Looking for Baggage that Goes With Mine

Last week, as I was outside the sight but not the hearing of my 1:00 therapy appointment, the female client, whom I'd only met with once before, was telling the receptionist that she had an appointment with, well, that really good looking guy. She couldn't remember my name.

This has happened before. The only women who say anything about how they think I look is women who are diagnosed with a mental illness. Question: are such woman just freer to say what they think and 'normal' women are too polite, or does a woman have to be certified crazy to find me attractive?

This leads up to a little event this evening. In a former job duty I often came in contact with a gal who is attractive to me. Not just in looks, but one of those where in her presence I just felt wonderful inside and thought about her for two days afterward, time after time after time. She gave off vibes that the feeling was mutual; a few times she acted goofy around me, and once we connected gazes that were unmistakable and it was infinitely comfortable and warm. In imagination I wondered what I would do if we ran across each other out in public, away from our job roles.

(Why didn't I ask her out? Lots of rationalizations: I've got my sordid history and don't trust my judgment in women; either that or there are so few women who fit my standards that those times I've tried commitment have been disasters. Or the fact that this gal is probably half my age and can't have the amount of baggage I've got. Or she and I are at really different points in life and it couldn't possibly work. Or in twenty years she'll be at her sexual peak and I'll be pushing seventy, and very little else. And so on).

So tonight I ran across her at the mall. She was with a coworker who also kibbitzed with me when our jobs crossed paths, but she's married. I regret that I wasn't goofy enough to hug the young gal in mock joy. We talked for a while. I showed them the newest gem I'd cut, a 6.2 carat synthetic spinel the color of a deep blue zircon cut as an old mine (cushion). They were sitting at the front of a salon at the mall, waiting for haircuts, and the coworker said that they were there to get beautiful. "But you're both already beautiful," I said. Pretty slick, eh, Jasper? But she waved it off and muttered something about how ridiculous that was. Then the conversation died a bit and I smiled and said goodbye. And kicked myself the rest of the evening.

It's too easy to not engage myself, to not take decisive action. It's easy habit by now. I don't miss the expense and drama of being with someone. A cat is an easy roommate. But when regret is as strong as I've felt since then... I spent about an hour on another gemstone this evening then did a session at the piano with Beethoven, Elton John, and Chopin, and the thought of her stayed with me all the way through everything.

In Rent Mimi sang to Roger, "I'm looking for baggage that goes with mine." It's a great line. A great idea. Some friendly hope to frame old dreck in.

As a fellow counselor said this morning, even healthy people have their unhealthy stuff here and there. I hope that one day I can break up this logjam.