We went to a wedding yesterday. Me and W and all three kids.
One of W’s second cousins once removed or something like that got married.
When we walked into the church, I saw a woman who looked like someone I had played softball with ten plus years ago. So, during the church service and the reception festivities, I stared at her, trying to figure out if wedding attendee was former softball teammate.
She probably thought that I was going to hit on her or that I was a creepy stalker. I get that a lot.
W did some detective work at the reception, but no one seemed to know the name or identity of this mystery woman.
“Maybe she’ll recognize you,” W said. I knew that wasn’t remotely possible as I look nothing like the superstar softball stud that I was in the 1990s. I certainly played ball like a butch back then, but I was still sporting longer hair and shopped in the ladies department for about 50 percent of my apparel.
I told W to get a good look at her face so that when we got home she would be able to identify her using a softball championship photo that I have. I wanted W to be able to spot this woman in a police line-up or pick her out from the pages of her own Where’s Waldo? book, if she had one, of course.
As you can probably tell, I was way too embarrassed to just approach her and ask if she played softball back in the day. That’s fine for people with average social skills. Middle age butch does not boast average people skills.
However, when we were getting ready to leave, I got up the nerve to ask her if she used to play softball in a league.
Turns out that she did.
We had a nice chat about the old days — good times, good times — and she filled me in on our other teammates. Most are now married with kids.
At one point, she said that she never would have recognized me with the short hair.
The tie comment, of course, meant more than, hey, I started wearing men’s clothes and accessories since the last time that I saw you.
“It’s all good,” my friend said, “as long as you’re happy.”
I never get tired of having people from my past give me their stamp of approval.
It sounds pathetic. But it’s comforting to know that people still like me, regardless of who I’m sharing my bed and life with these days.