FIRST DATE

                       

A memory struck me the other day of something that would never happen—or at least I hope it wouldn't happen—in today's enlightened world of parenting.

The year was 1950. My parents, who were in their late thirties, made new friends with a younger couple in their mid- to late twenties, Larry and Vangie. My parents had six children, but Larry and Vangie did not have children yet. I was allowed to call them by their first names at the time, and I'm not sure I ever heard their last name.

Anyway, one day Mother told me that Larry wanted to practice being a father, so he had asked if he could take my sister and me to the movies. My sister was eight at the time. I was six. Mother gleefully rubbed her hands together and said, "Bobbie, it's your first date!"

Kids take their parents literally, so in preparation for my "date," I wore what I thought
was my sexiest outfit, a peasant blouse with an elastic neckline that allowed me to stretch it out
for an off-the-shoulder look. I wore a full skirt and my best shoes, and I waited with high
anticipation for Larry to take me on my first date, resenting only that I had to share it with my sister, no matter how much I loved her.

In the end I recall the anticipation much more than I recall the event itself. Apparently Larry had good intentions, took us to the movies, and took us home. Period. I hope. My sister is no longer alive, or I would question her about that day, now that I have an awareness of pedophiles, predators, and those who groom little girls for future abuse. I hope the day was as innocent for her as it was for me. That is, I hope nothing happened that she wouldn't have told me about.

We were lucky that the day turned out to be an innocent gesture, but I am left with questions. Why would an otherwise intelligent mother allow a man to take her two girls off for a full day without supervision? Where was Larry’s wife when it happened? Did she even know what her husband was doing? Did my mother have any inkling of what could have happened to her naïve, gullible daughters if Larry had been a predator?

I am thankful I can say that nothing untoward happened to me that day, and I hope it was the same for my older sister. When the memory came back to me recently, though, I felt a little astonished and ashamed of my six-year-old self. At that age how did I have an idea of what might be sexy to a man? Even worse, I am appalled that my mother, who also is no longer living, would have released her children into the care of an unsupervised man she had known only a few months, and what on earth compelled her to call it a date?

I hope that Larry got a kick out of acting like a father and went on to have children of his own and grew up to be an honest, happy grandfather.

In light of all I know now, though, I have to wonder. What were Larry’s true intentions? Were we girls the first, the “trial abductions” for Larry? Was he really practicing to be a father, or were we just lucky?

Vintage Date

 

The restaurant names in this story are fictional; I cannot remember the real names. The year was around 1984, and I was about forty years old. I felt like a kid, though. Newly divorced, I eagerly sought a soul mate.

I’ll call the guy Vin. Although we had only talked on the phone, he wanted to take me to dinner on our first date. I saw it as a good sign; the man was willing to pay for a meal. As a gentleman should, he asked, “Where would you like to eat?”  He added, “We’ll go wherever you want.”

“Little China,” I suggested. “I like Chinese food.”

“How about The Portico?” he said.

“I’ve never been to The Portico,” I said. I hesitated before I admitted, “I’ve heard it’s a place only old people go.”

“I’ve been there once or twice. It’s pretty good.”

“Okay, if you recommend it, let’s go there,” I said. When I hung up, I pondered what had taken place. He said we would go anywhere I wanted, but he chose the restaurant. I shrugged. I wasn’t adamant about Chinese food, and I didn’t mind trying places new to me.

On the evening of our date I drove twenty minutes into town to meet him. When I was a mile from the restaurant, two cars sped past me, one on each side of me on a six-lane road. The drivers looked at each other when they passed, laughed, and sped even faster down the busy street. I slowed down and let the crazy drivers get farther ahead. I’m glad I did. To the right a car pulled out of Bob Jones University and drove directly into the path of the speeders. Both speeders slammed on their brakes. One driver veered left into oncoming traffic, and cars swerved in crazy ways to avoid hitting him. The car on my right spun his steering wheel and smacked into a fire hydrant. His head almost crashed into the windshield, and the end of his car shot into the air before the vehicle settled to a stop. Water burst out of the hydrant, blasted dozens of feet into the air, and showered the road and the passing cars. The driver who had pulled out of the university exit drove off as if he had nothing to do with the accident, but the speeding drivers were equally as guilty.

I did not know if the driver that hit the hydrant was okay. I’m not a medic, though, so I would have only been in the way if I had stopped. Worse, I could have caused another accident by trying to stop from the middle lane. I drove on, but my hands shook and I could barely catch my breath. When I got out of my car at the restaurant, my knees quivered, but I managed to walk in and meet the man waiting for me in the lobby.

