MARY ANN FITZMORRIS

Cupit: The next generation

My daughter asked me to mail something for her today. It was not a response to a “free” offer to join some kids club, or an order for some “free” toy, as it usually is. Today, it was a special handmade valentine for a boy she is currently smitten by. This bold move is beyond her control. She comes from a long line of hussies. It’s in the blood as far back as I can lazily trace. Her maternal grandmother, for example, left a string of broken hearts by the time she married at the then-shocking age of 28. And this woman spawned my mother, a female who could surely teach the legendary Sadie Hawkins a thing or two. My parents lived in the same neighborhood, and my mother spotted my father in a play. She locked her target on my dad and began to call him on the telephone, anonymously, each night. (This was before stalking became the popular sport it is now.) He had several brothers, who were enviously thrilled by this mysterious caller each night. They named her Myrna Loy, after the sultry screen star. Because my mother was basically shy, these calls went on for many months without her divulging her identity. Finally, though, my father scared her with the announcement that he was moving the following day and she would be unable to reach him. (Maybe that was before directory assistance, too.) Whatever, his ploy worked, and they continued their conversations for three years before marrying. It’s still working after 56 years and seven children. This was always a favorite story of mine. When I came of age to start dating, the standard, acceptable way of waiting by the phone for a guy to call was never the only option. After all, there was convincing family precedent! But I decided early on to do it the regular way, to wait for the object of my affection to make the first move. And I did. I waited, and waited, and waited. A stellar high school dating career ended with my brother’s best friend as my escort to the senior prom. It was perfectly punctuated by my little brother, who exclaimed as I came out, “All right, Mary Ann, you finally got a date!” College was much better. By that time I was genuinely shocked to get any calls. There were plenty enough, though, to keep me from having to resort to studying. But college did not yield the Mrs. degree that women of my generation sought, and I was now out in the real world. My mother’s radical ideas began to be more appealing. I did not bother with the telephone, and I did not bother with anonymity. I left notes to men I found attractive, suggesting we meet for lunch. But by this time, stalking was getting noticed on the fringes. The objects of my desire regarded me with wild-eyed fear, and we never did meet for lunch. Fortunately, I went into broadcasting, where innovation is the norm, and such moves would not have raised eyebrows. But I so enjoyed the work I completely forgot about men. Getting married would not be in my script, I concluded. The day after I hired my husband, he called to thank me, mentioning that he had two tickets for a wine tasting. Would I be interested in going? When he told me it was at 7 that evening, I said, “Seven? Gee, I don’t think I’ll be able to find anyone to go on such short notice!” “Well, I was sort of thinking of using the other one myself,” was his hushed reply. He was used to answers like that, but that’s another pathetic column. My talk show followed his in the lineup, and one day I discovered a single, very expensive chocolate on the console. I ran after him. “You forgot this!” He smiled. “It’s for you.” It was only after I got a single superb chocolate on that console every day for awhile that it hit me. Six months later we were married. And I didn’t even have to call him once! He did it all by himself! The regular way! Goofy romance is my daughter’s birthright. Her anonymous valentine would make her grandmother proud, so I’m going to send it. Maybe it will get lost in the mail.