Francesca

THE YEAR OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

FRANCESCA

Written by Rick Archer

Rick Archer's Note:

I cried long and hard for Karen. Saying goodbye really hurt. The weird part was the similarity of Karen and Kirk's relationship to Jenny and Randy. I guess my purpose in life was inducing monogamous relationships with each new woman I met.

As for Marilyn, they say God works in mysterious ways. You won't get any argument from me. I suspect the reason Marilyn came to the Jet Set that night was to invite me to drive her home when I finished. If Marilyn had not lost her temper and turned into the Scream Queen, I imagine I would have granted her wish.

Perhaps the Reader is curious why I go into such detail with my complicated love life. As we shall see, each woman in her own way is preparing me for Patricia, a key player in the Year of Living Dangerously. And why is this upcoming year important? Because my problems with women will lead to the formation of the dance studio that became my mission in life.

As I have said, the devastating attack of acne at age 14 led to a serious case of arrested development around women. Feeling like the ugliest boy in school, I developed a serious case of inferiority. Well aware that my female classmates were ignoring me, I realized the stigma I carried - poor boy, ugly boy, awkward boy - was too great to overcome. However, I made a solemn vow that someday I would date a woman who was the equivalent of the girls who turned their backs on me in high school. That became the motivating goal of my life.

I never expected things would get worse after high school, but they did. Every year for ten straight years I fell further behind my peer group in my dealings with attractive women. The lowest point of all came with Vanessa at the 10-year mark. That was Rock Bottom.

Returning to Houston, I had two choices. Should I resume my education? Or should I dedicate my full attention to solving my inadequacy around women? Given how much pain I was in, I decided to tackle the Epic Losing Streak. Thanks to the weird Mistress Book, I stumbled upon dance lessons as my answer. Unfortunately my problems with women were too profound to be solved overnight. And the dance lessons were not helping at all. As a result, I made little improvement with women for four more years.

And that brings us to the Summer of 1978. Looking back through the gift of Hindsight, I now see this parade of beautiful women served a purpose. Each woman in her own way helped prepare me for Patricia. Princess Patricia was important for two reasons.

First and foremost, Patricia was symbolic of the St. John's girls I had admired so much. If I could gain her interest, it would go a long way to removing my feelings of inferiority.

Second, Patricia was so similar to Vanessa, I viewed her as a Cosmic Test. I had failed miserably with Vanessa, but now I had a chance to see how much progress I had made during the past four years.

When it came to high-dominance women, I had a history of caving in. Take Vanessa for example. Vanessa told a lie practically any time her lips were moving. And why did she lie? She needed an excuse to go see Kenny. I did not know the extent to which Kenny was in the picture, but my gut told me something was wrong. If I had the courage to question Vanessa about her fibs, I think I would have gotten the truth out of her. That would have helped me avoid a world of hurt. So why didn't I confront her? Because I was scared Vanessa would leave me if I stuck up for myself. Instead I backed down and said nothing. And what was the result? Vanessa lost respect for me. Watching me grovel for her attention, a contempt formed that doomed our relationship.

As we shall see, Patricia was a formidable woman. It took everything I had to stand up to her. Would I have been able to stand up to her in July? No. Would I have been able to stand up to her in August? No. Would I have been able to stand up to her in September? No. Fortunately, throughout the summer a remarkable series of women came along to prepare me for Patricia. In baseball, there are minor leagues and major leagues. The women I met during the Summer of 78 were top of the line. Considering I was still two years behind in social development, the challenges these elite women presented forced me to continue to grow and toughen up. Did I manage to keep any of them around? No. But I came oh so tantalizingly close each time. By the time Patricia entered my life, thanks to these women, my confidence and experience had improved just barely enough to help me match wits with a woman just as dangerous as Vanessa.

THE GENETIC CURSE

A certain amount of background is necessary before we meet our next beautiful woman.

As stated earlier, I developed a feeling of inferiority during my nine years at St. John's. In the long run it was my lack of social polish that doomed me with my sophisticated classmates. As I grew older I realized I was being invited to fewer social events such as swimming parties, birthday parties, sleepovers, backyard basketball games and so on. Over time my increasing isolation got to me and I turned into a socially awkward loner. I sensed my exclusion had been triggered by the unspoken caste system that existed at SJS. However, since the administration used mandatory matching uniforms to disguise middle class kids from upper class kids, I wondered how my fellow students could have figured out that I was the poor kid.

How did everyone know that I was poor? Did I wear a sign on my back? Well, actually, yes I did. I did not realize it at the time, but rich people can take one look at a person's clothing and effortlessly size up their socioeconomic status. Theoretically the purpose of the uniform was to reduce snobbery and status competition. By and large, I suppose it worked. To the naked eye, we all looked the same regardless of our parents' income. However, the rich develop a discerning eye for logos, labels and the quality of each clothing item. Logos are status symbols. They are emblems that represent who we are, what we can afford and what we can't. Expensive clothing tells the world how much money we want people to think we have. My mother had so many problems of her own, she was unable to teach me even the most basic fundamentals of social grace. Meanwhile the sons and daughters of wealthy scions received excellent training in etiquette, decorum and proper clothing.

I did not catch a lot of breaks as a kid. In addition to my father's abandonment and my mother's inability to keep a job, I had this acne problem to deal with. My misfortune did not stop there. Have I mentioned I was blind in my left eye? At age 5 I cut my left eye with a knife (it was my own fault). Due to my blind eye, the coaches refused to let me take a chance of getting hurt playing football or basketball. It was a shame I was not allowed to play. Since I was an excellent athlete, I very easily could have made friends through sports.

My blind eye led to a truly embarrassing moment in my freshman year. Unable to participate on the field, I offered to keep yardage statistics for the varsity football team. One day I boarded the bus along with the football team on the day we began a 400 mile bus trip to Oklahoma City. We were scheduled to play one of our biggest rivals. I was 14 and had just started the 9th Grade. Due to my status as a non-athlete, I was the last person to get on the bus for the long trip.