He greeted me with a handshake. I would have preferred a comforting hug. I could feel my insides still quaking from the shock of what I had witnessed.

“I’m Vin,” he said, as if I couldn’t have guessed. “Let’s get seated.”

The hostess beamed when we walked up to her together. “Hi, Vin,” she said. “Good to see you again.”

My insides lurched. Was he a liar? I turned to him. “I thought you said you’d been here only one or two times.”

“Yeah, well, anyway  . . . ” he said, not finishing his sentence.

“Your usual spot?” the hostess asked.

“Uh, yeah, that’s good,” Vin mumbled.

We walked into a quiet restaurant filled with gray-headed people eating silently, confirming the rumors I had heard about the age of the patrons. I needed to vent, so when we sat down, I blurted, “I can’t believe what happened on my way here.”

I must have been visibly shaken, but Vin either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Instead he asked, “What do you like to eat?”

“On the way here—” I began, still needing to unload.

“Let’s order first. We can talk later,” Vin suggested.

I tried to look at the menu. It was a blur. Even with blurred vision, though, I noticed he wore his watch pushed uncomfortably high on his arm, about halfway between his wrist and elbow. Odd.

The server came by and said, “Vin, the usual? Pork chops and applesauce?”

“Uh, sure,” he answered. He looked at me. “What do you want?”

I don’t recall what I ordered. I don’t remember much more about that evening except that we too ate silently. The man had no interest in taking me to the restaurant of my choice or listening to me when I needed to talk. In addition, at about age forty-two, he was already an old man, self-involved and set in his ways.

By the time I drove home, my nerves had settled. I chalked up the evening to another failed attempt to find a decent man, but at least I tried.

We did not have cell phones at that time, so when I got home I called the police department to report that I was a witness to the accident, if the police or highway departments were looking for witnesses.

The officer gave me interesting news. “The drivers are fine. They probably lost their jobs, though.”

“What?”

“You weren’t the only witness, and we’ve learned that the drivers who were racing down Pleasantburg Drive worked together and were in company cars. They both got ticketed for speeding and reckless driving, plus the car that hit the hydrant was totaled. The owner of the company almost lost two cars out of his fleet. He was lucky only one of them wrecked. Anyway, he’s going to fire both men.”

The police officer and I laughed together, and at last I felt some of the tension leaving my body.

Hm. Maybe I should have asked the police officer for a date.

 

Harry Up

As I write this, I’m still reeling from one of my worst dates ever. Nothing horrible happened, thank goodness, but by far this date felt like one of the longest forty-five minutes in history.

Oh, for sure I had clues beforehand that the prospects weren’t ideal, but determined to kiss every frog to find my prince, I ignored the signs. Harry contacted me through an online dating site, and while I didn’t care for the macho identification he used on his profile, the gist of his lengthy, in-depth profile impressed me. He said, “I am a kind, caring, passionate, and independent thinker, in some ways not your typical man…the conversation has no limits,” adding that he was “quite intuitive” and believed in abundance. Abundance is an issue I used to struggle with, before I accepted that there is an abundance of all that we need in life. His word choices made me think the guy may be someone with depth who leaned toward the metaphysical, as I do, so I responded to his brief first message to me.

We wrote back and forth a while, although he wrote mostly one-liners, nothing like his extensive and lyrical profile. After only a few notes from him, I knew someone else had written his profile. Oh, well. I hoped the content was correct, anyway.

Time passed with one-liners from him almost every day, sometimes several a day, mostly simply saying, “Hi.” I asked him to write to me through my regular e-mail address, rather than through the dating website, which I did not check often, and he responded, “If I remember.” He continued to write through the dating website, though.

By the time Harry suggested we meet, I had lost interest, but my “kiss every frog” attitude prevailed. I suggested a nearby Starbucks, where we could sit, converse, and get to know each other. I clearly described where the coffee shop was located.

He responded, “I don’t know where it is. Let’s meet at the thrift store at Highway 5 and 92.”

“Do you mean Park Avenue Thrift?” I asked.

“I don’t know the name,” his note said.

How was I to know for sure which store was the right one? I told him to give me his cell number, in case I was late or in the wrong place. He did, but said, “No text messages.” Hm. The guy didn’t own a phone that would accept a text message? What kind of person believes in abundance but carries a phone so limited that he can’t receive a text message? I chose to ignore the hints.

