That Girl

Five years ago, I was an unhappy girl. I was living with my parents, working part time as a theatre director and choreographer, part time as a low-paid actor, and part time waiting tables at a local restaurant. The latter most of these positions was lucrative money-wise, but dampening spirit-wise. I was frustrated and stuck. I did not have a boyfriend, nor did I feel particularly date worthy. I did however, have a rather innocent crush on my chiropractor. He was tall and handsome with wavy hair and Wally Cleaver looks. He smiled a lot. He asked me about my day. He noticed when I cut my hair or lost weight. I would lay on his table and he would rub my tired back. Sometimes, on particularly hard days, he would perform an adjustment that I affectionately referred to as "The Maneuver". It was a chiropractic procedure, but if we had not been wearing clothes, I'm fairly certain it could be found in the pages of the Kama Sutra. And for a dateless twenty-something who was broke and living with mom and dad, it was enough.

I was working a double at the restaurant one long and dreary January day, and was nearing the end of my dinner shift, when I came around a corner and spotted my handsome chiropractor seated at a booth in the bar. Across from him was a beautiful brunette with shoulder length hair and large eyes. They were laughing, leaning in toward each other, completely unaware of me, let alone anyone else in the restaurant. They were so obviously in love. I smiled to myself, a sad, sort of wistful smile and went back to sorting silverware, bussing tables, running food and sweeping my section. A plaintive Cinderella. Later, I passed by the front of the restaurant and caught sight of them once again. They were standing in the lobby, both in black leather coats. She was holding onto a bag that presumably contained leftovers. He leaned in to give her a kiss, she wrapped his scarf around his neck, and then he disappeared through the doors. It was a cold, wet night, and it occurred to me that he was probably going to get the car and bring it around, so she wouldn't have to walk as far. As I stood there quietly observing, she turned around. Her face was lit up with a smile so radiant that it was nearly impossible to not smile myself. Her happiness was so tangible I could almost feel what she was feeling: Giddy, warm, grateful. Our eyes met and she lowered her head briefly, smiling sheepishly. Seconds later the car pulled up and she skipped out the door, ducking into the passenger side and off to the rest of her evening with her handsome date - my chiropractor.

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The Dashing Litigator and I are on a mission. A mission to find two perfect pumpkins. It is a brisk and wet Sunday night, my show has just closed and we are on a date. We pull up to a makeshift streetside pumpkin patch, lit by strings of lights and guarded by a sturdy and temporary trailer. There are rows upon rows of pumpkins that will - in another six weeks - be replaced by Christmas trees. The seller of the pumpkins and dweller of the trailer is Ron - a large man with long fuzzy hair poking out of his grey woolen watchman's cap. He's layered with several shirts, the outermost being a dingey green flannel, and his gloves are fingerless. He smiles at us, greeting us with a "Hey there! Feel free to look around!" and I notice he's missing a couple teeth.

Immediately I'm off, darting across rows of pumpkins, squatting to take a closer look at some, picking up others, examining their 'carve-ability'.

The Dashing Litigator is watching me, laughing. "Ooooh! I see the little girl Carrie! She's coming out!" I find my pumpkin, a fat, sturdy one, and plonk it on the table. Ron takes out a soiled rag and wipes the mud off of it. The Dashing Litigator finds his pumpkin, too. A smaller one - as his theory is, "The smaller the pumpkin, the less guts to scoop out."

Ron adds bluntly: "Man, aren't them things a pain in the ass to scoop out?" We laugh hysterically and wonder what the Illinois pumpkin growers would think of Ron's very 'bad-for-business' blabbing.

Our pumpkins are rolling around in the back of his truck, as we head off to our next stop: Dinner. It is the night of another White Sox game. The second game of the world series. The Dashing Litigator takes me to yet another new restuarant - 42 Degrees N. Latitude. The bar is crowded and smokey, but he leads the way to the restaurant part and soon we have a front row seat to the game by way of a flat screen tv. We are one of only two couples in the room, which is warm and lit with candles.

Dinner is lovely. Even though the game is on, we manage to split our attention between each other and the White Sox. We are sipping wine and feeding each other pasta and when we see the poor fans at the game who are wearing ponchos, soaked and miserable, the Dashing Litigator says, "Now this is the way to do it." I am feeling content and happily filled. We order two desserts to take home - an apple bread pudding and a pumpkin cheesecake, and put on our coats to leave. Outside it has started to rain again. As we approach the door, the Dashing Litigator turns to me and says, "You wait here. It's raining. I'll bring the car around." He kisses me quickly before disappearing through the revolving door, bounding across the street, dodging raindrops. I am holding our desserts in a bag, and I smile, hugging the bag to my chest. I turn around to face the inside of the restaurant and momentarily catch the eye of the bartender, a dark haired woman of about my age. She smiles at me, and I find myself embarrassed and shyly look away. When I turn to face the street, my Dashing Litigator is there. I push through the doors, jump in his truck and we are off to the rest of our date. We will carve pumpkins and the Dashing Litigator will learn the hard way that "The smaller pumpkins have the most guts". We will make coffee, cuddle on the couch and watch the final innings of the game. We will share our desserts and I will fall asleep in his arms, warm and cozy.

This is for the Carrie of five years ago. The Carrie that numbly lived her life in a holding pattern. Endlessly circling the runway waiting to take off, but terrified to leave the safety of the ground. The Carrie that watched love happen to other people and wondered, as she straightened her apron and counted her tips, if it would ever happen to her.

Wondering if she would ever be 'that girl'.