It only costs $1.99 abd I think you will like it, especially if you are under 35 or over 50. How many middle aged women with truncal obesity do you know who will ever really be able to get on a little platform that looks like a skateboard without wheels and go barreling down the side of a mountain, scrunching and leaning and spraying snow in order to avoid the rocks and trees, flipping over in mid air while flying over a cliff just for the sheer excitement of risking your life. Try it girls! The virtual experience I mean, since no amount of Wii Fit is going to get me (or you I am guessing) on a real snowboard.
I assure you this snowboarding game is better than the real life thrills we usually get to experience, and the mountain has no performance anxiety.
On the other hand, if you are serious about the quest to understand yourself and others, and prefer not to die alone, play the app later and finish reading this Blog. Just remember, I am not suggesting you actually act on my romantic advice unless you want to keep your dignity intact and lose the man every time. I do contend that whether you do what I suggest or the opposite we will be digging deeply into the human psyche in this column, and, one way or another, you might learn what it is you came here to find out.
And if you did follow my advice about finding a guy to date (posted in November and entitled “How to tell if a guy is a loser on the Internet and what kind of makeup to wear”) It is also possible that you have already met the Cowboy in the Parking Lot.
I met him twice.
The first profile he put up on the dating service I was using showed a guy who looked about 50, just a little overweight, bald, wearing a business suit. Nice smile. He did not have an outstanding narrative, but his description of himself was simple and dignified. And he could spell.
You want some romantic advice? Do not respond to a man on the internet who writes “I am a romantick who will never let you fergit you are a laddie. “ He will pay about as much attention to you as he does to spellcheck.
The Cowboy in the Parking lot did not make this mistake. Here is what he wrote: "Hi, I am just looking for something casual at first, I like to hike, go to art museums and the symphony. I am a business man and all I am looking for is a nice woman who is fun to be with."
Pretty good, right? He sounds sane, employed, and easy going. Compared to the other profiles you see on those dating sites, he could be a gem. A far better prospect than all those guys who tell you they are interested in a woman without any inhibitions (without paying for it) or the ones who don’t want to date anyone who plays games. I had coffee once with a guy who did not want to play games. It turns out his definition of playing games is turning him down for sex after one Venti low fat latte.
The cowboy in the parking lot was the first man I ever met from the internet. I was very nervous, starting out on this dating adventure, having been married for 18 years and with recent bilateral mastectomies and chemotherapy. But my hair was growing back at that point, and my best friend Diva had talked me into going out on a few dates.
I think my getting cancer upset Diva a lot more than it did me (without underestimating how upset it made me). She used to call me on the phone every week when I was going for chemo so that she could make sure they were not overdosing me. She always made me hand my cellphone to the nurse so she could confirm their calculations for the cyclophosphamide concentration. Eventually, after three or four rounds of chemo, when I casually mentioned that I was losing my appetite, Diva flew from New York City to Oklahoma to take me out for Sushi. What a drama queen!
When she arrived at my door, I let her in, then ran back to the bathroom to finish vomiting. I could hear her stalking nervously through my house. When I came out of the bathroom and sat down weakly on one of my gorgeous new dining room chairs (purchased while peeing toxic waste after the CAT scan which proved there was no cancer in my liver), Diva was gazing out through the kitchen window at my back yard, trying very hard not to notice my bald head, and to hide her tears. Then suddenly she yelled, “I know what you need! A swimming pool!”
At first I was doubtful, but it turned out that she was brilliantly on target. We called some pool companies that weekend to come over and give us estimates, and within a few months I had refinanced my house and acquired a backyard oasis with a little pergola over my back porch that had roses climbing up it, and a 30 foot, double oval gunnite pool complete with a swimout and a waterfall. I fell in love with that pool and swam in it every day for the rest of the summer.
With that success under our belts, Diva decided it was time for me to start dating, and instructed me to go on the internet to find some prospective boyfriends. It was only going to be for practice, since I did not want to enter into any meaningful relationships until I got my breast implants done, but we both agreed that after 18 years of marriage I probably needed some practice. Neverheless even a practice date was not going to happen until the wig came off.
I would have preferred to do the whole cancer thing bald and natural, but I have to order chemo for a lot of my lupus patients and I didn’t want to scare them, since it usually doesn't end up that bad for them at the doses we use.
So I had been wearing a wig for the duration, outside my house, anyway. It itched and I hated it. I would come home at night and literatlly tear it off my head. Now my hair was long enough to dye back to its natural color (or at least the color that was natural when I was a little younger) and I felt it was time to put myself to the furniture store test. You may be wondering what that is.
