Perfect People, Nah! Perfect Moments, Yeah!
By Aimee Cirucci

I never expected to meet an eligible man who worked in trucking. Sure, I worked in trucking and I was a bachelorette always on the search to ditch my single girl status but I still didn't expect it. This is exactly what grandma means when she says, "When you least expect it." Of course that phrase is typically used in reference to finding "the one" and he was surely not the one, despite what I thought in the beginning, which is where we should really begin.

I arrived in Athens, Georgia in May of 2000 for a three-day professional conference. At the time I was the communications manager for a trucking organization. It is an odd industry for a 25-year-old single white female but I had come to love the grit, the truly gentle gentlemen that drive our roads, and the humble charm of small and family owned businesses. What I did not love however was the lack of available men, available meaning anywhere even close to my age and single. There were many men, I assure you, but they were older married men and they were wonderful for me and even better for my self-esteem but they were in no way available. And while we're on self-esteem, I strongly believe every female should attend a trucking event for self-esteem alone; it would make even Whoopi Goldberg feel like Tyra Banks. But, the fact remained, as I exited the plane into the Atlanta Airport I did not expect to meet a prospective suitor.

As any good Southerners would, the trucking associates I was visiting picked me up at the airport. I climbed into a man-van where they had already cracked open a cooler and were passing around beer. My 25 years brought the median age down by oh… well, 25 years perhaps. Athens was beautiful and leafy and quaint in late spring. After a quick change into a sundress I was in the van again and off to the evening event. I drank and danced and talked with old friends and new. Before I knew it I was whizzing through the warm Georgia night with my colleague Jake heading to the best college bar in town.

We ended up at a small, wood paneled dive, sticky with beer slush, cigarette butts, and red streamers and saddled up to the bar for a round of Rumplemintz shots, a tradition between us. As we knocked them back and the mint cleared our sinuses and burned our throats Jake's assistant J.T. joined us. J.T. was the only person at the entire conference even remotely near my age. He was also seemingly the only other single person. Despite the fire in my nostrils I immediately smelled a fix up. J.T. was not my type. He was ten years older, a confirmed bachelor, with wavy dark brown hair, thick eyebrows and a syrupy southern twang. I rolled my eyes at Jake. He smiled bright and hopefully.

When a colleague from the conference, a man who specialized in buffet strategies for truckstops, approached and kissed my hand for a little too long Jake gently intervened. A band arrived and started playing Waylon and Willie and Garth. We drank cheap, cold, beer from the bottle. J.T. was quiet but always looked me in the eye a piercing way that made me pause. Inside I was conflicted, he didn't seem my type and I knew it wouldn't be smart for anything to happen between us. Bets, beers, BS-ing were all things I did with colleagues, bumping and grinding was not.

Everyone knew everyone and even as an outsider I felt a sense of inclusion. I focused on meeting new people and avoiding J.T. and his stares until a band member called out for him and before I knew it he was up on stage belting out "I Walk The Line" in a gravely, confident voice that seemed to be channeling Johnny Cash himself. Even sitting on a bar stool my knees trembled. He ended to applause, backslaps and a round of Rumplemintz. After the shot we locked eyes for so long that it hurt. I got up and went to the bathroom to end the agony and regroup.

By the time I returned Jake was gone and it seemed J.T. had summoned the bar's most intimate light though in truth it was mostly cigarette embers and cockeyed Christmas strands. Before I said a word he told me he would drive me back to my hotel. His Johnny Cash confidence had clearly outlived the song. He pulled my stool close to his and put his hand on my knee. There was an optical intimacy between us, a product of all the listless staring. He told me about his only serious relationship, about the woman he loved and the marriage they didn't have. I told him about my inexperience, my fear of not finding love, my faith. He said that he knew I would wake up in the morning only to question what had happened between us, to decide he was too old, to blame it on mint flavored liquor. I promised I would not.

We left the bar and went to the University of Georgia. J.T. guided us through the dark and quiet campus. We talked about his life as a student, the importance of friends who knew you when, and the song "Glory Days" I squinted at the shadowy magnolia trees all around us. At one point he carried me. For a while too I walked barefoot. Back in his car we headed to the stadium and parked in front of the concrete castle that filled with fans each Fall. I looked up at it. He looked at me. We talked and held hands and talked some more.

I awoke the next morning and did not regret him or us or consider for one moment his age. Our infatu-ationship ended despite stares, and songs and secrets shared though we saw each other again and I retuned to Georgia that summer. And sometimes that is exactly how it happens even to great people with great intentions. As Woody Allen says of relationships in Annie Hall, "they're totally irrational, and crazy, and absurd." And he's right. There are no perfect people, no perfect relationships, but there are perfect evenings and they make it all worthwhile.

Aimee Cirucci is Philadelphia-area writer who is drawn to issues important to women including family, work, and relationships. She has been published online and in print and moonlights as a college instructor and freelance PR practitioner. More information on Aimee and her writing can be found at www.cirucci.com.