Met Emmy At Camp
Dear [Emmy],
I wanted to say how much fun it was meeting you andbuilding our new friendship over the past eleven days at camp. Each morning, I awaited your smile as you always did when you discovered me nearby, joking around at those floury breakfasts of pancakes, muffins, bagels, French toast, andcereal. Everywhere you went, you left a trail of giggling campers behind you. From the echoy dining hall, to the old swimming pool on the hillside, to the lodge living room withits mammoth leather couches, fire place, and chandeliers; to those trails of gravel on the ten mile hike, we looked forward to your cheer at every activity. You never let us down, attending some goings-on every period. You are precious and every bit as sweet as those sugary breakfasts.
You complained about men liking you too much, lamenting over their clinging when you linger somewhere public, when you don’t try to attract them. I suppose everyone including the prettiest, lives with hardship. Yours apparently is your beauty – that draw you have on everyone you meet. Don’t fret though. Your cross could be much heavier. Imagine how you’d feel if no one bothered with you. No phone calls. No propositions. No nights on the town. All by yourself. Chronically alone. Can you feel the despair? Most humans I know want too much attention rather than too little. At least when you have extra attention, you can shut yourself away for a time to escape. And even if they wouldn’t prefer the doting, it’s healthier to be more than less connected to others, and to know that people are attracted to you through this sort of periodic reminding.
Please don’t hate us for liking you, and don’t think we are lacking in some way because we do. You offer something wonderful to the world that we all can see; qualities far beyond your sexuality. It’s only natural that Earthwould know this, responding to you accordingly. It took me but a few minutes to understand why every single man wanted you. You’ve been blessed with a gift of allure which energizes, uplifts, and amuses those fortunate enough to meet you. I sensed your charm, and appreciated your limitless beauty. I knew what the others knew. AndI was just like them, no better. Enthralled. You held my heart from the start, just as you did theirs. How lucky I was that you picked me to spend time with.
Your magnetism seized me within seconds of meeting you. On that mid July night that began our session, campers unpacked after traveling to this wondrous village that day. As I entered the snack shop, the big, brown, metal door slamming behind me, there you sat with three cronies. Already, within hours of the opening camp fire, people surrounded you in hoards, enjoying your stories, petting your guide dog without your permission, and playfully irritating you so you’d smack them lightheartedly. Though I knew little about you, I could not stop my legs from carrying me to that rickety old Formica-topped table where you sat, enjoying your fries and burger. Yes, the authors of Prevention magazine would despise the camp cuisine. But it’s like hot dogs and baseball; enjoyably traditional together. Healthy or not, the fatty delicacies added a flavorful, exceptional zest to the whole experience. Camp just wouldn’t be the same without them.
I grabbed an open seat beside you and silently thanked fate for granting me an opportunity to meet you.
Down I sat, and immediately, turning toward me, you asked who I was, eager to talk with yet another person, welcoming me to the throng already there. You shook my hand a bit longer than normal. So I sensed that you liked me especially — at least a little. Though normally I’m quite afraid of rejection, I felt comfortable inviting you to talk further that night.
If I played my cards well, the next eleven days could turn into one of the last periods of my life where I had to beg love from the ladies. But what should I tell? What should I hide? I wanted to say nothing to spook you and everything to encourage you to stay. So I asked a few simple questions – your name, home town, age, and such – to get an idea of what topics to avoid. Then, after some minutes of talking in your bubbly way which I adored, you asked, “You’re not over thirty, are you?”
At that instant, time crawled as I wondered how to respond. Your question stated loud and clear that you wished to avoid romance with anyone more than ten years your senior, and that you might be bigoted against older folks. But since you seemed taken with me without knowing my age, I hoped to find a way to eventually present that truth in such a way that you could accept, without fleeing.
I’ve been honest with previous women, believing frankness is the best policy for any romantic situation. But this time, a new philosophy quieted me. Your attitude suggested that if I told you I’m forty-two, you’d reject me, leaving me to spend this session as I had the seven previous years. Alone. I couldn’t knowingly seal that fate for myself, not again, not yet, not with you smiling, partial to me as you were.
“Oh no,” I said. “I’m not over thirty! I’m only twenty.” I figured that perhaps you’d know I was joking by my voice, or someone there would correct me. I didn’t want this to be a long-running hoax, hoping that you would soon get it based on what you heard me telling friends about the seventies. But they kept quiet, and you didn’t get it. Your grin just got bigger, your snowy, white teeth gleaming in the pink fluorescent light of this cement and brick eatery, which the campers called The Canteen. You believed me.