Think about it. What happens when you walk into a furniture store? At least five salesmen will accost you before you are halfway across the room to try to sell you a posturepedic mattress or a livingroom suite.
So here was my idea. If I walked in with my man-length hair and bilateral mastectomies, and they called me “sir” this would be evidence that I was not ready to take the wig off in public and try to get a date on the internet. But if they called me “ma’am” I was good to go.
No cheating. I wore generic jeans and a white shirt. No makeup. No jewelry. No purse.
I strode proudly into the store, head held high, terrified, waiting for the Greek chorus to begin. Suddenly they were calling me from ten feet away, twenty feet away, one guy turning and barely glancing at me first, over the shoulder of his cheap suit, another one who could only be seeing my silhouette against the sun, and in every case I was hearing profuse strains of unpremeditated art. (from Shelly, “To a Skylark” I can't write like that)
“Ma’am can I help you?”
“Good afternoon ma’am,” we have a sale on Lazy Boy.”
“Two lamps for the price of one, Ma’am.”
“Ma’am, have you taken a look-see at our wrought iron consoles?”
“Ma’am, what sort of décor are you thinking about accentuating today?”
Tears of joy were rolling down my face. I hope I didn't upset anybody. I ran out of the store, sped home, fed the cats to get them off my laptop, and aligned myself at the keyboard. Pushed the buttons and clicked the mouse until I found the guy who called himself "The All Business Man" who had sent me a “wink” from the internet dating site I had signed up for that morning. Bravely I began my first letter to a potential suitor.
Dear All Business Man: I am a….(deleted that)….
I think….(deleted that)….
You seem….(deleted that).
In a panic I phoned Diva.
“Should I tell him about the mastectomies?” I wailed.
“Are you dating now? Yipeeeee!” she yelled.
“No I am just writing an email to one of them. Should I tell him about the mastectomies?”
“Don’t bother with that, yet, you don’t even know him.”
“But what if I like him? It would be sort of like living a lie.”
"What lie?"
"Men think all women have breasts. I would feel like an imposter."
“No, you don't have to tell him before you've even met him. Tell him after you meet him, no after you decide you like him but try to do it before it looks like he wants to have sex. Wow. Imagine trying to tell him while he is ripping your bodice open.”
“I have never worn a bodice in my life. And I just can’t lie to him like that.”
“Well just take it easy, one thing at a time, he’s bound to notice you are a little flat chested.”
“Flat chested is not the same as unchested.”
“OK then go ahead and tell him. Weed out the faint-of-heart up front. That actually sounds fine to me,” she mused thoughtfully. “I mean I see your point, this way you don’t waste your time on someone so superficial that all they are thinking about are breasts.”
“....as in all men?”
“Humph,” said Diva, who is a size zero, triple A cup. “I never had any breasts and it never cramped my style with men.”
“You do so have breasts,” I assured her. “They fit the rest of your gorgeous thin body!”
"I have nothing, nothing, said Diva proudly. "By the way, what exactly is a bodice for? is it more like a corset or is it more like a bra?"
I was unsure what a bodice was, too, but if you are interested I have done a little research on that.
I was now feeling free to compose a letter that, once I had perfected it, made me confident that I could winnow out the frogs to find my true prince while simultaneously suggesting I might still have what all men really want, great breasts! The only lie I would need to tell, while spilling my guts about my life threatening disease to a pack of strangers on the internet, was that I had already completed the breast reconstruction surgery and that the fakes were every guys dream of mama. Of course I wasn't planning on using my real name.
Remember, this was only for practice, I was not planning to test the illusion in real life. Yet. A casual cup of coffee maybe, if somebody wrote me a nice enough letter, but I could wear a shawl, until the surgery was over.
I looked over the All Businessman's profile again.
"Hi, I am just looking for something casual at first, I like to hike, go to art museums and the symphony. I am a business man and all I am looking for is a nice woman who is fun to be with."
Dear Mr. Businessman: I wrote.
Here are the reasons you might like me:
1. I am casual at first
2. I like to hike, go to Art Museums and the Symphony
3. I am a nice woman and fun to be with, unless you don't like me
Here are some reasons you might run screaming away from me:
1. I travel a lot, and I might not be in town for your birthday.
2. I am sometimes absent minded, and not very good at finding my car in parking lots. One time I landed at Will Rogers airport and trudged around rows AA-EE for over an hour until I remembered I had taken a cab from my house the day I took off. However, I have a mind like a steel trap when it comes to lupus or Toll House cookies.