Everyone else was already seated. They were pumped up and raring to go. As I began my solitary stroll down the aisle, I was wearing black pants, black shoes, and white socks. In my defense, no one had ever bothered to explain the basic facts of color coordination. There was this one kid named Larry who had the biggest mouth in school. When he spotted me walk down the aisle in search of an empty seat, he went nuts over my inappropriate white socks.   Roaring with derisive laughter, he pointed out my fashion mistake to every boy on the bus. On the spot, Larry made up a rhyme... "White Socks, Dumb as an Ox!"

Since the other boys were already jacked up with enthusiasm, this struck them as funny. On cue 40 boys chanted and jeered as one. Their rhythmic chanting sent daggers to the depth of my soul. Fortunately the coach them to knock it off, so they did. Fuming all the way to Oklahoma, the damage was done. I didn't have much self-esteem to begin with and this event left me bitter. Dealing with a major chip on my shoulder, I referred to my lack of fashion sense as my "Genetic Curse".

TUESDAY, august 15, 1978
BEAUTIFUL WOMAN #5 OF TEN
FRANCESCA

Our story begins innocently enough. On Monday, August 14, I broke up with Karen over the phone. Now it was Tuesday, August 15. I came early to do some cleaning before class. Periodically the floors needed sweeping and trash receptacles needed emptying. Trying to stay on the good side of Lance Stevens during the Cold War, I took on this activity voluntarily. As I swept the main floor, I noticed one of my dance students walk in the room. Since Francesca was dressed in professional clothes, I assumed she came from work. Francesca apologized for arriving an hour early.

"I hope you don't mind. I finished an appointment not far from here and preferred not to drive home and come back again. Do you mind if I just sit and relax? I promise I won't bother you."

Feeling down after breaking up with Karen, I was happy to have some company. "No, of course not," I replied. "Make yourself comfortable."

Francesca was a tall, slender woman of Latin heritage. She was 7 years older, but that did not bother me. My beloved Jenny had been 10 years older and I never gave our age gap a second thought. Age is a state of mind. One look at Francesca was all I needed to strongly consider moving to that state.   Francesca was very attractive and possessed a special dignity. She was a classy, stylish woman.

I was still nursing a broken heart from Marilyn and Karen. However, I was not crushed. The best way to describe my mood was disappointed, but hopeful. Thanks to three near-misses in a row with some truly beautiful women, my confidence had grown considerably. In fact, I had a certain optimism about me. Receiving smiles from pretty women right and left, no doubt my next love interest was just around the corner. And so I had already resumed my neverending search for the love of my life. Would Francesca be the one? I had a serious crush on Francesca and who could blame me? I assumed this lovely woman was probably out of my league, but that didn't stop me from daydreaming a little. After all these near-misses, sooner or later it was my turn to hit a home run.

A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE IS A DANGEROUS THING

I continued to do my chores while Francesca occupied the nearby couch. I was pleased to have this elegant woman for company. We chatted off and on as I worked. When I finished, I decided to visit her on the couch. To my surprise, I discovered Francesca was a psychiatrist. At the mention of her profession, I was immediately taken aback. Darn it. Now I was even more certain that I was no match for her. Nevertheless, it would be nice to make a friend. I had learned the easiest way to strike up a conversation is to discuss subjects held in common, so I decided to discuss her profession.

During college I majored in Psychology hoping to become a therapist. Upon graduation in 1973 I did a year of graduate work in Clinical Psychology. My problems with Fujimoto had nothing to do with my grades. Academically I did very well. Not to brag, but I knew a lot more about Psychology than the average person.

Unfortunately, my background in Psychology backfired on me in a truly cruel way. Why do people say "a little knowledge is a dangerous thing"? In my case, I am afraid I gave Francesca the wrong impression. Hoping to gain favor with Francesca, I shared some of my favorite insights drawn from year spent at Colorado State. In the process of demonstrating my knowledge about her profession, I stooped low enough to name-drop Sigmund Freud and Dr. Ruth in a bold attempt to show off.

Have you heard of Dr. Ruth? "When it comes to sex, the most important six inches are the ones between the ears."

No doubt Francesca was impressed. In Hindsight I can see the error of my ways. However at the time I was delighted because Francesca seemed receptive. She complimented me and said I knew a lot more about Psychology than most. Which was true, of course, but as noted philosopher Clint Eastwood once pointed out, "A man's gotta know his limitations." I had unwittingly exceeded mine.

What would lead me to make such a mistake? Beauty! A blessing of which Francesca possessed in abundance. It is said that Flattery from a pretty girl has been the road to ruin for many a poor boy. I can attest to that. What happened next was a wild hope that Francesca was encouraging me for a reason. Riding my recent hot streak, I decided to make a play for this special woman. Like a moron, I quickly blurted out I had once been a Psychology graduate student. Huge mistake.

"Oh, really?" Francesca replied.

Mind you, I neglected to add that Dr. Fujimoto had thrown me out of his program. Why bother this lovely woman with a small detail?

Yes, it is true, the great failure of my life was getting tossed from grad school. As I said, my academics were okay, but Dr. Fujimoto, Chairman of the Department, thought my outspoken personality was too aggressive for a healing profession that required sensitivity. He gave me a failing grade that was insurmountable. I suppose he was right, but it really stung at the time.   My hurt feelings about the expulsion had something to do with the insecurity that drove me to impress Francesca.

The problem is that I possess an enhanced gift of gab. Sometimes referred to as "bullshit" or "blarney", I suppose my so-called gift explains how I fooled Francesca into thinking I knew more about Psychology than I really did. She had no way of knowing I had come within an inch of exhausting my entire library of knowledge. Which leads us to another adage.

"Be Careful what you ask for."

