After checking in on Philip's status, which remains as surly as ever, I disconnect, finally feeling a bit more at peace with the decision.
Me: Tony, let's go for it.
Tony: On it already. Knee deep in research.
Me: I'm chuffed to go to Boston. Let's make it happen.
Tony: The first thing you need to do is stop using words like chuffed.
Never. My passport may be changing, but I'll always be British.
At least until I'm not.
Chapter 13: Ophelia
I have a date. The powers-that-be on social media thought we'd be a good match. A ClikClak guy. I'm doing it.
Well, notit. At least not yet. I'm puttingthaton hold until I'm very sure that the guy is not atosser.
Every time the word crosses my mind, I smile. I've folded it into my repertoire, like my use of Xs and Os, feeling romantic and whimsical every time I use it.
So this guy, Jeremy, is from Lynn, which isn't too far. I'm done with the long-distance thing, so even though there are a lot of choices, once I started narrowing it down geographically, the pickings became slimmer.
The story of my life.
Jeremy is taking the commuter rail in and meeting me in the North End. That's good because it's not that close to where I live in Chestnut Hill. Several people commented on his post that he seemed like a good match for me. I'm not sure I see it, but what the hell do I know? It'll be all public, and Marley is on standby if I get weird vibes. She's going to be just down the street and with one text, she and her boyfriend will be there to escort me away.
As I stare at my closet, I've no idea how to dress. I've been inside my apartment for way too long, going practically nowhere except the grocery store and over to Marley's place. It's made me very lazy when it comes to dressing. I'm up to date on skin care, hair styling, and makeup, thanks to ClikClak, but my wardrobe … sigh.
None of my clothes are stylish anymore.
On the other hand, what in the 1980s is up with these trends of wide-legged pants and mom jeans? I'm a size six (on a good day), but since I'm only 5'2", that means I've got some curves. Those oversized pants are super unflattering on my frame. I call them teapot pants because when I wear them, they make me look short and stout.
Do I wear jeans? Do I wear pants? Do I wear a dress?
A dress means I have to shave my legs. Shaving my legs means I'm giving myself permission to get frisky, and I've vowed not to do that.
I settle on a pair of black skinny pants, paired with my chunky-heeled black boots, a white oxford shirt, and a green sweater vest. Preppy, somewhat stylish, but still relaxed.
I look cute, for me.
It's about as good as post-pandemic fashion gets.
On the T there, I text Marley.
Me: Should I ask about his vax status or to see his card?
These are things I never had to think about before.
Marley: You didn't ask already?
Me: Didn't know how to work it in.
Marley: I'm not sure you're responsible enough for this.
I know that I'm not. It's why I'm still hopelessly single at the age of thirty. I could barely navigate the dating scene before COVID. Now, it's another layer that has me relegated to my apartment and contemplating adopting five more cats to round out at an even half-dozen.
Me: I know. I'll ask before we go in and de-mask.
