Finding myself single again and the wrong side of young, I realised meeting anyone new wasn’t going to be easy. A friend invited me to a social evening but it seemed full of elderly widowers overpoweringly desperate to find a wife. I couldn’t wait to escape home again.
I tried a walking group but the effort of making polite conversation while slipping and squelching though muddy fields in the rain wasn’t very appealing, so wasn’t repeate.
Quite a few friends, I discovered, met their partners on dating sites. So armed with my credit card, I agreed to part with a certain amount of money each month, created a profile and started sifting through my matches. Taking a deep breath, I penned a few, hopefully attractive, messages, eagerly anticipating responses tumbling into my inbox….silence. Even a no thank you would have been better than the empty feeling of being ignored.
Eventually, a couple of guys did express an interest in my profile. There was the one who couldn’t make his mind up between his ex and dating. He contacted me, arranged to meet but cancelled a few days beforehand as his wife had asked him back. Two weeks later he messaged me again saying that it was over with his wife and he wanted to meet me. Alarm bells should have started ringing but I was prepared to give him a chance. We fixed a date in a pub locally one Thursday straight after work.
I hadn’t expected “Mr Fit” of my dreams since I’d seen his photo. However, he must have used one that was about ten years old. Still, I thought I’d not judge the book by its cover andwould see what he was like as a person. Conversation was hard work. I hadn’t eaten much all day and wine seeped straight to my brain. Needing a distraction, I suggested dinner. He looked uncomfortable, mumbled some excuse about being tired and rushed out of the door leaving me sitting like an idiot, wondering what I’d said wrong. Maybe he thought I was expecting him to pay for the meal and panicked. A bit overkill as the pub was only a Wetherspoons.
I did follow up with an email asking why he abandoned me. His apology was an excuse about his head being all over the place, confusion over his ex-wife. Then two weeks later he emailed again, saying it was definitely over with his ex and he wanted to meet me again. No chance.
Then there was the dodgy psychologist (who had written books on cognitive therapy) but had no clue how to approach a first date. Attempting to ram tongue down my throat within five minutes of meeting, before even buying a round is not a great start. He was very creepy. I would hate to discuss any psychological problems with him. There was no second date.
There is one positive bi-product of these no hope evenings. The dating experiences do make good material for writing and I’d like to finish with this one.
His picture shouted Ferrari
sleek, red, sexy
but he arrived in a beat-up golf,
glove compartment held with gaffer tape.
In the pub
I drank white wine,
he sipped tonic water
creating drama with long fingers when he spoke;
words gushing like a waterfall sparking rocks.
We scratched the surface of conversation
tasting the honey of common threads
to keep the evening flowing.
You’re not like other girls I’ve been out with
he told me once, twice, more.
lubricating feeling with another bottle of white,
as his hand moved to my inner thigh.