Entertained by my insights into her profession, Francesca became curious to learn more about me.  She encouraged me to talk about which areas interested me the most. Eager to continue down this dangerous path, I mentioned Freud, Maslow, Jung, and a curious form of psychotherapy known as 'Gestalt'. I could not help but notice Francesca beam with delight.

Oh my gosh, I could hardly believe it, but my eloquence seemed to be working. I was very pleased with myself. I had just been ditched by three girlfriends in three weeks, so my battered self-esteem was grooving on Francesca's praise.   Therapists like Francesca are trained listeners. They have the uncanny skill of drawing people out with warmth and a knack for asking innocent questions. The moment Francesca shined her light on me, that actually got my hopes up she might be interested. It is embarrassing to admit I turned into the world's most shameless blabbermouth.

Silly, silly me. I don't know what came over me. Cosmic Blindness? Who knows. The point is that I was out of my mind to talk in such an unguarded manner. Francesca wasn't just a therapist, she was a Psychiatrist. It takes 12 years to become a psychiatrist. That includes four years of college, four years of medical school, and four years of residency. What was I thinking? Francesca had at least seven more years of training plus several years of experience. Me? I was a failed graduate student. Francesca was so far out of my league, I should have known better. However, I had been on a roll lately, so I assumed my good luck streak had come through for me again. Besides, everyone knows Faint heart ne'er won Fair maiden. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Risk it for the Biscuit.

Realistically, Francesca's education and training gave her knowledge Light Years beyond my one lousy year of grad school. I should have kept my mouth shut, but, oh no, stupid me, my male ego just had to engage Francesca on her turf. However, I was not completely oblivious. A sense of fear was beginning to creep in. Call it the Curse of Icarus. Icarus was the poor lad in Greek Mythology who ignored his father's warning and flew too close to the sun. Fearing I was about to crash into the Aegean Sea, I panicked with the likelihood I was say one thing too many and be revealed as a complete fraud. The longer our conversation continued, I began to worry Francesca might ask if I had a master's degree or PhD. Hmm. I wonder why she never asked how graduate school turned out. For whatever reason, Francesca did not ask what should have been an obvious question. Realizing I would rather die than let her know how my big mouth had gotten me dismissed from the program, I switched gears.  Rather than talk about myself, I began to ask questions. This is an old trick I use whenever I need to change the subject.

As Fate would have it, totally by accident I stumbled on Triangles, Francesca's favorite topic. I winced immediately. Here we go again with the irony. As the Reader knows, 'Triangles' had recently become my least favorite subject. Since her practice revolved around Family Therapy, I asked who had influenced her the most on family dynamics.  Francesca replied 'Murray Bowen'.

Murray Bowen? Never heard of the guy. But I listened attentively nonetheless. Francesca explained that Bowen's theory about conflicts arising from family triangles cast significant light on a complicated subject. I did not know it at the time, but Murray Bowen was a professor of psychiatry at Georgetown University. Bowen is considered by many to be the pioneer of family therapy. Beginning in the 1950s Bowen developed a systems theory regarding dysfunctional family interactions. The sensible thing was to admit I had no idea who Murray Bowen was. However I was still trying to disguise the fact that we had reached the outer limits of my knowledge. I nodded and mentioned I heard good things about him. Then I asked Francesca to explain a little bit about Bowen's ideas.

THE TRAP IS SET

Francesca's face lit up brighter than a Christmas tree.  Assuming I was sincerely interested in this topic, she surprised me.

"You know what? I would love to talk to you all day long about Murray. Unfortunately, this is a very complicated subject and class is about to start in 10 minutes. I have an idea. Why don't I let you read his article?"

Without giving it much thought, I naively agreed to do so. After all, it was the polite thing to say. I figured Francesca would forget about the conversation before her next visit to the studio. Besides, even if she was serious, why not? Hey, I know how to read!

I blurted out, "Yes, that sounds great. I would enjoy reading it!"

I sensed major trouble the moment I saw the excitement on Francesca's pretty face. My brain instantly screamed, "Take it back! Take it back!" But it was too late. The jaws of the trap were set. Sickened by a bolt of anxiety, my sixth sense was certain I had made a dreadful mistake. How could I possibly have anticipated the depths of despair that awaited me? As my Readers know, I am very fond of Coincidence. Unfortunately, not all Coincidences are wonderful. In fact, sometimes they can be a major pain in the butt. What happened next defied all laws of probability.

Francesca rose from the couch and said, "Rick, I have a surprise. I have a copy of my favorite Murray Bowen article in my trunk. Let me go get it. I'll be right back."

I had an instant panic attack. She has a copy in her trunk? Me and my big mouth. Want to hear a joke about Famous Last Words?

"What were Tarzan's Famous Last Words? 'Who greased the grapevine!?'" Ha ha ha.

What were Rick's Famous Last Words? "When am I ever going to learn to keep my mouth shut?"

Three minutes later she was back. Francesca triumphantly displayed a mimeographed copy of her favorite Murray Bowen article, then handed it to me with a big smile. I turned ghost white when I saw how thick it was. I stared at the 60 page article like it was Kryptonite. What possible reason could she have to carry this particular article around in her trunk? It was a very unlikely coincidence. So unlikely I was certain Fate had placed it there. But guess what? Francesca was not done yet! She was about to make this problem exponentially WORSE.

"Rick, I am so glad I had this with me! I want you to read it. Not just that, I can't wait to know what you think about it!"

I stared at her in disbelief. Yeah, sure, Francesca, let's meet on the Twelfth of Never and talk it over. Already reeling with worry, now it got even worse. To my dismay, Francesca said, "Hey, I have an idea!"

Oh, great, now what?

Looking me straight in the eye, Francesca invited me to lunch. I remember her exact words... "Let's get together for lunch later in the week and discuss your thoughts on Murray Bowen's treatise!"

My mouth dropped open in astonishment. You want to know what my thoughts are? I think this is a really bad idea!

Francesca paused to fish something out of her pocketbook. It was her business card. "And here's my number. Call me when you are ready!"

