Cinderella Man

I don’t believe in love in first sight. Never have. Never will. And not for lack of trying either (at least on my Nana’s part). As a kid, I was taken to the ballet, dressed in pink taffeta, and subjected to an endless string of Disney movies, all in the hope that someday I would find faith. But I never could buy into an idea of love, the platonic expression of which was a comatose centenarian in a glass box. Frankly, it all seemed a bit creepy to me. I remember the first time I refused to watch Cinderella – my grandmother was in hysterics for weeks (I thought it was implausible; she thought I was a lesbian).

And yet, here I am after only one evening together, in love. He’s smart, kind, funny, and has an irresistible toupee. (No, really I can't resist - I almost pulled it off, right there at the dinner table). He also happens to be twice my age, gay, and …a Roman Catholic priest.

Okay, so maybe I’m not in love – sorry, Nana – but I am completely fascinated.

I met him this weekend when, after attending a recital, I somehow got whisked away to dinner with the in-crowd (the recitalist, the Music Director, a few businessmen, and the aforementioned Roman Catholic priest/heartthrob). For nearly two hours, the priest was the center of rapt attention. Alternating between pointed critiques of the church, pointed critiques of the other diners, and jokes I am almost certainly not old enough to hear, he single-handedly shattered every stereotype I’ve ever held about Catholic clergy.

And then he disappeared. I never learned his name or what parish he was from or how he came to be part of the in-crowd. Even my most sophisticated google-stalking techniques have come up empty. I may have to resort to the glass slipper approach …