воскресенье, 8 июня 2014 г.

My Hot Italian

The art of love… is largely the art of persistence.
~Albert Ellis
Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. I never dated an Indian chief, but that was probably because they’re hard to come by in suburban New Jersey.
I dated a lot. I just never found anyone I liked.
My mother once said, “If a knight in shining armor came riding down the street on a white stallion, you’d say, ‘But he has a red plume in his helmet. I wanted one with a purple plume!’” She couldn’t understand what there was to think about. To my mother, love came after finding someone appropriate to marry. She’d say things like, “He’s in med school. What do you mean you don’t like him?”
Truthfully? I feared boredom. I just couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone I ever went out with. Wasn’t there supposed to be a spark or something? All of these guys seemed interchangeable—same guy, different name.
Maybe I needed to broaden my search.
Teaching did afford me summers off and I was able to spend some of my vacation time in Europe. Men were so romantic there. They looked at women in a way that I had never been looked at before in my life. Was it the wine or exotic locales that made them so attractive? What ever it was, they should bottle it and sell it as souvenirs at the airport. They’d make a fortune.
Of course, September brought me back to reality.
On the first day of school there was an Italian boy in my class. This wasn’t unusual. I taught in a large, inner-city school where most of the kids were from either Europe, South America, or the Caribbean. This boy’s first words to me were, “You know, you’d be perfect for my big brother.”
Honestly? It wasn’t the first time I heard that from a student, but there was no way I would ever take anyone up on that offer. Too weird.
But Rocco never let up. Not a week went by that I didn’t hear how much his brother and I had in common. This kid was relentless. Even the other kids in class were getting in on it. “You gotta meet him, Miss Maddalena. You’d like him.”
And let me tell you, the big brother wasn’t bad-looking. Rocco brought a picture in. You could tell it was taken without him knowing it, but the guy was a hot Italian just about my age. This was 1977, and Prospero was the spitting image of John Travolta as Vinnie Barbarino.
“How old is he?”
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen? He’s way too young.” I was twenty-three heading towards twenty-four. Dating younger men wasn’t fashionable. Yet.
“He acts older.” This coming from a fourteen-year-old.
Still, it was really too weird. I’d stick with hitting the clubs with my girlfriends, but it was getting old.
Kissing too many frogs and hearing, “What’s your sign?” too many times made me decide to go on a self-imposed dating strike. I had a better time staying home and reading than standing around talking to the desperado disco-babies in three-piece suits.
Then boredom hit. Spring was in the air, hibernation time was over, and I needed to get out. Nothing serious, just a little fun. The school year was almost over. Could I? Should I? We had nothing in common. He was way too young. But we were just going out, not getting married.
“Rocco,” I said, “do you think your brother is still interested in meeting me?” To tell you the truth, I wasn’t even sure if he knew anything about it. I just figured that since Rocco was so persistent with me, he was doing the same thing at home. I guessed right. It turns out that Prospero had been sending his own friends past the school at dismissal to check me out. I slipped the kid a piece of paper. “Tell him to call me.”
Our first date was April 30, 1977. What can I say? When I looked in his eyes it felt as if I had known him forever. Before we knew it, we were spending all of our time together. Everything was more fun when Prospero was around. Although we came from very different backgrounds, we shared the same sense of adventure and common values. We took the time to grow together.
Like the song says, we fooled around and fell in love.
Rocco was best man at our wedding in 1980 and made a lovely toast taking credit for the fix up. I still run into some of those kids from my class. They’re married now, with kids of their own, and they never fail to remind me that if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have met my husband.
If anyone ever told me that I would marry Rocco Menna’s big brother, I would have laughed like crazy. But what can I say? It was the best thing I ever did. Since the day I met him, Prospero has been my knight in shining armor. And his plume is absolutely perfect.
~Lynn Maddalena Menna
http://www.chickensoup.com/

Комментариев нет:

Отправить комментарий