Barely able to breathe, first I stared at the card. Then I stared at the article. Then I stared at Francesca in disbelief. Then I stared back at the card. My eyes on the words 'Psychiatric Therapy'.   Does this distinguished, extremely knowledgeable psychiatrist really expect me to say something intelligent about this article?   I felt a bolt anxiety equal to the same panic I felt when Lance Stevens ordered me to perform at the Ritz. There was no way I could pull this off! How was it possible for my simple, well-meaning, totally innocent little mistake to magically snowball into total catastrophe?

I cannot begin to explain just how utterly intimidated I was. I operated on the premise that the key to meeting talented women is to let them see me in a place where I looked my best such as the studio or the dance floor. Over the past month, this technique had worked with Jenny, Marilyn and Karen, three of the loveliest women I would ever date. Hoping to continue my good luck streak, believe it or not, my bravado had worked a similar magic with Francesca. Only one problem. Somehow Francesca had turned the tables on me. Now I was facing a supreme challenge on her turf instead of mine. A brief glance at that article had me convinced I was going to be embarrassed.

What the hell was wrong with me? Why didn't I just invite the lady to go dancing with me once we had our initial rapport? If I had smooth-talked Francesca into a night of dancing like I should have, I would have been in a much stronger position. Indeed, when we danced together in class the previous week, this gentle, graceful lady was not at all threatening. I could still remember her words. "I love dancing with you because you are taller than me and you lead so well! You make dancing so easy."

That was then, this is now. This time we were playing in her ballpark. Last week this soft-spoken, beautiful woman had purred in my arms. Tonight she had transformed into an imposing, brilliant psychiatrist. She was no longer 'Francesca', she was a trained doctor who had the skill to see right through me. I had used my Dance Skills to get to First Base, but it was a serious mistake to use my aborted year of graduate work to get to Second Base. Now that Francesca had invited me to shoot for Third Base, I was certain to be tagged out.

That said, I did not blame her. Francesca was not trying to trap me or be clever. Not at all. Francesca was completely sincere in her offer. This dilemma was entirely my own fault. I had tricked her into believing I knew more about her field than I did. In return, she had unwittingly invited me to give my 'educated opinion'. Promoted far beyond my competence, I was forced to face my defining Peter Principle moment.

I asked myself if this was a bad dream. Nope, this is really happening. My self-protective instincts screamed at me to offer some excuse to decline, but I could not think of a single plausible white lie. Deprived of any possible way to extricate myself with dignity, I reluctantly accepted her invitation. It was getting close to 7 pm. Now that other dance students began to show up, that is where the conversation ended.

THINGS ARE WORSE THAN IMAGINED

On my way home that night, I tried to reassure myself. Why was I so worried? Just read the article and go to lunch. I know how to read. How tough can this be? Unfortunately, my premonition was justified. I discovered I had every right to be worried. There is a word in the English language known as "incomprehensible". Synonyms include unintelligible, unclear, indecipherable, incoherent, impenetrable, unfathomable. Take your pick.

Let it be known that Rick Archer is a college graduate. And not just an average college graduate, but an articulate scholar who graduated with honors and a reasonably large vocabulary. However this complex paper was written in a language I could not understand. I cannot honestly recall another time in my adult life when I felt more illiterate than that night. I am not exaggerating. This was very difficult reading. There were dozens of phrases that meant nothing to me. Here, look for yourself.

� Maladaptive psychoneurotic triadic dysfunction
� Transient situational adjustment reaction
� Undifferentiated ego mass
� Motoric inhibition of ideational functioning.

I copied those phrases directly from the article to give the Reader an idea of what I was up against.  Does this thing have Cliff Notes? Is there an English translation for morons? What have I gotten myself into? I no longer have the article, but here is a Wikipedia excerpt.

"The goal of Extended Family Systems Therapy is to increase the individual family member's level of differentiation. Bowen postulated that severe problems within the family unit stem from a multigenerational transmission process whereby levels of differentiation among family members can become progressively lower from one generation to the next. He developed an extended family systems therapy with the goal to increase the level of differentiation among the individual family members. Using the family projection process as well as the differentiation of Self, the individual can create Triangles within the nuclear family emotional system to avoid emotional cutoff. Differentiation of Self refers to one's ability to separate one's own intellectual and emotional functioning from that of the family.

Bowen spoke of people functioning on a single continuum or scale. People with "low differentiation" are more likely to become fused with predominant family emotions. A related concept is that of undifferentiated ego mass, which is a term used to describe a family unit whose members possess low differentiation and are therefore emotionally fused."

Are you feeing sufficiently differentiated today? How's your ego mass? The entire article read like that! Utterly incomprehensible. Sometimes when I read something for a while, I pick up a rhythm and things start to make sense. No such luck. I became increasingly aware that every paragraph was going right over my head. Faced with words and phrases that held no meaning for me, this paper was written for a highly-educated audience at the upper strata of the IQ distribution. It used technical terms that only people trained in the field would be able to comprehend. No matter how many times I thumbed through my dictionary, I was fighting a losing battle against a technical vocabulary foreign to me. Maybe if I had stayed in the 'Psych Biz' and remained familiar with the jargon I might have had more luck, but as it stood I felt thoroughly whipped.   I had no choice but admit this stuff was way over my head. I flipped through the pages looking for an easy part. No luck. It was all Greek to me. The further I got, the more I realized the hopelessness of my plight.

A question that repeated in my mind like a broken record was what prompted Francesca to think I could comprehend this material. Was it possible that Francesca was interested in me? My theory is that I had talked a good game and somehow caught her fancy enough to deserve a closer look. Highly intelligent women have difficulty finding male companions smart enough to carry on a conversation at their level. Not just that, even talented, beautiful women have their dry spells. That is because finding men their equal is a daunting task. The fact that Francesca was taking a group dance lesson by herself suggested she might be looking. Dance lessons are a terrific way to meet people. A single woman like her might have signed up specifically in hopes of meeting someone.