“Here we go,” I thought. “A new experience. I don’t recall ever lying to a lady until now. Will this turn out badly, as such morally questionable actions often do?” For the first time since kindergarten, feelings of horror did not accompany the thought of telling such a falsehood. I felt no guilt, for I had no intentions of exploiting you. I wanted much more than just to take you to bed. I wished for you to fairly consider me for friendship and romance, and to shatter your preconceived notions about older men, who are often thought to seek younger women for their trophy value and sexual favors only. I reasoned, if I could keep you in the dark long enough, you’d start seeing my many positive traits, perhaps developing a crush on me. Then, when you finally learned the truth, you’d be far less likely to reject me. You might even forget your age bias, realizing that even decades difference in age among adults doesn’t matter much if they like each other.
I saw no harm in this little, short-lived lie, for it was a very simple one – easy to keep going for a couple days. I figured I would need no more time than that to charm you. You wouldn’t be injured by it, even if you disapproved once you knew. At worst, you’d grow angry, avoiding me altogether. For me, that prospect though undesirable, wasn’t terribly bad, as I had spent numerous vacations at camp by myself without much sadness. This worst-case scenario didn’t look too bleak for you either. With all the other suitors vying for your affections, any pain you experienced from my foiled deception, would last but a few hours until another man caught your eye, sweeping me and the hurt of my lie from your heart for good.
So my compulsion to fib and risk alienating you intensified, as I would almost certainly fail if I revealed our twenty-two year age difference up front. I could picture no desirable outcome (you and me together) if I was truthful right away. At least, going withthe lie gave me a small chance to remain a viable contender for your affection. Plus, with three other guys hoping for the same, to cuddle with you and hold your hand, I’d get no second opportunity if I screwed this up. In this case, miniscule treachery seemed the perfect countermeasure to your naïve prejudice.
Well, it worked. As the days passed, we spent hours talking on the sun porch, learning about each others’ families and favorite activities, growing closer all the while. You admitted during a passionate kiss on the third day, that you liked me, missing me when I was absent, and wanting more time together. My feelings for you heightened also as I grew less concerned about your discovering the age hoax. And as our romantic connection strengthened, my confidence that I could tell you most anything without pushing you away, rose to a level I’d not felt in years with any other woman. I began trusting you as your interest in me grew more apparent.
Now, I felt some urgency to reveal the truth. Yet I held my tongue a little longer, wanting to make sure you were really hooked on me before breathing a word about my true age. But I didn’t wish to actively pursue this deception, and so, I was not worried that you’d figure it out. Aside from that time I told you I was twenty, I did no more to enforce this lie. So I freely talked to my friends about high school in 1979, and that my favorite year of music was 1974, a full nine years prior to my fictitious birthday. In fact, a curious cabin mate asked if he should keep the lie going should you ask him about it. I said he could reveal my true year count if he wished, wanting to drop you hints here and there anyway to lessen the severity of my “crime,” and ease the touch of guilt I had started feeling.
Then, on the fourth day, the bus accident occurred. Every year, the campers visit the Bellville flea market with its fresh-from-the-field produce, wacky tee shirts, and every imaginable Amish good. At 9:30 AM, as the humidity crept upward turning the sunshine from silvery white to golden orange, two yellow and black school buses pulled up to the car port at the lodge, where all sixty of us waited eagerly. I found you in the mob, taking your hand, wanting to make sure you and I sat together. We did, on the lead vehicle. After a half-hour of everyone boarding and listening to role calls, we departed; our cheery procession of two buses followed by an old, blue camp van that carried the campers that could not fit in the buses.
Passing through Newton Hamilton, we encountered an ancient railroad bridge underpass, its tracks crossing over top of our road. A freight train roared by overhead as we drove up to the line of automobiles waiting their turns to go under the tracks through the single-lane tunnel to the other side. A mirror, positioned midway through this channel helped drivers on each side see oncoming traffic on the other. We moved toward the tunnel at perhaps fifteen miles per hour as the car in front of us disappeared, turning on to a main road having just completed the underpass safely. Perhaps that mirror was out of adjustment or too dusty to be useful, because right then, the calamity began. We heard the loud swish of tires against pavement as you and I were thrown forward against the back of the seat ahead of us, our driver desperately attempting to stop the bus quickly. A pick-up truck, trailer in tow appeared in the windshield, speeding toward us. Did he see us in the tunnel mirror? Did he even see us directly? Apparently not, as he seemed to make no effort to slow down even though we could clearly see him. Fortunately however, though we were already about a third of the way into the tunnel, our bus had stopped completely, less than a second before that deafening, metal-crunching crash of the head on collision, which sent two campers to the hospital, disabled the bus, and gave us all quite a scare. Watching the truck approaching so fast, my hand instinctively shot across, grabbing the edge of the seat ahead of you so I’d serve as a cushion to keep you from hitting your head on the shiny metal handrail. Fortunately, the force from the impact was minor, far less than you’d feel on a roller coaster. We were both okay.
