Adorable!

The other day, my wife and I met our children and grandchildren for dinner at a midtown restaurant, where we had reserved a table for ten. I had dressed up for the occasion, wearing gray flannel trousers, a pink buttoned-down shirt with a darker pink bow tie, and a dark gray tweed sports coat, in whose breast pocket I had tucked a red silk square. I looked pretty good, I thought, as I approached the maitre d’ and gave him my name. He smiled, adjusted my bow tie, and then said “adorable!”

I like to wear bow ties but I find it hard to keep them straight. This is not an unalloyed disadvantage, however, inasmuch as women like to come up unasked and adjust them for me, an attention I enjoy. But for a strange man to do so is another matter, particularly when accompanied by the pronouncement “adorable!” No doubt he meant well, but I didn’t know whether to feel insulted or amused. Somewhat stunned, I murmured “thank you,” and as we were ushered to our table, I decided that after all it was pretty funny. The maitre d’ didn’t see a stately emeritus professor and family patriarch. He saw someone with the status of a six-year-old. I suppose I should have been grateful that he hadn't chucked me under the chin.

Earlier that day, on our way to the restaurant, we boarded a crowded subway car, where a man offered me his seat. I thanked him but declined his offer, telling him that we were getting off at the next stop. His gesture, reflecting respect for age, was pleasing, whereas the maitre d’s behavior, reflecting condescension, was not.

Perhaps it’s just as well that my amour propre suffers a little puncture now and then. It’s a healthy reminder that not everyone sees me as I like to see myself.

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