I met my sweet guy on a blind date that lasted hours, and then there was the second date, infamous as it is, with the passing out, and the food I couldn’t eat.
The third date, he showed up in chaps, cowboy boots, a Sheriff’s star strung on a lariat around his neck, a massive horse belt buckle at his waist, an embroidered Western shirt buttoned all the way up, a cowboy hat on his head.
It was summer and there was a huge rodeo going on. It felt like every person in the city had turned themselves into a pseudo-cowboy or cowgirl, except for me. I wore high-waisted, black linen shorts, a black V-neck tank top, a long, pink-floral wrap. We were meeting for dinner and his spurs clanked when he sat down at the table, which was outside, on a patio.
“You like costumes, huh?” I said.
“It’s Stampede!” he exclaimed. “You have to dress up.”
“You really don’t,” I said.
He adjusted his hat and called me “ma’am.” The hat was all leather and shaped more like the cowboy hats of Australia.