On the dot I arrived at the thrift store, but no one was waiting outside, although we had said we would meet outside the store. I went inside and looked around, but saw no one who matched the unsmiling photo he had posted on his profile. After a few minutes I walked back outside and called his cell. He answered and said he was there. Where? I looked left and right. No one who looked like his photo was standing in front of the store.

Instead he stepped out of a car in a handicapped spot in front of the building. His car had a handicap sign hanging from the rearview mirror, so he had the legal right to park there, but he strode up to me easily, clearly not physically challenged. I decided not to question him regarding his parking or his health; I had my own issues that I wasn’t willing to disclose.

Like his photo, he didn’t smile. He simply said, “Let’s go inside.”

Once in the store, he fingered some of the purses that were the first items we reached. “Not good ones,” he said. He stopped for a moment, moved a little closer, and conspiratorially whispered, “The best thrift shops are in Buckhead and Sandy Springs, where you can find Coach, Gucci, and other name-brand handbags worth hundreds of dollars for only five dollars.”

Why would he care about women’s purses? I said nothing. The stench of his bad breath made me not want to hear more, anyway. I inched away.

Next he pulled out a pair of women’s pants on a hanger and shook his head. “You can find Ann Taylor, Ralph Lauren, and stuff like that at those other stores.”

First of all, we were in Woodstock, an almost rural area near Atlanta, not Buckhead, a thriving, upscale part of Atlanta. Second of all, I don’t wear designer clothes, but I said nothing.

He finally asked me a question. “Do you ever buy or sell anything on eBay?”

I answered, “I’ve bought things on eBay, but I’ve never sold anything there.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head as if I should know better. “You can make lots of money selling things on eBay.”

“So I’ve heard, but it depends on how you want to spend your time. That’s not how I want to spend mine. Have you ever sold anything on eBay?”

“Not yet, but I’m thinking about it.” He looked off in the distance, as if envisioning his future. “I heard of a woman who sold used purses on eBay. She made as much as twenty thousand dollars in a year.” He continued with several similar stories, ending each one with something such as “He made twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“It depends on how you want to spend your time,” I reiterated.

“Do you like to make money?” Hey! He asked a second question, although again, one that could be answered “yes” or “no.”

“I do, but . . .” I stopped. I didn’t want to repeat myself. I didn’t explain that I hate shopping and that I have no interest in spending my time shopping for and selling tangible items. I don’t want to store and track inventory, fill orders, pack them up, and take them to the post office. I love my career as an editor, selling my expertise without a great deal of scut work. In addition, why is he impressed with twenty-five thousand dollars? How much did it cost for the people to buy and store inventory and post it for sale? How much time did it take the person to locate items, buy them, post them for sale, and fill orders? It could tie up a great deal of money in inventory, be a full-time job, and pay only twenty thousand dollars a year. Ugh.

“So you’re hoping to find things at thrift shops that you can sell on eBay?” I asked.

“I’ve already bought lots of things, mostly car parts for older-model cars, but I haven’t posted anything for sale yet.”

Uh-oh. Do I spot a hoarder? I had already dealt with a prior boyfriend who bought everything from building supplies to office supplies in bulk, stored items from floor to ceiling in his house, and never got rid of or used any of the stuff. Visiting his chaotic, cluttered house used to make me fear I might go insane.

Okay, I digressed. Harry and I were maybe fifteen feet inside the store by that time, and I was ready to go home. How can a couple carry on a meaningful conversation in a thrift store? How do I make a graceful but quick exit? I increased my pace; we had a lot of store to cover, if I was going to make it through the store and out the door. He scurried up behind me. I tried to walk away, pretending to show interest in something he wasn’t interested in and also skipping over an aisle or two, but along he came, still talking about how people made money reselling items on eBay. I realized he had asked me only two questions and appeared to care nothing about getting to know me. Instead he had kept up a steady banter about how to make money selling things on eBay, even though I clearly had expressed no interest.

On through the store we went, my feet getting progressively sore and my mind repeating, “Get me the hell out of here, please, God.” Before we reached the door, he had asked me three questions. The third was, “What’s the name of your dog?” When he told me the name of his dog, it turned out to be the he-man name he’d used for his profile. Okay, that was cute.

The door was in sight. All I had to do was traverse the final disorderly aisle and freedom would be mine. I tried to rush past the toys, but he stopped me at a large bin of model cars, mostly Hot Wheels. He sorted through the pile saying, “Collectors’ll pay big bucks for some of these.”

