In an earlier column I talked about the differences between an \”almost\” and a \”beshert,\” and how I will always have a special place in my heart for that \”almost\” who helped me to find myself and the person that I\’m supposed to be with. What I realize now is that as time goes by, my \”almost,\” just like nearly every memory of old friendships, is starting to fade in importance.
My blind date, Scott, likes college hoops, \’80s TV and helping others. I like his cute tuchus. I\’m thinkin\’ we\’d make a fine pair of Jews. We stray from the first date playbook and follow a Santa Monica dinner with a Main Street stroll. As we walk past yet a third unique boutique on our way to get dessert (that we don\’t want) and more time together (which we do), Scott says those three little words that can rock a girl\’s world. \”There\’s my car.\”
It\’s a PT Cruiser — washed and waxed today, valid registration, parked less than 12 inches from the curb. No fuzzy dice, high school tassel or pine-scented Playmate air freshener. The car doesn\’t scream \”show-off\” or \”shady,\” Speed Racer or gas guzzler. What it screams is middle-aged dad. More specifically — my dad.
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