The Penthouse View

He was shorter than I had remembered (125 pounds, 5' 7"), but he was even better looking at twenty-five than he was at seventeen: slender built, black hair, olive skin, and pretty brown eyes with long lashes that would make women envious. And here this handsome man was, the object of my eighth-grade crush, standing on my porch (my porch!) picking me (me!) up for our blind date. My self-esteem sky rocketed. I was standing confidently on the balcony of the hundredth floor penthouse looking out over the city of possibilities: Mrs. Carol Coal, babies, happily ever after. But wait. It was a blind date; he didn't choose me; his friend chose me. My self-esteem took a tumble over the edge of the balcony and went SPLAT! on the concrete below. I could tell by the expression on his face, he wasn't happy with his friend or me. As we walked to his blue Stingray, I wondered what excuse he would use to end our date early: "I'm not feeling well; I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to take you back home." "I forgot. It's my grandmother's birthday today and I never miss Grammy's birthday party at the nursing home." "My cat is sick and I need to go check on her."  But, he didn't end our date early, and when he pulled back into my driveway (my driveway!), he said he wasn't leaving until I agreed to go out with him again. Oh, the view from the penthouse was looking better and better: wife, mother, happily ever after.

As handsome as RJ was, his personality dwarfed his good looks. I had never known anyone as smart or clever or cunning or funny as him. What this amazing man saw in me was baffling. He was everything standing next to my nothing. He was the popular prom king who dated cheerleaders; I was the skinny, bucktoothed reject who no one wanted to date. Now, eight years later,  he was a Rose-Hulman engineering graduate, a real estate broker, and an attorney. I was a secretary at a downtown law firm. None of my deficiencies seem to matter to RJ. Much to my amazement, he was enamored with me (me!). As time went on--one year, then two--I became more comfortable spending time in the penthouse, but the sliding door to the balcony was locked, obscuring the view of possibilities. What about the marriage, the children, the happily ever after?

Two years passed and I asked the question, "When are we going to get married?" "When I get married, I'll be the one doing the asking." he said. Now, I know what you're thinking. "Ouch! That hurt!" Am I right? You were thinking that, weren't  you? Yes, it did hurt but then he said, "Next year, around Christmas time, I promise, there will be little feet pitter pattering around this apartment." That announcement eased the pain because I thought he was talking about marriage, children, and happily ever after. A year and a half later, at Christmas, the pitter patter he was referring to was a six-week old kitten, Kitty Kat, my Christmas present.

 Going into the fifth year with my middle-school crush, the penthouse with no view was getting crowded--my best friend Wilma liked the view of possibilities with my man, too--so I rode the elevator down to the ground floor, walked through the front door, out into the street, and right into the arms of Jim Bang.