It’s been a long time since I began the trek through various dating sites to see just what the hullabaloo was about. Several months brought more disappointment than joy, with one brief intermission of happiness when I met a handsome fellow for a drink. When I refused a kiss, our dating saga ended before it began.
However, if nothing else, I tend to be a bit of a bulldog when things don’t work the first time. With great persistence and the cost of three more dating sites, I met a man. He wasn’t overly handsome or overly plain, although the mini-walrus mustache made it difficult to see his full face. After many messages back and forth, we decided to meet. That’s where the little imp that seems to ride my shoulder jumped into the act.
HIS message: I will meet you somewhere in your town and we will go to dinner.
MY message: My town consists of two blocks where five restaurants reside and I have no idea what the food is like, nor is there a restaurant within forty-five minutes of my home where excellent cuisine might be found. How about (gulp) dinner at my house.
Do not scold me, dear ones. Although I never recommend meeting a stranger at one’s home, continue the conversation before condemning me.
HIM: Home cooking! I love home cooking! That works for me.
ME: (Wondering if I might get my daughter-in-law to visit and cook the meal. With her being about 900 miles away, it was doubtful. Cooking has not been my forte with the advent of my husband’s passing and my daughter being faithful to Jenny Craig, the diet guru.) Let’s set a date, but I’ll tell you now that two neighbors will be invited to join us, as I am as nervous as a cat flicking its tail under a rocking chair with this dating business.
HIM: I would expect no less. In fact, I would recommend it.
The game was afoot…until he cancelled due to car problems a brief day later. Uh oh, scared another one, darn it!
ME: I wondered how long it would take to cancel. (Okay, I’m heartless. Never said I was a sweet woman.)
HIM two days later: Oh, no, it’s just that I don’t know how to repair this van myself.
ME: When my car breaks down, I have heard of these people called mechanics. They seem to do a remarkable job getting it running again. (Yep, I can be rude, too. After a year of this chase, it’s getting old and I ain’t getting any younger or sweeter of temper.)
Short version – we set up a new date. I cornered my friends and made them pinky swear to attend the event and once again, we were on the move…right up until my back went bonkers and slapped me in bed for two days.
I thought of cancelling, but after being such a brat when he did it, I was too much of a coward, so I willed my back to improve.
He arrived. I shall always cherish the first words he spoke, “You don’t look nearly as old as I thought you would.”
I still let him in the house because it honestly sounded as though he was complimenting but had little training in poetic language.
The neighbors arrived. We laughed, talked, laughed some more. The bar-b-que I planned was rained out, so I made portabella mushroom stuffed hamburgers on the stove grill. Everyone swore they were delicious and ate the last crumb.
How sweet and brave they were. I took two bites of mine and nearly choked on the dryness that met my underwhelmed pallet. Of course, the fact that my back wrenched out halfway through cooking them and that I doubled the pain medication may have had something to do with it.
My friends left. My brother, who lives with me, never made an appearance and my daughter moved into the solace of her own room leaving us alone. At this point, the jolly fellow from dinner turned into a sly fellow who made uncomfortable suggestions, which I turned away.
“Ah, I’m a dirty old man, you see,” said he.
“And I am a mean old woman. Don’t test me.”
Where upon we bade each other good night.
I checked messages just before going to bed and discovered I am the favorite of, well, that may be another tale of my dating site days.