- - - - - - - - - - T A B L E++T A L K Deadbeat moms: Is there such a thing? Join the debate in the Mothers area of Table Talk - - - - - - - - - - R E C E N T L Y The mother of all years
Family myths, family realities
The Abandoned Newborn
I'll be home for sushi
Catholic school bad girl
Word by word
- - - - - - - - - - Mamafesto
| CYBERSPACE: THE FINAL DATING FRONTIER | PAGE 2 OF 2 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Suddenly, I realized the definitive story was only a drawer away. Surely, the voluminous spiral-bound volumes of angst of my college journal would tell all. About Phil, I had written, "He is not 'Mr. Wonderful' but he is reasonably bright, pleasant and very polite." A few dates later, however, the verdict was "self-centered and egotistical." I complained about too much beer, loud music and unstimulating conversation. I e-mailed these findings to Phil, who took it all in stride and quipped back that he is still self-centered. In January 1975, I scribbled that I would go out with him again if he called, but not on a regular basis. After that, though, there was no more mention of Phil. Soon after we renewed our relationship online, Phil phoned to tell me that he would be visiting his sister in nearby Cherry Hill, N.J. He'd be driving from Canada and promised to phone when he got here. "It's about time you called after 22 years," I teased, concealing surprise that his voice was unfamiliar. The transition from anonymous e-mail to the more immediate presence of the telephone was a bit unnerving. We made plans to meet for dinner. My friend George said he hoped the reunion would be enjoyable, but what if it was? he asked. "Twenty years of what could have been. Really, could you handle that?" My mother responded predictably that she'd like having a son-in-law from Yale. I also have e-mail pen pals from Cornell and Harvard, I added coolly. "What are you waiting for? MEET THEM ALREADY," she begged. I can't believe my own mother is not worried they could be ax murderers. "So ask them to meet you at our house." As if a blind date from the cyber-heavens isn't weird enough without having your parents watching. The big night arrived. After half a lifetime, I nearly didn't recognize my date. He neglected to tell me he had shed the amorphous beard and nerdy glasses since college. Over dinner, we chatted about our jobs, families, dating history. I observed, amused, that he didn't even finish one beer. He lost his taste for drinking after getting into meditation, he explained. Really? We joked about our lack of social skills in college. He couldn't remember my major and is not sure he ever asked. I conceded I was practically mute around men. At the end of the evening, Phil walked me to my car and mumbled something convincing in French that he must have picked up in Montreal. He waited in the winter cold to see that my car started. We should get together again when he's in town, we agreed, smiling uncertainly, as if we were lingering once more at the door of a college dorm. I lay awake much of the night, thinking about this unbidden
collision of past and present, the disparate galaxies of time.
There is no resolution for what was and what is. That impermeable
darkness that connects us to history and intimates the future.
You can run to cyberspace, after all, but you cannot hide.
Eve Glicksman is a freelance writer in the Philadelphia area. Her essays have appeared in the Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune, Atlanta Constitution, Newsday, Philadelphia Inquirer and the Dallas Morning News, among others. |
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