I am sure Francesca was well aware I was a long-shot, especially given the 7 year age gap. But what's the harm in taking a small risk like inviting me to lunch?   Perhaps I caught Francesca between relationships, so she was willing to lower her standards a bit. For that matter, who knows, maybe Francesca found me attractive. Why not take a chance on a somewhat younger man? I did have some charm. And I was reasonably intelligent unless you compared me to her peer group.

Plus I could dance. And I could make her laugh. If I survinved lunch, maybe I could ask her to go dancing with some night. Francesca was tall, 5' 8", taller in heels. But I was 6' 1". We would look good together. I expressed myself well and I was outgoing. In Francesca's mind, that was enough to rate a second look. Hand me this pop quiz, ask me to lunch, and see if I passed muster. At the very least, we could be friends and she might get a night of dancing out of it. It was worth the gamble.

However, from where I stood, I saw things much differently. Francesca deserved a smart, successful companion and I was this nobody struggling to start a dance career. Given that Francesca was a special woman whose talent far exceeded mine, I had no business playing in her league. However Francesca did not know this YET. No doubt she would discover the truth soon enough, a moment I dreaded. This looming catastrophe was making me sick.

TIME TO FACE THE MUSIC

Struggling to find at least something I understand in this article, I was really mad at myself. I had tried too hard to impress a beautiful woman and look what I had gotten myself into. Prior to this I had considered myself to be reasonably intelligent. Unfortunately this article turned out to be a "Mensa-level" challenge. It revealed the existence of an intellectual plateau well beyond my ability.

How was I ever going to face my brilliant lady friend and discuss this paper with any kind of face-saving expertise? Expecting to be truly embarrassed by my ignorance, waves of nausea swept through me.  Finally I gave up and my thoughts turned to deception. Was there some way I could fake my way through this?

Under no circumstance did I want to admit to Francesca how badly out-classed I was. So I made a coward's decision. I decided I would simply try to grasp enough to BS my way through lunch, then stick to the dance floor in the future. I did not see any other way out. My plan was to memorize a few catch phrases and slip them in here and there. I looked for important passages to underline, but even this wasn't easy. I had no idea what was important! Overwhelmed with futility, I underlined the few passages I could understand. Over a period of two days, I slogged through the article with great difficulty. I looked up more words in two days than I had in my entire college career. My fingers were practically bleeding from frequent visits to the dictionary, but it didn't do much good. Finally I gave up. I still had no idea what this article was talking about, but I had been miserable for the past two days and I wanted to get it over with.

Just then I had an idea. Noticing that words such as "Triangulation" and "Triangles" appeared frequently, I came up with a sneaky plan. Bluffing was my only chance. Rather than give her 'my opinion', I would steer the conversation to get 'her opinion'. I planned to use the word 'Triangle' as often as possible, bluster a little, then fall back on my ploy of posing one question after another. Even better, why not make it personal? Why not focus on the Triangle I had been in with Jenny and Randy and ask her opinion on "Open Relationships"? I could throw in Karen and Kirk for good measure. Nothing like wife swapping for a scintillating first-date lunchtime conversation.

I cheered up a little. Yes, if Francesca insisted on sticking to the subject, I had no chance. But if I could change the topic fast enough, I gave myself a 50-50 chance to fake my way through lunch. Helpless to think of any other way to improve my odds, I called Francesca at her office to report in. She greeted me with warmth and was pleased to hear I had read the article. I squirmed when she said she couldn't wait to hear my thoughts on the article. Based on her enthusiasm, it was painful to know I had fooled her. I could tell by her voice that she had no clue about my predicament. That gave me a guilty conscience. Deceiving a well-meaning friend was not my idea of fun. But a man has to have his pride. Scared to death she would discover I was a charlatan, the thought of disappointing this woman who had shown genuine kindness towards me was very upsetting.

Francesca gave me directions to her office near the Medical Center. We planned to meet the next day for lunch. I smiled grimly. Good. Let's get this over with. But I wasn't happy.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 24

THE LOOMING SHOWDOWN

It was Thursday, August 24. Wish me luck. Despite my anxiety, I had a pleasant thought as I drove to Francesca's office. "In Crisis lies Opportunity." If I could pull this off, I might make a friend. And if she accepted my offer to take her dancing, who can say where this would go? But then my pessimistic side kicked in. I was so clueless about this Murray Bowen article, I didn't see how I was ever going to fool this perceptive woman. It was going to be difficult to fake because her training had taught her to read people. Yes, I could say enough to prove I had read the article, but if she asked for insights, there was a good chance I would freeze up or say something nonsensical. Under questioning I was sure to trip up. I dreaded being forced to confess my abject stupidity. Keep in mind that I had never gotten over my dismissal from graduate school. If there was one raw nerve I was particularly sensitive about, it was the memory of being unceremoniously tossed from the Psychology program. Under close scrutiny, I was fearful Francesca would expose my shortcomings, thereby confirming the fear that my hated professor Fujimoto had been right all along.

More than likely Francesca would be too polite to reveal her growing awareness. However, her disappointment was bound to show. It crushed me to know that she had considered me her equal. Pretty soon she would know the truth. My hands were clammy and my breathing shallow as I entered her office. Francesca gave me big smile and got right to work.

"So what did you think?" she asked.

I replied with an old joke I had prepared as an evasion. "I had several insights, but my mind works like lightning. One brilliant flash and it is gone."

To her credit, Francesca smiled at my small joke. She was so gracious that my heart ached. There was still a part of me that suspected Francesca was checking me out as a potential boyfriend. If that was the case, I should have felt flattered. But that is not what I felt. I felt unworthy. Why couldn't I be smart enough to hang with her? Life can be very cruel.

My anxiety was ratcheted even higher when Francesca announced we were going someplace fancy to eat in the Texas Medical Center. This was not good. I had expected something informal, maybe a coffee shop or modest restaurant. A pancake house would have been fine by me. Anything to get this over with. But no, Francesca felt the need to regale me with pomp and circumstance. Just shoot me.

