by J. M. Mason
Deciding to join the service was difficult. The disclaimer at the bottom indicated that there was no guarantee I would find a match, nor were they responsible for the choices of the client for a match; the client meant me. The disclaimer indicated if I didn’t jump in with both feet I would never know if any of the men were a great match for me or not.
After careful consideration, I decided I didn’t have anything to lose because the method I was using wasn’t working, and this was no different. If I joined, then I wouldn’t flounder without help, and I wouldn’t be alone in my journey to love, what did I have to lose?
So, I jumped in up to my neck, with the hope that the ladies had a firm hold on the lifeline, I would either sink or swim. This became an unfortunate thought.
After filling out multiple forms concerning my likes, the parts of me that make others want to throttle me, those things that make me happy, and all things that more than likely are no one’s business.
I gave them a recent photo of myself and wrote a check for the mandatory fees for the privilege of being listed in the Profile Book, which was pink for the ladies and blue for the men. Then the fun began, I was taken to the special room. It did indeed look like a posh living room. I got my first peek at the men who were looking for women like me. So, I thought.
The book had more than one-hundred men listed of every color, size, and near my age, give or take ten years either direction. I was on my way to making my own choices about the men in my life. The thought of taking control of my life made me have mixed feelings. Self-doubt and self-control didn’t bond well in my head.
It was satisfying to sit in a comfortable chair and look through the book, like a photo album in the comfort of my own home, yet my living room wouldn’t be messed up with the profile albums scattered about.
The woman who greeted me came into the viewing room to check on my progress. She found me looking at the book on the table before me and noticed that my brows were furrowed in thought.
“My name is Marge, and I’ll be your contact person when you find someone you wish to meet. May I help you? You look so perplexed.”
“I don’t meet any of the wants and needs of the men in these books. How do I decide who to meet if there’s no one that I fit into their profile?”
“The basic idea is to find a mate that meets your needs,” Marge said. “Not that of the men you see in the profiles. We meet someone and the things on paper become something that isn’t going to matter in the end. The idea is to try different types of men to find the one that is a good fit for you.”
I nodded my head to show I was listening, yet I wasn’t clear on the rules. My frown must have tipped her off to my lack of understanding because she came to the sitting area and sat in a chair opposite me.
“Well, let’s narrow the field of choices a bit. What’s the most important thing you want in a man?” she asked.
“Someone who’ll treat me well and has a job.”
“Okay, that’s a start. Do you want a religious man, one that takes an occasional drink, a smoker or non-smoker? What are your preferences?”
“No religious men, that’s too soon for that kind of attribute in a man, no smoker, and one that doesn’t come unhinged when I want a glass of wine.”
“Great, did you look at the one on the page before you?” Marge asked.
“Not yet. I was overwhelmed and quit before looking at his profile. They all began to look the same, and they all want the same things that included big boobs, someone who was younger than they by ten to twenty years, as if they can handle someone like that day in and day out,” I said mockingly. “If you don’t like hunting, fishing, football, and spitting tobaccy juice, you ain’t worth looking at in their opinion.”
“Do you understand how this dating service works?” Marge looked at me with a concerned expression.
“I think so.”
“Let me review the procedure with you. You’ll be picking out one or two candidates per week. The part of the profile that you should focus on is the part about what the men are looking for in a companion,” she said as she watched my reactions to her words. “When you decide on the one you would like to meet, you tell me by writing the number located at the right upper corner of the cover page for each client on one of the forms provided in the front pockets of each of the profile books,” she pointed where to find the client number before she continued. “I’ll give him your request. He’ll have time to check you out from reading your profile. Then he’ll either agree to a meeting, or he’ll reject you. If you’re rejected, don’t take it personally.
“If he agrees to meet you, I’ll give him your name and telephone number, then I call you and give you the same information. The rest is up to you.
“I suggest when you do make a date to meet, you pick a public place during the day. We recommend you take your car when you meet, so you’ll have a means of transportation if the date goes south.
“You must take all precautions to protect yourself. We don’t have any way to know if the men or women are violent from their profiles.
“If you have a problem on a date that makes you frightened or uneasy, please let us know, so we can do an internal investigation of the person to see if that person is someone who we want to be a part of our service.
“Now, with that in mind, would you like to meet the gentleman in front of you?” She pointed to the profile where I became discouraged.
“Is he good for me?” I asked
“How will you know if you don’t take a chance?”
“Well, I guess it’ll be alright to meet him. I don’t have to marry him tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll put in your request, and I’ll call you if he wishes to meet with you or if he wants to pass the opportunity to meet you. Remember not to take rejection personally. The men are also looking for what they feel is the perfect mate for themselves.”
With that said, I was crushed when Marge called me with a rejection. How does one not take rejection personally? When I asked Marge why he didn’t want to go with me, she said it’s better not to know.
“Don’t take rejection personally. It’s not like you’ve met in person. You may come in and look at our profile books at the twenty new men who signed up this week.”
“Do I need to make an appointment to come in and look at the profiles?”
“No, we just ask you not come in when we’re near closing time. We desire to give our clients enough time to inspect the Profile Books so you all can make informed decisions.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you in a few minutes,” I said.
