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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Love stories / Romance
- Subject: Love / Romance / Dating
- Published: 01/15/2021
Whimsy.
Definition: Playfully quaint or fanciful behavior or humor.
*****
My name is Whimsy. I know. It kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it? It does me. In the real meaning of the word: Wonder. Look it up.
It wasn’t alway Whimsy. It used to be a plain ordinary run of the mill name, one certified to be allowed to be preceded by cliches like I just used. My name was:
Carol Ann Hathaway. Nothing remarkable about it at all. If Life itself was a cliche, it would describe mine. Until I met…Him.
*****
Picture a fifty two year old, never married, just starting hit the “hot flashes” part of menopause. Still young looking, only a few pounds overweight, with none of the pear shaped features common to a woman my age. I was never pretty, the closest I ever got to that was “solid looking”…and once, I overheard: “If it wasn’t for her nose, she is kinda cute.” I was six when I heard that…and never forgot it. I like my nose. I never figured out what they meant by that comment. But it was the year I started wearing glasses.
Yeah, I know. Contacts. I don’t wear them. I never have. I never will. I like my glasses. I look like a Librarian, which is perfect, since, well, I am one. If you paint a picture of a Librarian in your mind, I will pop up. Hair the color that got labeled “dirty blonde”, a figure that is feminine enough, but leans heavily towards Matronly. A nose that forms a perfect perch for my overlarge glasses, with eyebrows and eyelashes that would be the envy of any cave dwelling species.
I have a quick shy smile. It makes an appearance and leaves as soon as it can. I have my books. I have my cat. I own my home thanks to frugality, and a Step Father who should have been my Dad. He was the last male I ever really loved. And he liked my nose too.
Now, picture that woman I just described. Put her on a park bench drinking the wrong cup of coffee from Starbucks. Picture a whole day as mislabeled as that coffee was. Just like the coffee, the day wasn’t the one I ordered, it was just shoved at me to deal with in my own way. I was feeling sad, lonely, and more than a tad melancholy. I wasn’t bathed in self pity, I am to strong to sink to that level. I was bathed in a circle of thoughts that couldn’t find a bright spot in a desert.
That’s probably why I didn’t see Him. At first. And…later…at last.
*****
“Hello there! Why the whimsical look on your face?”
I looked up. The man who had addressed me was just an inch shorter than my five foot eight. Like me, he was somewhere near his High School weight, with just a hint of chub if he wasn’t careful. What hair he had, seemed to have retreated from the top of his head to an almost perfect line around his head just above his ears; like those old tonsured monks you see in manuscripts…except an inch or two lower.
His voice was dripping concern and masculinity. It was surprisingly deep considering the light muscular frame he carried it around in. Not a bass voice, said my old ten years of Piano and Voice training, but right on the edge of baritone. A nice voice for listening too, or for telling a story. I liked him immediately. The only visible threat he posed was that he simply didn’t understand color coordination at all. His clothes did not clash with each other, they crashed into each other like melted crayons left on the dashboard of a car in summer.
Yet, they didn’t make him look clownish, or silly…just…well…whimsical.
So I answered him honestly:
“Not whimsical at all. Just wallowing in the ordinariness of my life.”
His next words stopped me in my tracks. Something I always thought was a cliche…until you experience it. It is not a cliche. It is accurate.
“So when is the last time you rolled down a hill?”
“What?”
He gestured at the gentle down hill slope directly across from my bench. I had seen kids roll down it in Summer, slide down it in Winter, and run down it in the Fall. But those were kids. I am an adult.
“I don’t know…when I was five or six. I guess.”
“Why did you stop?”
“What?”
“Here, give me your hand.”
I gave it.
He pulled me to my feet, dragged me over to the hill, and said: “I’ll go first so you can remember how. Then we will go together!”
And he did just that. Plopped down onto the ground, flipped himself sideways and prone, and rolled with glee down the hill. He got up and brushed the grass and twigs from his pants and sweater, and even a stray piece that stuck to his bald palate. When he pulled it off, he laughed. Waving it at me and said:
“Can you believe this little guy stuck to my head? He must be good luck!”