3. One day, I was minding my own business when I developed breast cancer. Due to gross negligence on the part of several physicians my life was saved. In due course some radical surgery was performed. However, thanks to my plastic surgeon I am now sporting the silhouette of a thirty year old.
Della.
I was also kind of hoping to lose ten pounds before actually meeting him, what with bragging about the thirty year old body.
Within an hour I heard back from him:
Della girl, I think I am in love. How did you get so sweet and smart? Want to meet up for coffee?
What the heck? I agreed to meet him at Starbucks that afternoon and went upstairs to look for something not very revealing to wear.
When I arrived at the coffee place he turned out to be at least 70, and at least sixty pounds heavier than his picture. His skin was terrible, pock marked with old acne scars. Everything being relative, I realized that I was, by contrast, young, lithe and beautiful.
“I like what I see!” He said, and gave me a smothering bear hug that almost crushed the pointy, air filled tips of my bra.
By the way, in case you ever get bilateral mastectomies do NOT pay gazillions of dollars for those foam filled bras from Victoria’s secret. Just use your one of your own bras that has firmly built cups, but don’t let some 6 foot tall three hundred pound man crush you against his chest.
“Hi…” I gasped, wrestling out of his grip, and hurrying to the coffee bar. “I’ll have a latte!” I yelped to the kid behind the counter.
All Business Man had a caramel frappachino with double whipped cream.
We sat down at a little table with our drinks.
“Well,Della girl” he said. "Ask me anything you want."
“OK. What do you think of the Gilhouly sculpture downtown?” I asked.
“Huh? What’s that?”
So much for his interest in Art museums. That sculpture is visible three miles away through the two story glass entrance to the museum, and is a famous landmark in Oklahoma City.
"Ask me something easy."
“How’s your drink?” I asked him.
“Good.” He slurped.
“Where do you like to hike?”
“Oh, anyplace.”
“Ever gone to Quartz mountain?”
“What’s that?”
So much for his interest in hiking.
“Hey, girl!” he winked at me. "Can I ask you something now?"
"O.K." I said doubtfully.
“Do you like tequila?”
“Sure,” I said. “Do you like Mexican food?”
“Are you Mexican?” he leered.
He leaned forward, grabbing for my hand, almost spilling his coffee. I slipped my hands out of his grasp to protect my own cup, and he pressed his big belly further over the table, burping loudly. His breath smelled of liquor.
“Where did you eat lunch?” I asked cagily.
“I didn’t eat lunch yet,” he replied. Then it occurred to him to put his big paw up in front of his mouth and inhale to test the liquor smell coming out. He sat back back resignedly, and smiled at me feebly, scratching under his giant armpit.
I am not a mean person, so I engaged him in another 20 minutes of cordial grunting and burping before excusing myself with a regretful apology about having a lot of work to do.
My second date was at Panera Bread. This new guy had described himself on the internet as divorced and easy going, looking for someone to take long walks, read by the fire, and eat Italian food with. He also said he could make a great gin and tonic. His favorite movie was Casablanca. I got a date with him almost immediately by writing: “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, I walk into yours.”
At least it seemed likely that he had actually seen Casablanca.
Panera Bread in Oklahoma City was jumping that evening. I had to park in the back lot. When I got in the restaurant there were only two possible men who could be my date (right age and not accompanied by a woman). One was adorable, and he was looking at me hopefully. The other one glanced at me briefly, dismissively, and went back to his book.
I walked happily over to the cute one. “Hi, I’m Della,” I said.
“Hi Della, have a seat, I’m Rick.” He said in a friendly voice.
“Oh, “ I said. “I thought your name was Martin.”
“I’m Martin.” said the guy at the next table looking up with a sour expression on his face.
“Oh,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. “Hi Martin.”
I smiled at Rick and he smiled back. I felt a little twinge of potential attraction. but dutifully moved over to Martin’s table. Martin seemed to recoil a little as I sat down.
“Do you want something to eat?” he asked me.
“Sure,” I said.
“What?” he asked me curtly.
“Oh, uh….guess I will go and have a look at the counter,” I said.
When I got back with a cup of coffee and a muffin, which I had paid for myself, Rick winked at me. Martin did not look up from his book.
“So, Martin,” I said, “what are you reading?”
“A book, “ he said. “About the five stages of grief.”
“Denial, anger, negotiation, acceptance and revenge.” I quipped.
Rick laughed. Martin looked at me as if I was nuts.
