Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Oh wow.

Wow, wow, wow.

He

looked

fantastic.

As in, really. A gently aged version of what I'd seen last in blue jeans and a black shirt, leaning up against his car and waiting for me. He turned to look my way, and so I said the first words that just happened to come out of my mouth: "Hi, Sandy."

He laughed slightly and walked over, the smile on his face now just as big as mine, arms outstretched with a big hug for me to disappear into. Oh, my. Those eyes, that hair, that voice. 14 years melted away into nothing on a quiet suburbian street, and I can honestly say that I loved every minute of it.

Hug ended, smiles stayed, and Sandy showed me to his car. Not just any car either, but a 1971 dark green Fiat convertible with tan leather seats and the top down. Otherwise known in my personal vocabulary as a) roadster, b) speedster, c) drool. I have a serious weakness for cool vintage everything, and he was raking up some *major* brownie points for most interesting ride I've ever been picked up in, or ever been in, period.

Until he started up and I realized just how windy it was. Let me tell you about curly hair and convertibles. They don’t go. While all you straight haired goddesses would come out of this situation looking windswept and divine, I knew I was bound for the finger-in-the-socket look.

There is, however, one huge exception to the rule: have too much fun to care. For the love of everything holy, I was in a ’71 Fiat on a Saturday night with Sandy. Messy hair be damned! I did bunch it up to hold it in back though; didn’t want to look like a total freak when all was said and done.

We didn’t make plans, not exactly, just took the evening in stride and let the car punt along. Besides, it was still too fresh, all of this, to set anything in stone.

Looking back on it now, I still find that night a crazy one. There I was in a seriously cool car with, to pardon the cliché, my first love, who I hadn’t seen in half a lifetime. What can possibly go through your head on such an occasion? What do you do exactly, what could you even begin to say to each other?

Well, you get nervous, I can tell you that now. This had been a long time coming and in many ways, might not have even come at all. You don’t say much, because you can’t believe it’s even happening. You look over every now and then just to make sure he’s really there, and then you pinch him slightly, just to make sure he’s real.

He smiled and looked over when I did that, knowing exactly what the pinch meant. And then, he took me for coffee.

Interesting place it was, very, "My name is Fabio and welcome to my disco coffee house." Ultrasuede booths, mirrored bar, girls in flared pants with teased hair. Sandy got an espresso, I got a tea, and we chatted. Here and there stuff: our lives, our jobs, his son, my dog. How we looked. He remembered my expressions, he said, my laugh too, and that once again led into how absolutely mental this all was.

Not fifteen minutes into our rock the base drinks, he leaned over and said, "This really isn’t my kind of place."

No surprise. He hadn’t been into this stuff before, and I’d never for a minute expected him to become Rico Suave. Sandy explained that he’d been here awhile back, pre-Fabio renovations, and had liked it much better then. He also said that there was no place really private around here where we could talk without interruption, except maybe his house, which wasn’t far away?

Had it been anyone else, I would have said no or at the very least, played cynically stupid. "Sorry sugar, I’m feeling extra crampy. Do you mind if we call it a night?" Nutty though I may be, first date/meeting + his domicile is a no go, ever, and any straight male diverting to his place right off deserves to squirm.

But Sandy is never anyone else. It wasn’t just that his intentions were honourable, but that the intention to do more was never there. Back into the Fiat.

Sandy had a very nice house, spacious and neat, well trimmed in all the right places and a far, far cry from my little city shoebox. How ridiculous is it that I felt a surge of pride at how well he’d done for himself, at so young an age? Or even that I had expected nothing less? I always knew he’d go places. Didn’t tell him that though; I was still walking through a dream that I was in his house at all.

He asked what I would like to drink and I asked for some water, because that’s what I usually have. That’s all I would have had anyway, I was far too knotted to go for anything else. We settled onto his couch facing each other, cross-legged and perma grins, both.

