I had dated boys many times before, in America.
I am embarrassed at some of the compromises I made in order to get attention. But there were also quite a few good guys I had known, even guys that would have made good Catholic husbands. But none of them had been right, or good enough in my opinion, or attractive enough, and so I had been happy to leave America and see what types of desirable men lived in England.
I was unpleasantly surprised. Everywhere I looked, no one seemed attractive to me. Or moral. And so I had resolved myself to a life of ‘nunhood’ in my first months in England, even though I was naturally boy crazy at that time and wanted to be married.
And even if I had lowered my standards, I worked in a nursing home with about 40 other women. Some were older, some younger, some married, some lovely and single. But all of them women… You just didn’t find men working as nurse assistants. Well, there was the one male nurse. But he was… quite feminine. With a thick Scottish accent. But I digress.
And so, on one cloudy English afternoon as I was preparing a huge pot of tea in the cafeteria, “He” walked in.
I mean HE.
I was so shocked at the prospect of not only a male, but a good-looking one, walking into this nursing home, that I dropped the tea pot’s huge lid onto the cement floor, making an absolutely terrifying clanging and spinning sound which echoed throughout the whole kitchen, and probably throughout the whole countryside.
Thankfully, he was focused on whatever the person training him was saying, that he didn’t notice. But I was so mad at myself for being such a dork, that I put him out of my mind.
Until, a few days later, he worked during one of my shifts, on my floor, on my team…
…to be continued…