JEALOUSY

It is difficult for me to believe anyone would be jealous over me, but it’s true. If I told my daughter she would just laugh. In the first few years after my wife died I felt like I needed a bodyguard to protect me. I was working in a very large church with extremely tiny foyers. It has been an add-on to at least two other construction projects. My primary task as the administrator was to build the fourth add-on, a new 1200 seat auditorium. The space was very much needed.

The church had two morning services with almost no space to mingle between services. There were four ways out of the auditorium and all were very tiny. As one came out the best bet was to move on outside. However, it appeared that I was being stalked. No matter which way I left the area, the same woman was at that door to say hi and engage me in conversation. I was very much aware of the stat that most men remarried within a year after the loss of their wife. I had already met eleven of them who all through it was wonderful. They all married widows who had been alone on the average of seven years. The grieving period had been quite different. So was the adjustment. Many of the women had been grief counselors out of necessity and most resented being called by the deceased’s name.

When I told my then twenty-one year old daughter that I was being chased, she just laughed. Who would want her dad? Inconceivable! Admittedly is did sound funny, but did didn’t take long to realize that walking and breathing is a very important piece of the “becoming a hunk” puzzle. I was doing both.

It has not changed, but I handle it much differently. My upstairs neighbor took me to dinner on Saturday night for my birthday. She may have had ulterior motives, but I don’t think so or I’m more naïve than I thought. My lesbian friend argued with my neighbor that I could not go because I had to attend my grand daughters birthday party. The fact that I had accepted the engagement didn’t seem to matter. This friend is really not interested in me other than to be included in any activity that takes me off the grounds. Tow days later she questioned my choice off the menu. I ordered chicken cordon blue. I was told emphatically that it was a fish place and I should not have ordered what I did. I didn’t tell anyone what I ate. Besides it was at a small airport dinner where I assume the main this on the menu is small airplanes. It’s nowhere near the water. I wasn’t interested even in a vintage sandwich.

Another resident questioned me about the event pumping me for knowledge about who all was going to ensure she was not being left out. If so-and-so was going she wanted to go. Yes, people are anxious to get out of here at times, but it was more. A small group of women (officially called harems) attach themselves to men who still have vehicles and walk and breathe. These men are used for transportation possession rights. All deny there is any romantic interest, but the love to be close and even hug you if they think they can get away with it.

I am proud to say that I have the largest harem. I am a hunk (I think that’s the appropriate word). When the occasional meal is served, a place is always saved for me. When I am in a commons area two to four seem to magically appear. Since I go to get bread on Wednesdays, there has been a tradition of giving money to the driver to help pay for gas. Money is rarely handed directly to me. I am approached from the side or rear and money is put in my sweatshirt pocket. They want to touch me. I am hot stuff. I can’t believe how wonderful, sexy, handsome and attractive I am. My daughter would still laugh. But us sexiest men of “The Home” have our image to keep up, you know. Now don’t deflate me!