“No that’s not right,” he said.
“No of course not,” I said.
Long silence. He was still reading, frowning, half turned away from me. I drank my coffee, while Rick watched us both, perplexed.
I wanted to switch tables. But I couldn’t do that. It did not seem sporting.
“Say, Martin,” what did you like about Casablanca?” I asked.
“Ingrid Bergman,” he said. “My wife looks exactly like her.”
“I thought you were divorced.”
He shrank away from me. “I am,” he said. “What time is it?”
I looked at my watch. “Eight fifteen,” I said.
“I have to call my son now.” he said, pulling out a cellphone.
Rick and I waited for him to dial and for someone to answer.
“Hello, Marty?” my date called loudly into the phone. “Marty? Why is the TV up so high? Tell your mother that you want to talk to me before you go to bed and you want her to turn the TV down now! She isn’t? Oh. Are you unhappy? Are you sure? Is there anything wrong there? Are you sure? OK then, I’ll call you in the morning. Goodnight. I love you so much. I miss you. Do you miss me? Great. Don’t forget to tell your mom you miss me. Bye.”
He looked up, and shrank further away from me. “I am going to have to sue for custody,” he said bitterly. “This is the second night this week she left him with a babysitter.”
“Oh, I said, well maybe this isn’t a good time….”
“No, no, its fine,” he said, contorting himself even further away from me. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Well,” I said. “I don’t look very much like Ingrid Bergman.”
“My wife does.” He replied.
“Yes, “ I replied. “She must be very beautiful.”
“She is,” he said. “But she’s a bitch.”
“Well,” I said, “I work mainly in lupus and we’re trying to find a way to test new treatments. Do you know there hasn’t been a new drug approved for lupus in over fifty years?”
“Excuse me,” he said, taking out his phone again and pushing the buttons. It seemed to be ringing for a long time. His leg was shaking rapidly under the table.
“Hello, Marty? Is your mom home yet? Are you feeling lonely? Are you going to bed soon? Oh, you did? Well sure, you can go back to bed now. Don’t forget to tell your mom we had a nice talk together tonight. Tell her we really miss each other, OK? Goodnight. I love you.”
He hung up and started figeting unhappily with his book.
Although I am a nice person, and I believe that you should stay one half hour on any date, no matter how disastrous, because that is only cordial, it seems reasonable to me that this should not be required when someone is being rude to you.
“Well, I’d better go now,” I said, getting up and smiling so that both Martin and Rick could see that I don't get all bent out of shape just because some guy does not like me much.
Rick gave me a quick smile back. “Hey, I liked you, anyway,” he seemed to be thinking. Oh, phooey. If I were younger and smarter (and meaner), I swear I would have moved over to his table.
Martin was following me through the restaurant.
“Well,then.” I turned to shake his hand goodbye. “Enjoy your book.”
“I will,” he said. He was still following me out the door.
“Are you leaving too?” I asked.
“Just walking you to your car. It isn’t safe here,” he said.
The parking lot was a little dark, and my car was parked far away. I was actually a little grateful that he was there, much as I wanted my happy singularity back.
As I reached to open the front door of my car, he grabbed me and gave a violent, bruising kiss, shoving his tongue in my mouth. Then he walked away without a word.
Driving home, feeling violated, nauseous and discusted, I saw a Braum’s ice cream store and stopped for a chocolate yogurt mix with heath bar crunch in it.
There was a family there with little children. I sat in a nearby booth and listened to them arguing about whether bunnies are related to cats. And knew that I would rather be here than back there.
Later when I got home, there was an email from Martin. It just said “Are you alright?”
“Sure,” I answered, proving that I am a good person who can forgive a brute when he is obviously in pain.
My third date was with my now two-time ex boyfriend Frank (or three time, depending on how you see things) and by then I had undergone the breast implant surgery and finished with the expanders (they blow you up like a balloon a little bit each week) and I was ready for a meaningful relationship. Frank was a sweet, wonderful man until he dumped me almost a year later without mentioning it to me.
Here is how I found out that Frank had dumped me. One night when it suddenly occurred to me that I had not heard from him for almost a month, II gave him a call to see what was going on.
“Hi, Della,” he said sounding happy to hear from me.
“How are you?" I said, feeling relieved, sitting comfortably back on my couch and putting my feet up on the coffee table.
“Oh,” he said, “I’ve been busy helping a lady in Guthrie fix her forced air heat. She has one of those old houses like yours, it’s a tough job, I’ve been there all week, but I’m figuring it out now.”