Fighting a rising panic, I immediately spoke up. "Francesca, I am not dressed for elegant dining. Maybe we should go somewhere else."

No such luck. Francesca said nonsense, I looked fine. And yes, I did look nice. Dress pants, black and white checkered shirt. So why did I feel a sense of doom? The next thing I knew she was driving us to some swanky Doctors Club in the Medical Center, private membership only. Francesca said this was where Houston's medical elite met for lunch. With a smile, she reported seeing famous heart surgeons such as Denton Cooley and Michael DeBakey in here several times. My dread worsened. I knew Francesca was trying to extend a genuine courtesy. It even crossed my mind that maybe she was trying to impress me. But why? It was so utterly hopeless. We could be friends, but I was not talented enough to be her boyfriend. She had handed me a test and would soon learn the truth.

As we walked from the parking garage, various forms of gallows humor ran through my mind. It is an unpleasant fact that only 2% of the Roman gladiators survived long enough to be given their freedom. Certain the end could come at any time, the gladiators would greet the spectators with a pledge. "We who are about to die salute you!"

It was a good thing Francesca was a psychiatrist. Before this day was through, I might need her services. The way I felt, I had a better chance of being her patient than I did her boyfriend. Hovering on the edge of a nervous breakdown, this could not possibly end well.

THE GENETIC CURSE STRIKES!

Once I saw how fancy the restaurant looked from the outside, my ancient clothing anxiety crept in to add to my worries. I was almost certain I was not properly dressed for an exclusive restaurant, certainly not for one as high-brow one like this. Every man I saw who walked in had a suit on. Why didn't I think of that possibility ahead of time? That caused a very bitter childhood memory to resurface. I recalled the day my classmates discovered I was wearing white socks with black pants and black shoes on a long bus ride. One particular jerk was inspired to start an insulting chant: "White Socks, Dumb as an Ox".

Since the other boys thought this was funny, on cue the wolf pack picked up the howl and jeered as one. These putdowns felt like a startling reenactment of a scene from Lord of the Flies: "Kill the pig! Kill the pig!" The rhythmic chanting irritated me no end, but I was helpless to retaliate. Fortunately the football coach was there to chaperone. He told them to knock it off and so they did. But the damage was done. This had been a hugely embarrassing moment and I did not have much self-esteem to begin with. 14 years later, this incident was still a sore spot, a wound that had never properly healed. And right now I feared a repeat performance.

I do not remember the name of the restaurant nor do I remember where it was. What I do remember is that I was presentable for 99% of all eating establishments. So why should I be so worried? Because this was no ordinary restaurant. This was the kind of restaurant where rules of refinement dominate and common sense takes a back seat. As it turned out, my premonition was right on the money. I knew it the moment we entered the reception area. The man at the front desk took one look at me, grimaced, then pointed to a sign.

Francesca frowned when she realized for the first time that this place required coat and tie. Seeing the worried look on her face, the 'White Socks, Dumb Ox' chant began playing in my mind. I was definitely under-dressed for a fancy place like this. Why hadn't I anticipated this possibility? I should have worn professional attire 'just in case'. You can always take a coat off, but you can't put it on if you don't have it with you. How hard would it have been to bring along a coat and tie? And why didn't I think of this?

The answer, of course, is that I am genetically cursed when it comes to clothing issues.

Whatever the reason, my problems were about to be magnified. Already pathologically nervous about the Murray Bowen article, I sensed the jagged teeth of a newer, even more dangerous trap closing in. There was no way out of this except to leave. With that in mind, I voiced my reservations about continuing down this path. "Maybe we should go somewhere else!"

Francesca disagreed. She said something along the lines of "It's no big deal, we are here, don't worry about it." Easy for her to say. She looked great in a tasteful dark dress that accentuated her slender figure and long legs. For that matter, as things stood, my shirt and pants blended well with her exquisitely tailored professional attire. Despite my sense of doom, I had the presence to notice the two of us in a nearby full-length mirror. Physically speaking, we were both tall and slender. Even our clothes matched. We looked good together, like we were a pair who belonged to each other. I sometimes wonder about that moment. If I had possessed the sense to wear a dark jacket that day, who can say what doors might have opened.

But it was not meant to be. Due to my Curse, I had not anticipated this coat and tie curve ball. Nor had Francesca. She pleaded with the man to bend the rule, but he stubbornly stuck to his guns. Francesca was just as surprised at the man's intransigence as I was. Donning a professional demeanor to see if it would help, in a flash Francesca transformed herself into an imposing figure. Presenting herself as both doctor and club member, she stated I was her honored guest. Was it really necessary to enforce the dress code? Why not place us in a discrete corner where no one will notice? I appreciated that she was using her prestige to smooth the way, but no such luck. Nothing she said was good enough to persuade this Guardian of the Dress Code to cooperate.

And so the next tumbler of the inescapable trap fell into place. I stopped breathing when I realized the man was going to insist this rule be followed. However, just then he took note of the murderous look on my face. Realizing he needed backup, the assistant at the desk excused himself and went to summon the ma�tre d'. When the head guy showed up, I knew from the determined look of both men that my goose was cooked. The ma�tre d' was the type who takes his position way too seriously. He was the very definition of a pretentious halfwit drunk with his own self-importance. The man took one look at me and sniffed with contempt. With great exclamation the maitre d insisted coat and tie are MANDATORY at this fine establishment. No Exceptions!

At first the harshness of his tone did not bother me. In fact I was relieved. He had just given me a face-saving reason to suggest we leave. If so, this impending train wreck could still be avoided.

"Oh gosh, Francesca, no coat, no tie! How stupid of me! I'm so sorry, my mistake. But there's an easy solution. Lets just go somewhere else. Do you like Mexican food?"

