts for my Tinkerbell that she truly loves.

 

How did I finally figure out a good gift for her? Well, here’s the embarrassing part. For both gifts I had to listen literally for years to her telling me exactly what she wanted. Eventually, the news sunk through my think and insensitive skull and I sprang for it.

 

The first was a tiara. I don’t know what the male equivalent is, but lots of women hold the idea of themselves as a Princess throughout their lives. And nothing says “Princess” like a tiara. Cynthia had gushed for six years whenever she saw a female of any age wearing one. I finally bought her one—they are readily available here—and got to enjoy her grandly striding through Louie’s one birthday dinner basking in the adoration of over half a dozen women who came up to her to fawn over her Princess-ness.

 

It only took me three years to figure out her next gift. That’s how long she sighed over a few saucers of Cornflower China I got her at a friend’s yard sale. It was the same she had grown up with, and it reminded her of her mother and countless family meals.

 

The same friend brought a dish for Cynthia’s big 7-0 party on a Cornflower platter. She left it at our house for a week before picking it up, during which time it sat on our counter with Cynthia almost tearfully praising it every day.

 

I begged my friend to sell me the platter, but she said no way, it’s my mom’s China too. But she told me of a website where I could buy my own. Easy! And then I somehow got inspired to do something that I know was really cool because all of my women friends have told me so—even, “Rick, you are the best husband!”

 

It wasn’t really that hard. I just kept the platter hidden until Valentine’s Day dinner, this year at Azur. I called ahead and smuggled the plate to a designated “Lenny,” and he made sure that our entrée was served on it. When it arrived at our table, Cynthia at first admired the gussied-up black grouper, and suddenly exclaimed, “Oh—oh, that’s Mama’s China—it’s the Cornflower—oh my!” The waiter, who was in on it, had lingered surreptitiously to watch, and also got to enjoy her surprise and joy.

 

Big lesson: guys, I know there are lots of you out there as thick-skulled as I am regarding gifts for your love. If I can do it, anyone can. It’s simple. She’ll tell you what she wants. Just listen and buy it. I am trying right now to get it down to a single year of Cynthia’s telling me what she wants next before it sinks through my cranium. Maybe you can do even better?

 

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