“That sounds complicated,” I said.
“It is.”
“But I guess you are proud of yourself for figuring it out. Most people would not know how to do a job like that,” I complimented him.
And not unduly. One time my pool filter exploded during an ice storm and he drove over in his pickup truck at 3 AM and figured out how to fix the situation.
“I guess I am a little proud,” he admitted humbly.
“How much is she paying you?”
“Oh, well, she’s a friend.”
“A friend? You mean she’s not paying you?”
Long silence.
“You’ve been there all week, neglecting your company and she’s not paying you?”
“Well, you know.”
“What kind of a friend?”
After an awkward pause, he said, “Every kind of friend, I guess.”
“OK, “ I replied, “Gotta go, bye.” I hung up, went upstairs and screamed into my pillow for hours.
But there is something about Frank. A certain obtuse instinct to be considerate. Even though it had not occurred to him that a woman like me who would never in a million years expect him to fix my heating system for free while neglecting his own source of income for an entire week would care (or even need to be informed) when he dumped her, he still seemed to sense that some kind of attention was due to me.
A week later he knocked on my door to pay me a visit. He sat in my living room, and I gave him a glass of Chardonnay. Being the curious old witch that I am, I got him to tell me all about his new girlfriend. I pretended to be disinterested, but of course I was really rabidly interested.
How this went down was that he pretended (or thought?) we had always just been casual friends and I played along. I didn't pick up on the theme which has been discussed at some length in this blog, that a woman who acts as if she needs the man gets him in the end. But in fact this was a classic illustration of that concept, so take notes students.
I was working on another hypothesis about why he had dumped me. The one that was most obvious to me at the time. So I got stuck on his description of his new girlfriend's beautiful breasts, and maybe I could not see the forest for the trees.
You may wonder how I got my ex-boyfriend to describe his new girlfriends breasts to me less than two months after he dumped me without mentioning it to me? This required me to be incredibly calm and unemotional under duress, and it also took every ounce of conversational witchcraft at my disposal, I assure you, and it also required Frank to be.....
....a guy.
When he was ready to leave, he gave me a tender kiss. It upset me that I could not tell any difference between that kiss and the ones that I used to think meant something very special. Still, that guy was (and still is) one great kisser, so I tenderly kissed him back, pretending my eyes were not filling with tears.
“Hey, what’s up?” he asked, noticing my tears and pretending to be surprised that I might have any feelings. Or maybe he was sincere. Maybe that’s how stupid and insensitive he is. Thank God.
“Allergies,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
He left with his illusions intact and mine faking it pretty well, and that was how I preserved my dignity intact and thereby managed not to kick him out of my life the first time. Please believe me, it is always better to keep people in your life if you can. But they have to play along.
My fourth internet date, almost a year after the first two that had come before Frank, was with the psycho in Barnes and Noble.
This man was obviously a writer. His fake name on the dating site was Terry Dactyl and his entire profile was an undisguised fake, in an instructive kind of way, sort of the way my column currently is.
He claimed that he was married, and only going online to experience internet dating so that he could write a book and make lots of money. He promised if any women were willing to go out with him he would change their names in his "tell all" novel. And, since he was married, he promised not to try to sleep with any of us.
Dear Mr. Dactyl: I wrote.
Here are the reasons you might like me:
1. I tell all
2. I made up my name, so you won't have to change it.
3. I am nice
Here are some reasons you might run screaming away from me:
1. I travel a lot, and I might not be in town for your birthday.
2. I am sometimes absent minded, and not very good at finding my car in parking lots. However, I have a mind like a steel trap when it comes to lupus or dinosaurs.
3. One day, I was minding my own business when I developed breast cancer. Due to gross negligence on the part of several physicians my life was saved. In due course some radical surgery was performed. However, thanks to a talented plastic surgeon I am sporting the silhouette of a thirty year old.
Then I deleted the last two sentences. Since he was pretending to be married it was none of his business. Even if it was true, now.
He immediately wrote me back and I wrote him back and in a short time we were exchanging daily e-mails. He was the smartest, funniest, quirkiest most lively-minded potential date I had run into in a very long time. And with him for a foil, so was I! In case he did make a lot of money with our correspondence, though, he did not share it with me, so he is out of luck if it upsets him when I tell you what happened next.
He had not put his picture on the website, but I didn’t care what he looked like. He was so charming in print, that he could have looked like a gorilla and I would not have minded. I was dying to meet him, but I patiently maintained the online correspondence and never suggested we take it to the next level, letting him have the lead. This went on for several months. Diva told me to forget about him, he must really be married.