With that he stuck the twig in his pocket and marched back up to me.
“But I am wearing a skirt!”
“So what, you have knickers on don’t you?”
I don’t know why “knickers” made me giggle. It did.
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay, then, we can roll.”
With that, he pulled me to the ground, flattened me out, and gave a gentle shove. Down I went, rolling, giggling, rolling and giggling.
A soft bump, a stronger thump, and he bounced off of me. He had rolled right behind me all the way down. We both sat up laughing. I said:
“That was fun!”
He did too, at the exact same time I did.
Which caused him to say: “Owe me a coke!”
And I said that too…at the exact same time as he did.
We ran up the hill, rolled down again. Then we raced up the hill. A few moments later, we raced rolling down the hill. I won.
After a few minutes, we had watchers. Some were smiling, some frowning, a few were gab-smocked, others were pointing and saying something. A few minutes after that, and a teenage couple joined us on our downhill tumbles. Then a young married couple and their five year old. An older couple, both with walking canes, eased themselves down to the bottom of the hill to become Unofficial Referees for who rolled longest, farthest and best.
We finally got tired and went back to my bench. I took a sip of my now cold coffee…it spilled onto my blouse, which had so many grass stains, it was one roll away from being spring colored. He wiped my lips with the corner of his shirt. Then he uttered words that melted my heart:
“We should go get ice cream. If anything is going to dribble down onto your blouse, it should be chocolate ice cream.”
On a whim, I went with Him.
We got the Chocolate Ice cream, and I didn’t dribble any until our first kiss.
It was a whimsical day…and later…on a whim, I invited him over to my place. He never left.
He named me that night when I told him that today was the most wonderful whimsical day ever, full of whimsy.
“Ahh…whimsy. I like that. Your name is now Whimsy.”
In what was much more solid than a whim, I went down the very next day to the Clerk’s Office and changed my name to: Whimsy Hathaway.
A month later I changed it again.
“Whimsy McCregor.”
Learn to pronounce
Whimsy.(Kevin Hughes)
Whimsy.
Definition: Playfully quaint or fanciful behavior or humor.
*****
My name is Whimsy. I know. It kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it? It does me. In the real meaning of the word: Wonder. Look it up.
It wasn’t alway Whimsy. It used to be a plain ordinary run of the mill name, one certified to be allowed to be preceded by cliches like I just used. My name was:
Carol Ann Hathaway. Nothing remarkable about it at all. If Life itself was a cliche, it would describe mine. Until I met…Him.
*****
Picture a fifty two year old, never married, just starting hit the “hot flashes” part of menopause. Still young looking, only a few pounds overweight, with none of the pear shaped features common to a woman my age. I was never pretty, the closest I ever got to that was “solid looking”…and once, I overheard: “If it wasn’t for her nose, she is kinda cute.” I was six when I heard that…and never forgot it. I like my nose. I never figured out what they meant by that comment. But it was the year I started wearing glasses.
Yeah, I know. Contacts. I don’t wear them. I never have. I never will. I like my glasses. I look like a Librarian, which is perfect, since, well, I am one. If you paint a picture of a Librarian in your mind, I will pop up. Hair the color that got labeled “dirty blonde”, a figure that is feminine enough, but leans heavily towards Matronly. A nose that forms a perfect perch for my overlarge glasses, with eyebrows and eyelashes that would be the envy of any cave dwelling species.
I have a quick shy smile. It makes an appearance and leaves as soon as it can. I have my books. I have my cat. I own my home thanks to frugality, and a Step Father who should have been my Dad. He was the last male I ever really loved. And he liked my nose too.
Now, picture that woman I just described. Put her on a park bench drinking the wrong cup of coffee from Starbucks. Picture a whole day as mislabeled as that coffee was. Just like the coffee, the day wasn’t the one I ordered, it was just shoved at me to deal with in my own way. I was feeling sad, lonely, and more than a tad melancholy. I wasn’t bathed in self pity, I am to strong to sink to that level. I was bathed in a circle of thoughts that couldn’t find a bright spot in a desert.
