I have a mantra. It goes like this: “My good man is near my good man is near my good man is near”. It popped into my head a few years ago when I was mourning the demise of my last love. He’s not dead, my last love. Oh, no. He’s very much alive and enjoying the enviable life of an older man married to a much younger woman, while I occasionally weep into a glass of Savignon Blanc, recalling the times we toasted each other with the same lovely wine after particularly creative evenings we shared.
It couldn’t last. He was so close to being perfect for me that something had to give. He rode a Harley. He had an eclectic music collection. A taste for fine wine and exotic food. A quixotic sense of humor and, unfortunately for me, he was terminally attractive to women. Even under normal circumstances, I was doomed to be dumped. Besides the odds, I was also fatalistic about him because of my theory about God.
My God is a prankster. A gigantic infant with a capricious streak. He looks like Buddha in a Sumo wrestler’s diaper. He delights in pulling the rug out from under me. He’s always laughing. And why not? He giveth and he taketh away at his whim. He took my almost-perfect-good-man away and left me with the awesome challenge of trying to care about anyone else coming up the path. Not that anyone has. You can’t even see the path anymore. Weeds have taken over.
But, I’m hopeful. I feel everyone has a soulmate somewhere. The problem is, he’s not always near, and not necessarily on the same continent you’re on. He’s probably in Nova Scotia or Sri Lanka milking goats. I
If my theory is right, when I feel the urge to chant, my good man is traveling through Miami on his way to St. Kitts where his houseboy has freshened up the cottage, and laid out the James Mason white puma cotton pajama bottoms he bought from J. Peterman’s catalog. The same pair I bought. He’ll be surprised when we finally meet and compare sleeping attire.
There was the red-haired, freckled Irishman who exuded an old-fashioned courtliness that swept me off my feet. With him I felt reincarnation was a possibility because when we strolled arm in arm, it was as though we’d once walked together down cobblestone streets lit by torches. I heard the swish of satin gowns and the clatter of horse drawn carriages. I couldn’t believe my luck --he was so gallant. And then, of course, Buddha sneezed, and he was history.
Today, I’m fascinated by an adventurer-traveler with whom I occasionally have lunch. My Indiana Jones strides through steaming jungles sipping baboon blood out of skulls with the natives, and sails from Miami to Bora Bora or some such place, on a windsurfer. Buddha has been kind with this one, since we are just friends. he still allows me to enjoy coffee and conversations with him - and my friend transports me from my humdrum day’s chores to the mountains of Peru and the castles of Transylvania, engaging me in a vicarious enjoyment of his adventures. Like Cyrano reciting his Gazette to Roxanne.
Based on past history, I seem to have no one type that attracts me. Neither physically nor psychologically. My soulmate probably is made up of all the parts of the men I have found fascinating. But, would I recognize him if I fell over him? Ah, yes I would. Because he will look a lot like Harvey Keitel. Okay, okay. Not your typical Adonis. This is why a Harvey Keitel could be my perfect soulmate. He will look like a Yugoslavian mobster, but he will have the soul of a poet. I find this contrast very sexy. Ill-fitting searsucker suit, slicked-back hair, muscular, but a wee bit on the dumpy side. The deceptive packaging hiding the inner man who is sensitive, adventuresome, sensual, well-read, a sap for Billie Holiday, with a love of nature and a sense of his place in the Universe. Other women will not see what I see, so there will be less competition.
Lately, the need to chant is powerful. Buddha has probably moved my soulmate to a cafe on South Beach where my dumpy love is nursing a glass of Savignon Blanc and contemplating the passing parade, wondering if I’m in it. I’m packing my rollerblades and heading there right now.
But, wait a minute. What if I recognize him and he doesn’t recognize me? Oh, my God.
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Lovely