“You aren’t doing this to get a pen pal,” she sniffed at me on the phone. “Especially some married pen pal.”
Finally, he invited me to meet him in the coffee shop at Barnes and Noble. I was excited. I was in cyberlove. I changed outfits three times preparing to meet him, made uncharacteristic use of hairspray and lipstick, put on my slimming jeans and used Spanx underneath, wore a sexy blouse, but not too sexy. Conservative, but sexy.
My mystery man was sitting at an empty table, and stood up when I approached him, rudely giving my body the once over. I figured he was joking. He was about three inches shorter than me, completely bald, and was wearing a short sleeved white shirt and black pants. His biceps were hypertrophic. All he needed was a pipe and he would look just like Popeye.
“Hi, I’m Terry, you must be Della,” he said looking me up and down again, frowning appraisingly.
“Shall we get some coffee?” I asked. I wondered, could I love this goony looking guy? Well, yes, I thought to myself. Who cares what he looks like, his mind is adorable!
“Oh, do you really want to drink coffee?” he asked me, sounding surprised.
I laughed. “Well it is a coffee shop,” I said.
“I don’t want anything,” he said, sounding annoyed, sitting down with a twitching jaw. I paused uncertainly. If this was a joke it was falling very flat.
“Well, I want some coffee,” I said, figuring it might be a good idea to take a breather. “Be right back.”
I got myself a low fat latte and sucked in my stomach as I walked back to the table under his intense scrutiny.
When I pulled my chair up to the table, he said, “Do you always pay for yourself?”
“No,” I said. “I try not to always do anything.”
I smiled at him. He stared back at me coldly.
“Uh...what do you do for a living?” I asked. Our emails had been a rapid exchange of one liners, but I realized I knew very little factual information about him.
“Engineer,” he replied.
“What kind of an engineer?”
He didn’t answer me. He stood up and started doing bicep curls with the sugar container.
“You have very well developed arm muscles,” I complimented.
“Yes,” he said. “It is very important to me to stay in shape.”
“I can see that.”
“I guess you don’t work out, though.”
“Sporadically,” I said with dignity, sucking in my stomach again, and shifting in my chair so my thighs would not look too big.
He eyed me up and down again disapprovingly, while switching to tricep extensions with the sugar container. I decided that the half hour courtesy rule did not apply in this case, any more than it had on my second internet date, a year ago. He was not being nice.
Besides, the two girls behind the counter were beginning to snicker at the little bald gnome doing exercises with the coffee shop accessories.
“Well,” I said. “Enjoy your workout. I‘m going to buy a book.”
“A book?” he asked, surprised.
I refrained from saying, “Well it is a bookstore,” and walked away.
“What book?” he called after me. I kept walking, pretending not to hear him.
I went to the mystery section to see if there was anything new by Lawrence Block. Suddenly he was right behind me.
“Is that Block guy a good writer?” he asked
“My favorite,” I told him. 'When you read his books there is always a mystery and you get totally sucked into his writing, you hardly know it is writing, so it's like watching a movie."
“Which of his books should I start by reading?”
I recommended When the Sacred Ginmill Closes
He took a copy for himself off the shelf.
“Well, great to meet you,” he said. “I will call you at 8 PM this evening.”
“Sure you will” I said to his retreating back. But I was pretty sure he could not hear me.
That night was one of those incredible winter anomalies in Oklahoma when it feels like late Spring. I was rocking in the hammock in my yard with only a light sweater on, listening to the waterfall of my pool when my cell rang.
“Hello?” I said.
“It’s Terry.” he said.
“Hi Terry, “ I said, staring at the mouthpiece in some surprise.
Think about this. If I like a guy and he says he will call me he never does. Is the opposite always true, even if he made it clear he thought I was fat? I glanced at my watch. Not only had he called me, he had called me at exactly 8 PM when he said he would. To my great surprise at the time. Extraordinary.
“I thought you might like some feedback,” he explained.
“Feedback?” I asked.
“First of all,” he said, “I found it to be very disappointing that you would show up for a date wearing blue jeans. It does not suggest that you care very much about your appearance.”
Oh, Lord. Everybody in Barnes and Noble in Oklahoma City on Saturday afternoon except him had been wearing jeans. He was the one who was a fish out of water, he looked like a guy who had come to fix the computers.
“Well, thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep your advice in mind next time I dress for a date.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Not at all. I’ll buy a dress.”
