The gorgeous young creature who seated us salivated all over him. “That’s not cowboy,” she corrected us. “That’s Indiana Jones! I love Indiana Jones!” As she gushed on I was remembering an Easter brunch with the extended family when a middle-aged woman at the next table, inebriated just enough to give her chutzpah, came over to inform Jerry he was the handsomest man in the room.
I could have told her that; he always is. But she picked the time when I had gone back to the buffet table for seconds. I only got in on the last ten minutes of her enthusiasm.
This time, when the hostess had torn herself away and gone back to her duties, I told the couple we were with, “I’m sorry, Dave, but Jerry’s the handsomest man in any room.” To which his indignant wife said, “I beg to differ!” But they both concurred with the smitten woman. “Jerry, you look like the sheriff in a Western. Or the doctor.”
With new eyes I looked at Jerry’s brown suede coat and realized the hostess was right. It isn’t really cowboy, not out-on-the-range cowboy. It’s a step above. It’s Indiana Jones.
MY Indiana Jones.
Operative word, MY.
That’ll l’arn me to tell the Lord if He wanted me married again He’d have to find me a handsome widower who likes to cook.