It was 1978, in Toronto. Some friends had introduced me to a journalist who played congas and percussion in a band called Limbo Springs. Uncharacteristically, I phoned him up: Would he like to go to a benefit dance for the Toronto Rape Crisis Centre? Good first-date test, I thought. “My band is already booked for it,” he said, along with another group called-unfortunately-Wolf at the Door. So I went to watch; a shirtless journalist playing reggae was rare. Afterwards, we danced and went down the street for a falafel. Then I took him home, where I cleverly drew him a bath and plied him with expensive chocolate. That first date became our anniversary: 35 years and counting.
I couldn’t believe my luck. The blonde with the red glasses who called to ask me to the Rape Crisis Centre’s benefit dance was out of my league. I was playing in one of the bands performing, so we agreed to meet there. After the show, we headed to her place. I don’t remember how I ended up massaging her feet-maybe it was my idea of a move. She asked if I wanted a bath and, after filling the tub, left the room. I got in, wondering what came next. She did. Appeared at the door and slipped in. The foot massages on the couch are now routine, but with the TV on. And while I now prefer showers to baths, the deal continues to improve.