“The other thing,” he said, “is that I am not at all attracted to you.”
“OK,” I replied. “Cool.” I was too amazed to be stung.
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No, hey,” I said soothingly. ” It’s OK. We can’t help who we are or are not attracted to, its fine. ”
“All right,” he said. “In that case, I do have some more feedback for you, but I have to warn you this isn’t necessarily going to be pleasant for you.”
“You know,” I said regretfully, “I have to go now. I’m late. Maybe we can talk some other time.”
“What are you late for?” he said.
“Uh....dinner,” I hurriedly came up with.
“Try not to overeat,” he replied. “I think you outweigh me.”
“Thanks,” I said, “I’ll be careful. Bye.”
That night I was on my computer, and he emailed me.
Dear Della: the email said. I am very sorry if I hurt you very badly. I could tell that you were extremely attracted to me, by the way you smiled when you sat down, and I just did not feel the same way. There is just no way I could date a woman who does not work out on a regular basis and eats too much. I hope that you do not hate me for this, but it’s just the way it has to be. Terry.
I wrote him back:
Dear Terry: I enjoyed all your letters to me, you are a gifted writer, it is a little odd, that in person you seem very different than the guy I was corresponding with for the last many weeks. But no harm done. I will just remember our letters and in that context I will never hate you.
Love, Della.
Two days later another email came:
Della:
This will be very hard for me to put into kind words. Sometimes it is best tto be direct. You must never write to me again. You are obsessed with me, and I can’t tolerate it. I am sorry that you are in love with me, but there is no way that I can help you in any way. Please do not contact me again.
Terry.
PS (I am not the same person you were writing to before. That was my brother. He is married. Stay away from my family).
I stopped using that dating site, but thought I could try some others. That is when I met Will and for the next eighteen months I had a beautiful relationship with a wonderful man of quiet habits, gentle good humor and high intellect. He really did like Art museums, in fact he was an Artist. But he was not effete, no way. He was my type.
He drove a pickup truck, he fixed stuff around my house, and he ran a 900 acre farm and helped his cows deliver babies and went out in the middle of the night to rescue them from ice storms, and repaired his own fences, and harvested hay and made silage, although I am not entirely sure what that is but it sounds macho, doesn't it? Silage. Then one evening, out of the blue he dumped me while rubbing my feet.
This has been described in some detail in my previous column entitled "Take Charge When your Man Dumps You." There, you will find detailed advice about how you can twist the breakup around to get him to say your lines while you say his lines. You will still lose him, but your dignity will remain intact and he might even admire you as he runs screaming away.
A few months later, still a little under the weather because I really loved Will, I found a website that caters to successful professional people, I saw a profile from a nice, reasonable-sounding guy who was unlikely to be brilliant, married, or an artist.
Hello, he wrote. I would be interested in making friends with a nice lady who enjoys some of the same things that I do. I like a quiet cup of coffee on the veranda, long walks, movies, and antiques.
Hello, I wrote him back.
Here are the reasons you might like me:
1. I like coffee
2. I am a good walker
3. I am nice, although not yet an antique
Here are some reasons you might want to kick me off your veranda:
1. I travel a lot, so I might not be in town for your birthday.
2. I am sometimes absent minded.
3. One day, I was minding my own business when I developed cancer. Due to gross negligence on the part of a surgeon my life was saved. My life history is not very orderly.
He immediately wrote me back and invited me to meet him that night at Toby Keith’s Bar.
I arrived at dusk. I had to get to the airport very early the next morning, so I knew I should not stay too long even if I liked this guy. It was extremely windy, so I sneaked in through a side door and sidled into the ladies room to pat down any bald spots in my windblown, thinning hair. Actually I looked pretty good that evening. Ever since my date with the psycho in Barnes and Noble I had been jogging. I was not exactly slender, but I had a healthy glow, a nice shade of lipstick, my tummy tucking jeans, and the conservative but sexy blouse. My best look, regardless of the opinion of Popeye the engineer.
When I came out of the ladies room, I saw a few people in the bar, but most of them were couples. The only single man was a six foot tall behemoth with orange skin, his face partially obscured by a larger than life ten gallon hat.
He was also wearing a neon blue shirt with fringe along the arms, and a purple lanyard that said “Budweiser.” His huge belly was protruding over skinny legs encased in chaps. He saw me and limped across the room in two toned, high heeled cowboy boots that went clackety clack but perhaps were too small for him.
And did I mention his skin was orange?