Indeed, my suggestion almost worked. Francesca had already taken one step towards the door when amazingly the ma�tre d' spoke up. He said, "Dr. Diaz, please wait. You and your guest do not have to leave. Let me help!"

And with that, Francesca hesitated. Uh oh. I turned pale white when the ma�tre d' said they were prepared for these problems. He pointed to a door and INSISTED I go to the nearby closet and pick out a coat. My mouth dropped open in horror. I noticed as Francesca suppressed a giggle at my look of discomfort. She was not being mean. Francesca was a sweet woman who had no idea the extent of negative energy I had on this clothing issue. And maybe if I had said something, the problem could have been avoided. Unfortunately I did not speak up.

Like a man walking to the gallows, I moved slowly to the walk-in coat room. I closed the door behind me to deal with this ordeal alone. I was already in a tizzy over this incomprehensible Bowen article only to be faced with a far more ominous situation. The moment I entered the closet, I was stunned. Every one of the 20 or so coats was plaid. I had a hunch every one of them was a likely castoff from a wealthy doctor who liked to play golf. Caught in the grip of fear, I grasped the implications. I had come to the place where unwanted golf jackets go to die. This was a golf jacket graveyard.

Noting that every coat was totally hideous, I had a vision. I fantasized at certain times various doctors had welcomed a special new woman into their life. At some point, this woman had taken one peek in his closet and gasped at his collection of ugly plaid sports coats. Realizing that this was the perfect moment to clean house, the woman screamed bloody murder and decided to take a stand. If you want this relationship to continue, clean out this closet. Otherwise consider dating a blind woman. Only one problem. No self-respecting resale shop would have these coats. Nor would Good Will dream of taking them. Poor people do not possess the same genetically-induced madness that drives Golfers to this extreme.

So how to dispose of these outfits?  Doctors are smart guys. By giving these coats to their private Medical Center dinner club, they could take a tax write-off for their generous donation. Or perhaps the reason was nostalgia. Perhaps doctors came by to visit their old coats on days when their new wives weren't around to insult their taste. I could imagine a newly-wed heart surgeon donning one for old times sake with a tear in his eye.

Trapped in this endless Sea of Plaid, I went numb. There was no way out of this fix. Every coat in the closet was Golf Course Plaid. Burgundy plaid, green plaid, red plaid, orange plaid. Clad in plaid, look real bad. Wearing plaid makes me sad. What the heck was I supposed to do? I guess I should try putting one on.

There was a brief moment of hope when I discovered a dark coat that remotely matched my shirt. False alarm. It was too small. How do I choose from these truly awful coats? Are doctors small by nature? Big brains, tiny bodies? I smiled with satisfaction that perhaps Size and Medicine were negatively correlated. Then I thought of medical genius Denton Cooley, 6' 4", starting forward for the UT Longhorn basketball team. There goes that theory.

My new theory revolved around some runt who probably donated the entire collection in order to appease a domineering fianc�. Not every short guy can be Napoleon. No doubt these beloved jackets had been sacrificed to marry an unsympathetic woman with fashion sense.

Trying on each coat, I discovered the selection process was easier than I realized. Out of 20 coats, only one jacket was large enough to fit. Even then it was a real struggle to get into it. 6' 1", 210, I had big shoulders and these were small jackets. Grunting, squirming, and, yes, cursing, I barely managed to get the sports coat around my shoulders. The coat was very tight, but it was my only choice. I had never been in a straitjacket, but this had to be the same feeling. Now I was worried I might not be able to get back out of this coat without help. Maybe I would have to tear the coat to shreds to regain my freedom. Could my conscience could bear the sacrifice?

Regrettably, there was a mirror in the closet. Out of morbid curiosity I took a look. I wish I hadn't. As I stared at the combination of a red, green and blue plaid jacket over my gray plaid shirt, I was consumed with intense self-loathing.   I looked like a freak show. Now for the next problem. I still had not put a tie on, so I reviewed my choices. These ties were far too ugly, so I decided not to put one on. I swallowed hard and walked outside praying the ma�tre d' had disappeared. No such luck. Accurately pegging me as a rebel, he made sure not to turn his back. And why would he do this? My guess is this guy took sinister pleasure in pushing me around. There is an old saying, 'a clerk is a jerk.' The description definitely fit. The moment I opened the door, the ma�tre d' spotted me from across the room and smiled at my obvious discomfort. By making me bend to his will, this guy derived great pleasure. Bristling at his evil smirk, I had never hated someone so much in all my life.

The ma�tre d' could sense my hostility. My expression of undisguised contempt for this pompous ass gave me away. One look was all that was necessary for him to know I don't like to follow dumb rules. Like a cop who has pulled over some hapless guy for speeding, the ma�tre d' made me stand for inspection. He sneered with intense satisfaction at his power over me. Just then a look of pure delight crossed his face. Can you guess what he saw? I wasn't wearing a tie. A look of rapture crossed his face that was impossible to miss. Practically wringing his hands with glee, he ordered his assistant to go back in the closet. The assistant snapped to attention and raced away to pick a tie. Meanwhile my tormentor kept me under his gaze lest I dare make an escape. Poor Francesca. The giggle was long gone. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted her covering her mouth in horror.

Sending the assistant to the closet was yet another move I had not anticipated. I had assumed if I were caught, I would be sent back to make the choice of tie myself. No such luck. I groaned at my stupidity. I should have known he would make an issue out of this.

I trembled with fear at what was coming next. Those ties had been truly ugly. Seriously, how hard would it be to have one simple black tie for a situation like this? Besides, how was I supposed to put the tie on? I could barely move my arms.   Easier to skip it and pray this Fashion Nazi would cut me some slack. But no, not this guy. The Maitre 'd and I locked cold eyes for the duration of the suspense. He did not want to miss one precious moment of my growing discomfort. I was really worried. It had just occurred to me the assistant could care less. Sure enough, I was right. The man was in and out in 20 seconds. He returned with the first tie that caught his eye. And why did it catch his eye?   Because it was the UGLIEST TIE in the closet!!  The tie was a purple paisley print with amoeba-like splotches.

