I am trying so hard to be cool.  I have had my hair up in hot rollers all day.  Of course, they are far from hot now.  The air is rather humid and it is the only way to hold the frightful frizzies at bay.  The hair is always top on the list at times like these.

Every surface located on the first floor of my townhouse has been wiped, polished, steamed and dusted.  Even the silk calla lilies that look real were swished through a warm, soapy bath and hung from a tree outside to dry.

The Lladro figurines I collect almost came to life, they were so shocked that I was actually opening the door to the china cabinet to give them a swipe with the Swiffer.  That was a dead giveaway that something pretty unusual was getting ready to happen at Chez L’s.

In my head I have tried on about six different outfits.  One is too dressy for a casual restaurant.  The other is too, well, dowdy, for the circumstances.  This one does not flatter what’s left of my figure.  The other is too obvious an attempt at being sexy. 

I clipped, filed and polished my nails.  Then I remembered I had put the powder room throw rug in the washer, went upstairs to transfer it to the dryer, found the sheets I washed yesterday in the dryer, and proceeded to wreck my nail polish.  Repairs ensued.

At first I thought he was just a nice guy who works in the area.  Because I walk every square foot of our neighborhood just about every day, we would see each other almost every day – he in his truck – I walking my powder puff of a dog.  Sometimes he wasn’t in a hurry and we would exchange small talk.  We discovered things in common.  Many more things than one would imagine for two people 20 years apart. 

One morning, in a world not available to anyone but me, I walked down Lake Street.  I heard a soft male voice, tinged with the sounds of a lifetime in Georgia.  “You look like a million bucks, Beautiful!”

It hit me right between the eyes.  How had I missed it before now?  This was a man in his late forties who likes older women.  He was flirting, not just being nice to an older lady he sees often. 

“No,” my inner self said. “Not gonna happen.”  What would a good-looking guy his age want with a woman literally old enough to be his mother, albeit one who got an early start on motherhood?  More talking ensued.  More things in common.

Saturday morning when I saw his truck, I waved and kept walking.  He is usually not chatty earlier in the day.  Instead of driving off, he pulled over to the curb and leaned over the wheel.

“Let’s do something Tuesday evening.”  I was amused and delighted to hear myself saying “Okay.”

Two people who get along well are going out to dinner tonight.  I am stepping outside my self-imposed box.  There can be no harm in sharing a meal with a man who I find charming and interesting.  And as my sister would say, “It’s an outing.”