“Della girl!” he cried ecstatically, hugging me so tightly it knocked the breath out of me. “Surprise! It’s me!”
It was All Businessman from Starbucks, my first date through the internet, now wearing a cowboy suit and pancake makeup to cover his pock marks.
“Oh hi,” I said, edging out of his bear hug and hurrying to the bar. “I’ll have a beer,” I called to the barmaid climbing to safety on a stool. At least whatever he did next would be coming in sideways.
“I’ll just have a coffee.” My companion said, squeezing his massive stomach between the bar and the stool next to me.
"Coffee?" I said.
He grinned, apologetically. “I’ve been sober for 27 days,” he explained.
THEN WHAT WAS HE DOING IN TOBY KEITHS BAR IN A COWBOY SUIT AND PANCAKE MAKEUP?
“Oh, that’s great,” I complimented him. “I’ll have a coffee, too,” I said to the barmaid.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“I like coffee." I said.
And here was my problem. It was an ethical dilemna when you get down to it. He was creepy and he hugged too hard, but he was trying to be nice, so didn’t he deserve a little courtesy in return?
Could I not be a better person than all those bums I had been dating? Have one cordial evening with the guy where nobody had to feel bad?
And he was going through a difficult time, joining AA and hanging out in cowboy bars drinking coffee with the misguided idea that this might be the route to love with the girl who got away?
I am a nice person. I did not have the heart to walk out on him, even after the thirty courtesy minutes were up. So I suffered through two hours of coffee after coffee, straining to make decent conversation.
“OK, well, as I recall you are a businessman.”
“Lately I have been running my dad’s Chrysler dealership.”
“Oh, that sounds interesting.”
“Not really, we’re in Chapter Eleven.”
“Oh...uh....so how does that work? Do people still come in to buy cars?”
“Nobody bought a car from us in the last two years. Not since they moved the exit ramp to the Interstate.”
“Oh....uh....wo what do you do all day?”
“I used to drink.”
“What do you do now?”
“Sit around, watch TV, argue with my Dad, go online and look at the purty girls.”
“Do you have any ideas about what you would like to do next?”
“Retire.”
“What will you do for money?”
“MARRY A RICH DOCTOR!” he laughed and poked me hard in the side.
“Oh, is that really what you want to do?”
“JUST JOKING!” he laughed even louder. “We aint doing so badly for money, Della girl! ”
“I thought you said you were bankrupt.”
“Well...” he lowered his voice. “my dad has a strongbox. And I can’t tell you what’s in it, but lets just say...” he whispered in my ear with breath that smelled like coffee and curdled cream. “Can you guess the price of these boots at Sheplers? These are the genuine leather ones. Now how do you think I could afford these?”
"your dad's strongbox?"
He winked at me.
At 10 PM I thought it would be polite to leave. “Well I have an early flight tomorrow,” I said. “I really should be going now.”
He followed me out to the parking lot, but I was a dating expert by then, and I had parked under a light, not far from the side entrance to Toby Keith’s.
“Can I just give you a little peck on the cheek?” he asked me like a gentleman.
“Uh, sure,” I said.
He wrapped his arms around me (twice I think) and I could smell the pancake makeup and the coffee breath and the curdled cream as he pecked my cheek, then slithered his tongue across my face and tried to get it in my closed mouth. It landed in my nose and I almost choked.
“Goodnight now,” I said sidearming my way out of his embrace. “I have to get up at four AM and I haven’t even packed yet.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I hadn’t ought to have done that. I guess you don’t want to see me again, huh?”
“I promise to email you soon,” I said, opening my car door.
“He leaned on the roof of my car. “I guess you really wouldn't want to see me again. Do you want to see me again?”
“I promise I will definitely email you during my trip,” I said, slowly closing the door to avoid crushing his fingers. Or taking any of them with me.
The next morning, at the crack of dawn, I flew to Dallas and changed planes for London. Cradled in my Business Class seat, I stretched out my feet and wiggled my toes in their fuzzy, warm airplane socks. The flight attendant brought me another pillow and some champagne with a couple of chocolate covered strawberries and asked me if I wanted to be woken up for dinner.
Who wouldn’t want to be fed a meal and offered cognac afterwards while flying across the Atlantic in a cozy reclining chair? Later, I fell asleep with Mozart wrapping himself around my brain as if there was a symphony orchestra under my Bose headphones. I was on my way to give an invited talk on “What’s Wrong With Clinical Trials for Lupus” which would turn out to be a pivotal event in my career, both wonderful and terrible.
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik filtered magically through my dreams.
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