“But they’re just toys, toys manufactured in the hundreds of thousands, probably.”

He ignored my protest. “This is a nineteen-seventy Camaro Z-twenty-eight. It had a three-fifty cubic engine.” He lifted another. “This is a nineteen-eighty Corvette three-oh-five. I’m surprised they turned this model into a Hot Wheels car. The Corvette didn’t sell well that year. It came out during bad economic times.” He put down the package and grabbed yet another, ignoring my glazed look. “Ah, a two-thousand-four Ford Mustang GT convertible. Cool. This was the fortieth anniversary edition.”

“The only think I care about cars is if they start and run,” I said, turning with longing toward the door.

He held up another bubble pack, pointed to some specific feature, and jabbered on. I no longer could hear anything he said. I was in my own world, my feet and my mind screaming for relief.

Oh God, kill me now. The display stand held dozens more cars. I glanced at my watch and stared achingly at the exit only feet away. Finally I managed to inch forward and reach the door, where I was about to say good-bye, when he spotted a consignment shop next door. It actually interested me, too, so when he suggested we go there, I agreed, wishing I could go without him.

Inside I took a quick trek around, between, and among the cluttered and useless merchandise before popping out the door again.

Out front he said, “Let’s look over there and see what they have.” He pointed to an outdoor flea market in the parking lot.

“I’ve seen enough,” I said, meaning much more than I expressed. I was careful not to say anything encouraging.

“Maybe I’ll see you again,” he offered.

I may have rolled my eyes, but I said nothing and walked toward my car. He started to walk me there, but fell away. Maybe at long last his alleged intuition kicked in.

Why, if he was caring, as his profile claimed, did he not meet me where I first suggested, where we could sit comfortably and have a two-way conversation? Why in heaven’s name would he want to meet a woman for the first time at a thrift store? Why would he prattle on relentlessly about eBay, cars, and car parts, when I showed no interest? Why would he ask almost nothing about me or my interests? In what world did he think that his behavior could attract a woman?

I’ve called him Harry because I desperately wanted to “harry up” and get out of there, and now I’ve bored my readers as much as he bored me.

 

 

 

 

Cleavage Connection

The year was 2011, and I’d been working on losing weight for the hundredth time in my life. At that time I was blogging about my food plan and intentions to lose weight, and the process was working for me. I dropped sixty unwanted pounds before I hit a plateau, and although I gained some of the weight back over the years, I never hit that top weight again.

When I was nearing my lowest weight on that plan, though, I was working out regularly as well as watching my food intake. After a particularly stringent workout one day, I prepared for my reward: a soak in the hot, bubbling spa at the gym. I pulled an old bathing suit out of the bottom of my bag. I hadn’t worn it in ages, because it had always been tight on me. That day not only did it fit well, but it also emphasized my boobs by pulling them together and showing a little cleavage through an open panel down the front. I laughed at my image, because I usually had what my brother-in-law called “clea,” not enough to be considered cleavage.

I thought about a book I was reading about how differently the sexes think. It emphasized that men are wired to size up a woman by her appearance, no matter how much we women may protest that we want to be loved for our brains and our character. Men see large boobs, small noses, a good hips-to-waist ratio, and shapely legs as the most important attributes a woman can have. I looked in the mirror at my body. Ha! I had almost no waist, compared to my hips; I’d always looked more like a fireplug than an hourglass. In the mirror I could see my Jewish nose, cottage-cheese thighs, and boobs that were farther apart than the two sides on the Middle East peace talks, but at least that old, faded, formerly too-small suit smashed my boobs together and gave me cleavage. I sighed and thanked elastic for the assistance. I wasn’t on my way to a fashion show; I was on my way to swim and then soak in the hot tub.

In the pool I swam for twenty minutes without taking a break, and but when I glanced over at the hot tub, my usual reward for being a good girl and working out, four men were in it having a lively conversation. I decided to wait them out. My ideal situation was to have the hot tub to myself, so I could back up to the strong jets for a quiet bubble massage. I didn’t want to hear those men’s conversation or get involved in it. Conversation wasn’t easy over the noise of the jets, and I preferred to be silent and relax after a workout. To wait out the males, I stayed in the pool and did water aerobic exercises for another ten minutes. At last three of the men left the hot tub. I figured the fourth one wouldn’t be far behind, so I waddled my fireplug-shaped, cottage-cheese-riddled body over to the hot tub for my reward and quiet time.