It wasn’t long before we were making out on his couch with the fire of a thousand suns.

Nah, we didn’t do that. Never take me seriously when I say things like, "fire of a thousand suns." But we did talk, for hours, and the reality of just how glad I was finally began to sink in.

Ask me how much I’d missed this, over the years. Ask me how many times I’d thought of doing what we were doing then, just talking to him in person or on the phone, being able to relate to him now as totally as I did years ago. Ask me what it was like to finish each others’ sentences again, or even tell stupid jokes with every confidence that when the punch line came, he would laugh. And he always did.

Very much. A million times. Amazing.

To say the least.

Even just to be so close to him again, to look at him and see those twinkling blue eyes looking back at me; shorter, lighter hair where the thick crop used to be, and a goatee on his once baby face that thankfully, did nothing to hide that charming, full of mischief smile. A smile that hadn’t changed one bit.

It had "After School Special" written all over it, let me tell you.

But there was one part of the night that did stand out the most. We were talking about something or another, and Sandy said, "You know, not too long ago I decided that I didn’t want to do relationships anymore."

Uh oh.

"I was sick of them."

Oh my.

"I was sick of how badly they always turned out, and so I closed everything off."

Closed heart? Oh well. Unexpected, I’ll admit, but then I’d be lying if I said I didn’t respect that, either. In my adult mind I reminded myself that it was better to know now, in the beginning. I could deal with this.

"But for you, everything is open."

Really?

Oh *my*.

I looked down and smiled when he said that, blushing to the roots of my hair, feeling very much the 16-year old again.

But then thank goodness for non-teenage me who, in a moment of inspiration, squeezed his cheeks and took his hand. And then I kissed him, and we made out on his couch for an hour.

SCORE!

Nah, that didn’t happen. I’m just addicted to fooling you. But I’ll be completely serious when I tell you that hearing that was… absolutely glorious.

To say the least.

Time flies when you’re having fun. All too soon it was into the wee hours of the morning, and we packed back into the car so that Sandy could take me home. Such a gentleman.

He took the main road to get there, a long stretch of 20 kilometers that just happens to show off our history quite vividly. My first high school, where we’d gone to that one dance. The rotisserie chicken place Georgia had worked at, where we’d met just outside. The library where he’d yanked me towards him, by surprise, for that first kiss. Driving by it all now over a dozen years later, very grown up but beside each other once again, was very surreal.

And it was very nice.

Time flies faster when you’re in a fast car, at 3am no less, when there are barely any cars and all the lights are green. In no time at all we were in front of the house, and about to say goodbye.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and a huge hug; he obliged me with a hug back and said, "Someday, ask me to tell you what I'm thinking right now."

"What are you thinking right now?"

"I can't tell you!"

Bloody hell! "Then tell me what it has to do with at least!"

He sighed, he smiled, he feigned exasperation. It was all very cute, I can assure you. "It has to do with what I was thinking when you turned the corner tonight."

Juicy. "You can tell me now."

"No, I can't. But I can tell you that as a rule, I don't kiss on the first date."

Silly, stickler Sandy. "I know. This isn’t exactly our first date, though."

He laughed. "Just so you know, I was about to break that rule for the first time ever, but you turned your face at the last minute."

DAMN! Smartass! My chin dropped and I made a shrieky noise that just made him laugh, and hug me harder. "Well if you're going to be like that, at least tell me what you were thinking when I turned the corner?"

"I can't!"

I pouted and sulked. Just a bit, mostly because I really wanted to find out. "Sure you can. Please?"

Sandy acquiesced, then very reluctantly said, "The first thing I thought when I saw you was... damn, she's still beautiful."

Oh my.

I kissed him on the forehead, we hugged again, and then he walked away. No disappointment for no first kisses, or first after a long time kisses tonight. There was too much of now to enjoy, too much of everything else, and what was supposed to happen, would, in its own time.

There was tomorrow, in fact. We'd already made dinner plans.