I was irate. This has gone too far! I should have looked at Francesca and said forget it. "Gosh, Francesca, I am suffering from transient situational adjustment reaction. The only known cure is cheese enchiladas. Let's vamonos!"

That is what I should have said. Instead I said nothing. I did not have the sense to stand up for myself. Cursed human that I am, I had been trained to be polite in awkward situations. Plus I was operating under a psychological handicap. It is so difficult to throw a temper tantrum when you can't even raise your arms. And so under the watchful eye of Ma�tre d' and Igor, I tried to put on the tie. This led to the next humiliation. I could not tie the tie on my own. When Igor stepped forward to help, I gave him the stare of death to warn him off. "You die if you touch me." Igor got the message and changed his mind.

I did not want to take the coat off because it was such an effort, so Francesca offered to tie it for me. No way I was going to accept another blow to my dignity, so I asked Francesca to help me get the coat off instead. With her watching, I fumbled with the tie. I was so nervous it took three tries to get the length right. When Francesca offered to help me get the coat back on, I readily accepted. Her expression was priceless. Although she was sympathetic to my plight, at the same time she was forced to use every ounce of self-control to keep from bursting out in hysterical laughter. Meanwhile the Ma�tre d' stood there surveying the spectacle with crossed arms. For the second time he made me stand for inspection. He even had the nerve to straighten my tie. I would have strangled him, but my arms didn't move.

LET THE MONSTER APPEAR

�I am alone and miserable. Only someone as ugly as me could love me.� -- Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

Picture this. I am wearing a very tight red-green-blue plaid coat over a gray plaid shirt. Add to this a purple paisley tie covered with amoeba-like splotches. For reasons only known to him, the ma�tre d' approved this mismatched rainbow attire as suitable for his dining room. What was wrong with this guy? Did he not realize that sending me into the dining room wearing this outfit risked greater effrontery than letting me enter without a coat and tie? Thanks to him, I was downright frightening.

The time had come time to send the beast into the dining room. Ordinarily I admire anyone brave enough to attempt a Fashion Risk, but this had gone too far. Why I cooperated is a question for which I have no answer. I suppose I did not wish to embarrass Francesca by making a scene. The ma�tre d' summoned a waiter and directed him to escort us to our seats. I grimly noticed my tormentor wasn't willing to be seen near me. I also noticed Francesca wasn't smiling. I think she was just as upset at the Ma�tre d' as me.  However, she said nothing, so I followed. As I entered the dining area, I asked if maybe this was a bad dream. Maybe I could wake up and everything would be okay. Nope, tough luck, this is Reality. This is really happening and there is no escape.

It was sickening to know the cream of Houston's medical society was there to witness my Walk of Shame. I felt like a lurching zombie nightmare. I made Freddy Krueger look handsome.  Not surprisingly, I was hypersensitive to any signs of disapproval. As well I should be. The reactions to my presence were swift and predictably unpleasant. Six women to my right stopped eating and looked up in astonishment. From another direction I saw a lady in a corner gasp. She put her fork down to poke her companion's side, then pointed to direct his gaze. Her companion dropped his jaw and shook his head in disgust. Mind you, this was a doctor hardened by a career full of blood and guts. Judging by his pained expression, no prior experience matched the horror that was me.

Two people who had not noticed me rose from their table to leave. The moment they saw me, they quickly sat back down rather than be forced to cross my path. Whatever I had, they didn't want to catch it. This moment was so bizarre only the twisted mind of Stephen King could have imagined it. I felt like Carrie at the Senior Prom with pig blood splashed over me.

The room was full of muffled whispers. People stared wide-eyed. Seeing people crane their necks to get a better view of this modern day Quasimodo, I looked around for Cooley and DeBakey. Judging by the tension in the room, someone might have a heart attack. The way my heart was pounding, it could be me. Let's face it, the whole room was terrified. All conversation had stopped and everyone had stopped eating. Having caused the entire room to lose their appetite, the aura of disgust was so palpable that I grew full of despair.  By the time we reached our table, I was so embarrassed I could not force myself to sit down. Instead I turned around and stood there surveying the incredulous onlookers. Flooded with bitterness, I could not take it anymore. I turned to Francesca and said, "I don't enjoy people staring at me. Do you mind if we go?"

Francesca quietly nodded. Fortunately there was an emergency exit to spare me further embarrassment. Without further ado we exited the building. Once the door closed, I asked Francesca to help me get out of the jacket, then dropped it on the floor to die.

AFTERMATH

So what about the Murray Bowen article? There is a gruesome Arabic saying that the easiest way to forget the loss of a finger is to lose one's hand. In other words, one way to solve a problem is to suffer a bigger problem. Oddly enough, my golf clothing nightmare contained a silver lining. I had been handed the perfect excuse to avoid talking about the article.

"Francesca, I'm sorry, but please take me back to your office. I am too shaken by the embarrassment to bother with lunch."

To her credit, Francesca did not try to talk me out of it.   Once we were in the car I told her how angry I felt from being forced to wear this ridiculous outfit in front of all those important people. I hate to say it, but Francesca suffered too. Forced to accompany Quasimodo in public, she suffered collateral damage. Standing beside me, Francesca had felt the sharp disapproval of the offended guests. Unlike me, she would have to face these people again. My guess is she had the sense to wait a considerable time.

When we reached her office, Francesca asked if I wanted to come in and talk about it. One part of me said yes. This was a truly exceptional woman. But I have a saying: Desperation is not sexy. Respect is a necessary foundation on which to build a romance. I had hoped for a spark, but that was out of the question at this point. There was no way Francesca could ever look at me again without the memory of my public humiliation.  So I said we should call it a day. I squeezed her hand, gave her a wan smile, then left. I was so full of regret I cried on the way home.