LOVE. A four-letter word. Why should I have a change of habit at my age? I pondered this as I tuned out the television with the loudness of my daydreams. When I was younger, I longed for a dashing man to love me tender. But as I grew older, I felt compelled to no longer follow that dream but instead to latch onto a career and dismiss illusive thoughts of settling down and going wildin the country.
To my mother’s chagrin, I had always been more attracted to the roustabout of the male population. Men who rode Harleys and who were predestined to spinout of my life as quickly as they had entered it. Men who were always girl happy but had the trouble with girls from their pasts. Girls, girls, girls. Seemed as though I was always second choice for men like that. Therefore, on the speedway of life they rode. Vroom. Vroom. No groom.
As a teenage girl, I would anxiously search for the first and brightest star of night so that I could wish upon it for the love of my life. He lived across the pasture. Soon, however, I discovered that my wish was riding on the flaming star that would always fall to the ground when I wasn’t looking. He married an older woman. I also cannot forget my true love across town. Yet a pure and simple kid galahad. Yep. He married a younger woman. O.K. True love on a ferris wheel at 16. In my glazed perception I was sure that it happened at the world’s fair to some undoubting couple. Why not at our county fair with me? Mmmm-hmmm. Foiled again. He pledged his love to the Army.
I have had my share of interesting love, it’s true. On one rare occasion, I had a date with a man named Mike. He liked to be called John. Already an identity crisis. My feline, Frankie, and Johnny did not see eye to eye. I kept the cat. Then there was the Chippendale bouncer. Yes. Chippendale, but not the rodent, although that thought is debatable. His job title alone implied a harum scarum individual. What was I thinking? I won’t even begin to describe the man who decided that he was bisexual after going out with me. Talk about double trouble.
Most of the men that I have loved were into music — you know, jailhouse rock, G.I. blues, king creole. When I think about the type of men who I have ended up dating, it just has to tickle me. Better to laugh than cry. The last man who dared to set foot in my direction could have been a poster child for America’s Most Wanted. I just told him to stay away, Joe.
Once, I enjoyed dinner and a movie with a nice man who shared my same last name. Incidentally, since we weren’t married, my fears of being kissin’cousins probably squelched any ideas that he may have allusioned about a man/woman relationship with me. Another man who waltzed into my path promised that we would live a little, love a little. Sure. Easy come, easy go. He, too, is now married to someone else.
A traveling partner has been a fleeting notion of mine lately. An overly eager gentleman who I recently met suggested wryly that we have a little fun in Acapulco but a charro he was not. And that ex-wife and kid didn’t impress me much, either. Instead, I have concluded that I would love to adventure to blue Hawaii, take in the ambiance of festive romantic surroundings while partaking in a clambake. I could live my life in paradise, Hawaiian style without a man. I’ll take Frankie.
A distinctive thought registered in my mind as I tuned from the Travel Channel into Turner Classics. I realized that the man of my dreams is indeed romantic, tall, dark and handsome, musically inclined and remotely dramatic. This is Elvis, Elvis on tour, of course. Elvis, that’s the way it is with me. I’ll keep planning my dream nuptials. Onward to the wedding chapel of the king. Viva Las Vegas!
So, Elvis if you’re listening, I will spend my whole life through loving you.