This only takes a second. Click here: Froggy Night
In my 20’s, I had a brief fling with a matchmaker. A boxing matchmaker, who was rather bigtime on the circuit. Still is; I caught his name in the news. We saw each other quite a bit for a short while. We traveled around, mainly to Las Vegas, to watch some of the fights.
I hated everything about Las Vegas, starting with the airport, middling with the mirrors on the ceiling and the sunken tubs, and ending with the characters. Even handsome boxers have faces that, up close, look like squishy silly putty -- especially around the eyes. Hey, what's that bit of cheekbone doing over there?
Besides, the fascination of boxing excapes me, especially from the front row.
And B wasn’t crazy about my lifestyle and friends either.
Perhaps most importantly, we were both shy and guarded in the same way. Conversation was difficult. We drifted painlessly apart.
A few years later and a few moves later, he located me for some reason, and wrote me a letter. A sweet and funny letter. I answered in kind. More sweet and funny letters travelled back and forth; sweeter and funnier.
And so we arranged another meeting. And damned if we weren’t frogs again; shy and guarded and without much to say.
Letters followed that meeting, and we were all sweet and funny again. Hello my honey, hello my baby ... We hooked up once more.
I don’t know who stopped writing first, probably me because sending a letter has always seemed like undue effort. The envelope, the stamp, and putting it in the mail and all. But it could have been him.
What does this little episode prove? I don't know; but perhaps one shouldn't pay too much attention to the fine print. Or you can't always judge the cover by the book. Something like that.