That’s probably why I didn’t see Him. At first. And…later…at last.
*****
“Hello there! Why the whimsical look on your face?”
I looked up. The man who had addressed me was just an inch shorter than my five foot eight. Like me, he was somewhere near his High School weight, with just a hint of chub if he wasn’t careful. What hair he had, seemed to have retreated from the top of his head to an almost perfect line around his head just above his ears; like those old tonsured monks you see in manuscripts…except an inch or two lower.
His voice was dripping concern and masculinity. It was surprisingly deep considering the light muscular frame he carried it around in. Not a bass voice, said my old ten years of Piano and Voice training, but right on the edge of baritone. A nice voice for listening too, or for telling a story. I liked him immediately. The only visible threat he posed was that he simply didn’t understand color coordination at all. His clothes did not clash with each other, they crashed into each other like melted crayons left on the dashboard of a car in summer.
Yet, they didn’t make him look clownish, or silly…just…well…whimsical.
So I answered him honestly:
“Not whimsical at all. Just wallowing in the ordinariness of my life.”
His next words stopped me in my tracks. Something I always thought was a cliche…until you experience it. It is not a cliche. It is accurate.
“So when is the last time you rolled down a hill?”
“What?”
He gestured at the gentle down hill slope directly across from my bench. I had seen kids roll down it in Summer, slide down it in Winter, and run down it in the Fall. But those were kids. I am an adult.
“I don’t know…when I was five or six. I guess.”
“Why did you stop?”
“What?”
“Here, give me your hand.”
I gave it.
He pulled me to my feet, dragged me over to the hill, and said: “I’ll go first so you can remember how. Then we will go together!”
And he did just that. Plopped down onto the ground, flipped himself sideways and prone, and rolled with glee down the hill. He got up and brushed the grass and twigs from his pants and sweater, and even a stray piece that stuck to his bald palate. When he pulled it off, he laughed. Waving it at me and said:
“Can you believe this little guy stuck to my head? He must be good luck!”
With that he stuck the twig in his pocket and marched back up to me.
“But I am wearing a skirt!”
“So what, you have knickers on don’t you?”
I don’t know why “knickers” made me giggle. It did.
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay, then, we can roll.”
With that, he pulled me to the ground, flattened me out, and gave a gentle shove. Down I went, rolling, giggling, rolling and giggling.
A soft bump, a stronger thump, and he bounced off of me. He had rolled right behind me all the way down. We both sat up laughing. I said:
“That was fun!”
He did too, at the exact same time I did.
Which caused him to say: “Owe me a coke!”
And I said that too…at the exact same time as he did.
We ran up the hill, rolled down again. Then we raced up the hill. A few moments later, we raced rolling down the hill. I won.
After a few minutes, we had watchers. Some were smiling, some frowning, a few were gab-smocked, others were pointing and saying something. A few minutes after that, and a teenage couple joined us on our downhill tumbles. Then a young married couple and their five year old. An older couple, both with walking canes, eased themselves down to the bottom of the hill to become Unofficial Referees for who rolled longest, farthest and best.
We finally got tired and went back to my bench. I took a sip of my now cold coffee…it spilled onto my blouse, which had so many grass stains, it was one roll away from being spring colored. He wiped my lips with the corner of his shirt. Then he uttered words that melted my heart:
“We should go get ice cream. If anything is going to dribble down onto your blouse, it should be chocolate ice cream.”
On a whim, I went with Him.
We got the Chocolate Ice cream, and I didn’t dribble any until our first kiss.
It was a whimsical day…and later…on a whim, I invited him over to my place. He never left.
He named me that night when I told him that today was the most wonderful whimsical day ever, full of whimsy.
“Ahh…whimsy. I like that. Your name is now Whimsy.”
In what was much more solid than a whim, I went down the very next day to the Clerk’s Office and changed my name to: Whimsy Hathaway.
A month later I changed it again.
“Whimsy McCregor.”
Learn to pronounce
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