sunday in manhattan with mimi

7:30 a.m.

PLAN C: This morning is for you.

MIMI: Okay.

(Neither of us gets up.)

PLAN C: I want you to have fun this morning.

MIMI: Then it’s time for serious tooth-brushing and minor ablutions.

(Neither of us gets up.)

PLAN C (counting, so we’ll get up): One, two, three!

(Neither of us gets up.)

PLAN C: I’ll count to ten.

MIMI: Okay.

PLAN C (slowly): One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine….nine-and-a-half, nine-and-three-quartes….TEN.

As if following the same choreography, Plan C and I raise our legs in the air, stretch, sit up, and swing our legs over the left (Plan C) and right (me) sides of the bed.

Serious tooth-brushing (in different bathrooms) ensues.

* * *
7:40 – 9:30

Censored by Plan C.

“Nothing about what happens in bed,” he said, so I deleted my favorite parts of this post.

As I said last week,
!!! *** ?! ## > + ) >> + ) >>>> + ) !! + + + &! &!! &!!! + !@#$%^……

* * *

9:30 a.m.

PLAN C: You’re the most uninhibited woman I’ve ever been to bed with.

MIMI: I am???

PLAN C: What time is it?

MIMI: 9:30.

PLAN C: We better get up. Don’t want to miss Meet the Press today.

* * *

10 a.m.

Plan C’s cell phone rings. It’s his younger son, wishing him happy Father’s Day.

PLAN C (to son): You know I don’t do that.

SON: But I do.

* * *

10:30 – 11:15

Plan C and I watch Meet the Press. I’m most interested in the crumpled kleenex in Mary Matalin’s right hand. How can her make-up stay on so well when she’s been crying?

I hadn’t watched Meet the Press in a hundred years till Plan C began spending weekends with me. If you remember, I got cable so he could watch golf on television. There always seems to be golf on. It’s like the weather channel or the food channel: somewhere, someone is always playing golf. Plan C turns on the golf channel every time he is sitting in the living room.

I’m getting used to watching golf: the man in the green shirt tees off; the camera follows the trajectory of the ball in the air; the ball lands; the man putts; the ball goes in the hole; applause; the man in the pink shirt tees off; the camera follows the trajectory of the ball in the air; the ball lands; the man putts; the man putts again; the ball goes in the hole; shot of the people standing behind the fence; the man in the blue-and-white shirt tees off; the camera follows the trajectory of the ball in the air; the ball lands; the man putts; the ball goes in the hole; applause; commercial; end of commercial; the man in the yellow shirt…………etc. etc.

I see why golf is so relaxing: it’s hypnotic.

But Sunday morning it’s Tim Russert; or was.

After 45 minutes of this, Plan C (to my surprise) turns off the tv just as Brokaw and the other talking heads begin talking about the way Russert didn’t like criticism and remembered every little thing people said against him.

PLAN C (turning off television): What they mean is, he was an egomaniac.

* * *

noon

We’re dancing.

In our very first telephone conversation, on 6 February 2008, Plan C mentioned that he especially wanted a girlfriend because he had two weddings to go to this summer. (He was unguarded in so many ways in that first call, such as telling me that his late wife was ‘a beautiful woman.’ ) Weddings, to Plan C, mean opportunities to dance, and dancing, for me, is a great pleasure and a serious challenge.

We’ve been working on our dancing for a while.

“Our” means “my”, because Plan C is a good dancer, and I’m — depending on who’s judging — a “passable” dancer or an “okay” dancer. There’s no point in lessons for this purpose, because Plan C’s dancing is unpredictable and a bit eccentric, so I just have to learn to follow it. Last week it took me 45 minutes to warm up; Friday night late it only took me half an hour. This morning we don’t have much time (Sunday is golf day for Plan C, i.e. he plays golf), only 25 minutes altogether, so I have to loosen up and do my best almost immediately.

We dance to all Plan C’s favorites, including the Righteous Brothers doing That lovin’ feelin and Unchained melody and Patsy Cline singing Crazy.

(Remember, Plan C is 66.)

At some point in the morning I realize that I have to think of Plan C impersonally when I’m dancing with him. I’ll dance better if I think of the way we’re moving as a performance. I try to imitate the way he holds his head while he dances, the expression of his mouth, his whole stance. He sees I’m doing that and is (slightly, very slightly) amused. But I’m beginning to ‘get’ his dancing, which is full of little idiosyncratic variations and quirks and turns that require guesswork and anticipation.

At one point he sort of pulls back and then forward in a kind of swing-dancey way, the style I really like, and in my enthusiasm I end up stepping on his foot.

Plan C yells: he is barefoot and I’m breaking in the new strappy black heels I hope to wear at the wedding.

* * *
12:10, 12:15, 12:20, and 12:30

MIMI: Was that all right? am I getting better?

PLAN C: Yes. You were fine.

“Fine.”

That’s one of those words that…covers a lot of ground.

* * *
Anyone who dances with Plan C will show up a lot, because his dancing commands attention, so I’d better look decent even if I don’t dance beautifully. Come the July and August weddings, this is the dress I’ll dance in (it’s sleeveless, and I added the sheer white shrug because the reception is outdoors, and it will turn cool):

* * *

1 p.m.

Plan C takes off for home and then golf. I remain in my new heels for another half hour, testing them with all my clothes. They don’t hurt at all. They’re great shoes; let’s hope my clothes distract attention from my dancing.

But wait a moment: these weddings are not about me. Who will be looking at me anyway?

I’ll dance better if I think I look nice. Hoping for the best. As always, in everything.

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