The remaining guy nodded recognition of my presence when I stepped in. I nodded back, but otherwise ignored him and went to my favorite spot in front of one of the strongest jets in the pool. I slid into the hot water, closed my eyes, and released an uninhibited sigh of relief and ecstasy as the bubbles rolled up my back like warm fingers rubbing my well-worked muscles. Through the sound of the bubble jets I heard the guy say something.

“Feels good, don’t it?” he had said.

“Yes, like a massage,” I agreed. I opened my eyes. He wasn’t looking at my face. He was looking at my cleavage. Men!

“Would you like a massage?” he asked, still glancing lower than my chin. [Man talk for “I’d love to get my hands on those tits.”]

I glimpsed at him again. Muscled and fit, probably in his late forties, early fifties, with a large but faded tattoo on his arm of a dog holding heavy dumbbells. Apparently he had been lifting weights for years.

Because we were sitting on a bench, the water hit us both at nipple height. His chest was smooth, tight, and hairless, the way I like a man’s chest, and he had a tan, even though it was early February. His eyes twinkled, and he had a charming smile, but all those physical attributes were canceled out by the fact that he had said “Feels good, don’t it?” I can’t tolerate poor English. Women!

What a quandary! The man had offered me a free massage. I love massages, and with his strong muscles, he would probably give me a good, strong massage, but should I say yes to a complete stranger, and in a hot tub? My mind went a mile a minute. First I felt flattered; so few men flirt with a woman who is overweight and in her sixties. I had evolved, worked on my body, improved it a great deal, even if I had much further to go, and as a result, a man was flirting with me. Flattered. Next, though, I felt insulted. He had no interest in my mental acuity, my character, my skills as an editor, my accomplishments as an entrepreneur. All he could see was my cleavage, which took precedence over all else, and it was falsely created by wearing a suit with a peek-a-boo panel. Lastly, I felt a little afraid. What if I let him rub my shoulders? Would his hands stray to my cleavage? That’s all he seemed interested in, anyway. How should I respond? I answered in an indirect way and said, “I don’t think that’s a part of what this gym has to offer.” [Woman talk for “I’m saying no, but in a way that won’t offend you.”]

He grinned and dropped his head coyly, but he didn’t pursue the issue. Instead he asked, “Do you work out with anybody?” [Man talk for “Are you available?”]

“I usually come alone, although I sometimes join friends,” I answered. “I’m used to doing things alone.” [Woman talk for “Yes, I’m available.”] I’m human; I couldn’t resist his flirtations completely.

“I saw you swimming. I swam for twelve years when I hurt my back and couldn’t lift weights, but I’m better now.” [Man talk for “I’m virile and ready to stand at stud.”]

“I noticed your tattoos. You must be a weightlifter.” [Woman talk for “I can see that you are virile and strong.”]

He lifted his well-endowed bicep and pointed to the vicious-looking dog. “Yeah, I’ve had this tattoo so long the dog’s turned into a poodle.” [Man talk for “I’m old enough for you, babe, and I can be gentle, like a poodle. You’ll love it.”]

I responded, “Hey, I have a poodle, and when you have a poodle, you’re never alone.” [Woman talk for “Love me, love my dog.”]

“I like dogs.” [Man talk for “I’ll tolerate your little yap-yap if it gets me what I want.”] He giggled and added, “I don’t know what happened, but since you walked into this hot tub, my shorts started acting up.” [Man talk for “I have gotten an erection from looking at your breasts.”]

“I know,” I answered. “My suit fills with air, too.” [Woman talk for “I don’t want to know about your darned erection; keep that information to yourself.”]

He blatantly glared at my bosom, grinned sheepishly, and said, “Those ain’t air. I can tell they’re real.” [Man talk for exactly what he said, without any regard for or knowledge of the fact that he has insulted the woman.] He then stood, raising his body out of the water and displaying the vast difference between the broad width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. [The male display/mating dance.] He adjusted his waistband and sat back down.

Although shocked that he would say something so blatant about my boobs, I laughed inwardly at what turned out to be a typical male. After his display, if I stood, he’d see that I have almost no waistline. He’d see the blubbered Bobbie. I didn’t stand. [The female attempt at hiding anything that isn’t an asset.]

We talked a little more; I learned he’s a bricklayer, which explained the tan. He learned almost nothing about me; men fail to ask personal questions when their focus is strictly on cleavage. He finally rose and left the hot tub, saying he enjoyed talking to me, and I was left to relax into the harmless bubble massage I had earned.