Walking Papers

I can't believe I am writing this, putting myself out there for the whole world to read. As if anyone would really be interested? But I am appalled, so why not. After all, if I am going to blog daily, and want to develop a readership, I am going to have to take some risks.

I remember as a small child, my father, Bob Welty, often referred to men whom received their walking papers. I am not certain if he was referring to a man dismissed from a job or finishing up a tour of duty in the navy, but I do know that it meant the man was leaving a situation. And this time, I gave a man his walking papers, in the nicest way possible, and without any preconceived notion that this would happen.

It was a gorgeous spring day, and I spent it with a really nice man, whom I liked, relaxing on the beach, playing with my dogs, delving into the pleasures of cooking and drinking my favorite wine. Well, in all honesty, I drank the wine, he sipped - he is not a drinker. Period. Mind you, this is rare for me because I generally don't like to have a man around for more than a few hours, after that I am tired and want him to go home so that I can have some personal space. It was, however, the kind of nice, playful day you see on television advertisements, a happy couple walking on the beach, frolicking in the sand. Well, I should say it was nice until the moment of the fateful kiss, which simply never happened. I now know there is a reason we see these scenes on television, and not in the land of misfit toys!

It is easy to imagine a man and a woman together, feeling lovingly towards each other after a day of playful beach frolicking. Romeo (my pet name for him) and I have known each other for nine months now, genuinely like each other a lot, and our relationship has been marked by a degree of playfulness together. The twinkle in his penetrating blue eyes coupled with the way he arched his brows when he softly whispered "Come here, babe" was enough to melt butter as far as I was concerned, and I was sure I was about to be the recipient of the most wonderful, gentle kiss a woman could want....That is until he handed me a washcloth and asked me if I minded washing my face and hands since I had been playing with the dogs, and the smell of dog breath on me was not exactly a turn-on. Did someone just slap me in the back of the head with a bat or what?

This is where the transformation from a loving, playful, laughing woman to a cold-hearted, obnoxious, red-headed, pit viper bitch occurred. I cannot recall having felt so offended before in my entire life, and I am 52 years old! Needless to say, I gave Romeo his walking papers. Yes sir. Immediately. No questions asked. No regrets. There are no excuses or justifications for certain kinds of behavior, and this situation falls into that category of unacceptable behavior.

I did what was best for me. Amazing. I didn't make excuses for him, nor for his behavior. Wow. Now that is something to take note of: somewhere, over the course of the last year, I have become a mature woman. I realized that this is my life, and it is about me. Not about keeping a man - let alone getting one.

What transpired started me thinking about myself, specifically about myself as a mature woman. There is something powerful that happens to women later in life, and although I am not certain I can adequately describe it, I do know that it has happened to other women, and I recognize that it has happened to me. There is an incredible degree of confidence embedded in a woman whom has been single, self-supporting, and successfully independent. It is the kind of independence of which novels are written - all those heaving bosom, rising man hood books we women read on the beach in our youth...I think it is because those women represent what we all wish we could be.

The bottom line is this: It doesn't matter whether or not anyone thinks he had the right to ask me to wash my face before he kissed me. What matters is that I didn't like it, knew that I didn't want to live my life with that kind of an issue in my life, and had the strength of character to end something that had no future for me. The best solution: end the relationship as it stood. No pouting. No crying. Maybe brief sadness, but nothing to dwell upon.

Romeo was taken aback. He defended his actions, apologized, pouted, cried, got angry. None of it really mattered. Yes. I am a mature woman. This is my life, and I am not going to waste my time or my energy on anything negative. Besides, my dogs are happy to see me every moment of each day; they don't care if I don't feel like talking; they don't care if I dance around and act silly - in fact, they are apt to join me. Why can't men be more like dogs?