In the hour-long aftermath, the blazing sun heating the bus to close to one-hundred degrees, the counselors came around, checking for injuries, testing our memories to make sure no one had suffered any brain trauma from the jolt. Starting at the front, they asked us each to speak our birthdays. When they got to us half-way back, I pondered about what to tell them. If I said I was born in 1960, you’d surely realize I was not twenty. But if I gave them the 1983 date, they might haul me off to the hospital, thinking I was hurt. The right action was clear. I supplied the truthful date, watching you as I said it, “December 19th, 1960.” Your face remained expressionless. In fact, you said nothing about it for the rest of the day. Had you not heard what I said? Of course you had, but were just deceiving me now, playing a little game of your own.
They cancelled the Bellville trip due to the time taken to clear the mishap and load us into another bus. We decided instead to shop at Wal Mart for an hour, then on to Hoss’s for a hearty steak lunch. It wasn’t until that night back at the Canteen, that you indicated that you knew I had lied. You seemed more flattered than upset, appreciating my desire to say nothing that might turn you away from me. A fabrication can be taken in lots of ways. It need not always be bad. You showed me perhaps the best way a lady might take it. I’d never imagined that a properly placed fib could in fact flatter someone, intensifying her good feelings for me. But here was an example where it did just that, for you. One of the reasons I avoided telling lies of any sort, even little ones, was that I thought they’d certainly cause anger and reprisals from those to whom I told them. Any favorable position resulting from the lie would immediately be retracted once the fib came to light. But you. You weren’t irritated at all, seeming amused once I told you my reasons for lying in the first place. Learning of the lie ironically, rather than undermining your esteem of me, seemed to heighten it, convincing you of the sincerity andstrength of my desire to be with you. It encouraged you to trust me more, intensifying your interest in us, not weakening it. What a forgiving young lady you are.
In the following days, as we grew more intimate, you raised a few faint-hearted objections to our budding romance, worried that folks would badmouth us, the father-daughter lovers. But these tapered off the more we discovered we had in common – love of music, hiking, swimming, massage, and similar moral make-up. Eventually, I told you I could imagine nothing more enjoyable than caring for you. You liked that as you began seeing that perhaps a big age difference wasn’t the show-stopping disgrace you first thought.
Finally, the session neared its end. We both felt it coming, remember? Fingers intertwined, we spent our last evening together walking around the roads and alleys covering the camp’s six-hundred acres, happy to be with each other, but quite sad that the next day at noon meant saying good-bye for who knew how long. Living three hours apart by car, especially with neither of us able to drive one, our romance might end once the few remaining hours of this vacation ran out.
Wanting to make sure you had no hard feelings toward me keeping my age a secret for those first four days, I asked you if my deception bothered you. You said you weren’t sure but that you did understand now, why some people choose not to discuss their age in casual conversation. “If you had told me right away,” you said, “we probably wouldn’t have gotten together, and the last eleven days for me would have been much less enjoyable. Thank you so much for keeping it quiet.”
Mom used to warn me in the eighties that I told women too much, too soon,, saying that I “wore my heart on my sleeve” too much. Perhaps my tendency to tell too much helped make me so afraid of rejection, as perhaps I knew subconsciously that being too voluntary with information would bring about the rejection. In fact, after our experience, I now know what Mother meant. No need to tell them everything. Just don’t lie about what you do tell them, especially if it will hurt them. But if it’s not a dangerous lie, lying for a little while can be quite effective at combating age discrimination and other unfortunate prejudices.
February 10th, 2011 at 8:45 pm
These days, [Emmy] and I are the best of friends, although we’re not seeing each other exclusively. We hang out several times per year, for weeks at a time sometimes, and though I think she’d agree to a commitment if she thought I really wanted this, she avoids the subject because she senses the doubt about this in me. She does not wish to be hurt again.