Virgo

Evening flight to Dallas, I was seated next to an attractive, age-appropriate woman. Soon as I thought that, though, rewind. It wasn’t because she was attractive, but when a person obviously takes care to present in a care-worn, but socially acceptable, just, there’s something that burns within that I find special. That element. Calculated casual with discrete appointments that show understated elegance, a kind of class.

I was reading a book and after a long day, didn’t feel like engaging. Besides, notice certain details, like manicured but coated with clear nail polish nails. Streaks of gray, time-lines in the hollow of the cheeks. No wedding ring.

Virgo, born of that favored generation, circa 1964-7, and divorced. Slightly bitter about that — ex ran off with a younger model. Two kids, now grown.

Wondering what happened and what happens; curious about the apparently cruel hand of fate.

Book she was reading, and underlining passages? A cross between Joel Osteen and Abraham Hicks. Bible study meets self-help, self-actualization through prayer and positive thinking. I peeked at the text.

“God wants you to be happy.”

This afternoon, I’m Buddhist, so I’m unsure, but even my heathen ways understands that the message is the same, even if the verbiage is slightly different, or the names of the deities differ.

The divorce part hurts the most, as there’s whole legions of embittered females, of a certain age, whose stupid males have forsaken a decent relationship for younger, prettier, person. Not always an upgrade, and the question?

“At what cost?”

My empathy kicks into a higher gear, but there’s only so much I can do.

Marketing guys taught me about “qualifying,” a lesson that I never named but learned from years on the road, and few too many ugly rejections.

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Two-Meat Tuesday – Kramer Wetzel