Through the weeks, I was rejected twice more, and I was able to reject a man that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. It seemed that the money I spent to sign up was a waste.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I was becoming discouraged with the dating service, thinking about deleting my profile. Then one day I came home from work to a message on my answering machine asking me to call them at my earliest convenience. Imagine the joy I felt when someone finally wanted to meet me, and you would then know why I was dancing around my kitchen.
Suddenly, I stopped dancing when a thought entered my mind like a ton of bricks. What if Joyous Love was going to drop me from the profile book for lack of interest. How many times am I allowed to be rejected before they notice the moths flying out between the pages of my profile?
The clock on the wall above my dining room table showed it was too late to make it before they closed for the day. Great, now I have to wait until tomorrow to find out if I’m being kicked out of the service or if someone wanted to meet me.
As a result, I spent another Friday night alone with a bowl of popcorn and a sappy movie that made me cry. Why do I watch the love stories instead of comedies? The love stories aren’t helping me feel better about myself. Maybe, I should consider watching a comedy or a thriller in the future.
I couldn’t help feeling that all this was a great mistake. What was I thinking when I decided I wanted
to find someone to spend the rest of my life with?
Being angry with the ex was counterproductive, yet I found myself mentally ranting and raving about my lot in life. It was his fault I found I had to search for someone to share my life with. Could I sustain aimless searching, would my lot in life end as it began?
It was vital for me to find something constructive to do on the weekends because I would sink so deep in a mess of negative thoughts. I knew I wasn’t all to blame for my breakup, he had a massive part in the divorce, yet I wanted him to be guiltless.
I determined that no matter what, I was going to find a hobby or travel or do something else to make the weekends easier on me and anyone else who crossed my path in the city of the grumpy pusses of the world.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sunlight wove its way into my bedroom through the eastern window, pouring through the slats and the edges of the blinds, stabbing into my eyes, it caused me to blink and cover my face with the sheet as I fought my way to wakefulness. Saturday morning was my time to sleep in, but not today.
Mornings aren’t my best time of the day. It takes me a couple of hours to become human after I awaken. Don’t ask me anything important because your answer won’t be what you want to hear.
One of the biggest fights my ex and I had was when he asked me, “Where did you put my golf shoes. I can’t find them.”
“In the freezer.”
“Why would you put them in the freezer? Are you going crazy?”
When he came back to the kitchen from the garage, madder than a hopped-up toad, after looking through all the frozen food and ice packs, he placed his hands on his hips and looked down at me like I’d lost my mind, and he wished to pull off my empty head. He yelled at me. Can you believe it? He was so snarky, and I just wanted to be left alone to drink my coffee in peace and quiet.
“They’re not in the freezer! Where are they? I left them on the floor in the entry by the back door,” he said through clenched teeth.
He acted like I was keeping his danged shoes hostage. When did I become keeper of his shoes?
“The last time I wore them, I put them away,” I said.
With that logical retort from me, the fight was on with a vengeance. I didn’t understand what his problem was, and it wasn’t my business to locate his golf shoes. The keyword here is ‘HIS.’
“OK, where did you put them when you put them away?” he demanded.
His snarky attitude was beginning to get on my nerve. He should have known that my nerves were huddled inside my body, fighting wakefulness.
“Guess!”
He walked to the back door hitting the wall with an open palm as he went, I followed, waiting for him to guess. There, sitting under the bench, was his golf shoes, right where he’d put them the night before. I thought he was going to flip me off his face became so red and the muscles in his jaw scrunched rapidly.
This was his fault, not mine, besides who died and made me responsible for his shoes? Next time, I’ll put them in the freezer to show him who was crazy.
I wandered to the kitchen to make myself a cup of my favorite coffee as I came out of the unpleasant memory. I added half and half to the hot liquid and slathered onion cream cheese on an untoasted bagel. My mind began to clear as I sipped my coffee and nibbled the bagel. Excitement filled me with anticipation.
It was Saturday, and I would get to peruse the male profiles in the profile book, which I called a Catalog because it felt like it did when I looked at the Sears catalog when I was a girl. Shopping for men was no different than looking at the latest fashions on colorful pages in a book. The whole idea of searching for men in a book tickled me.
Excitement filled me with joy as I jumped up from my chair, removed the dishes from the table, and deposited them in the sink, with a promise to wash them after lunch that day, instead of leaving them to gather mold as was my norm. I didn’t want to take the time to clean up my mess until I was able to view the man that chose me from over one hundred women with the same quest as me.
My mind wandered to the possibilities of many of the men I chose to date that were rejected by other women in the service. Does that mean everyone in the dating service is seeking rebuffs and hinging their hopes for a long-term relationship on the mess?
I turned away from the sink with a shrug and hurried toward the bathroom. I stubbed my toe on the kitchen chair in my haste to shower. It’s important to remember to push the chairs under the edge of the table to prevent accidents and to remember that Mom said to not run in the house for a good reason.
Hopping on one foot, I looked at the clock. I didn’t want to be late for the opening of the doors. I was so anxious to see who wanted me and in pain, it didn’t register in my pain-filled, addled brain that there were three hours before the office opens.
“Damn, damn, damn!” I bellowed to the empty house. “That hurt. I hope I didn’t break my toe. Damn, I need to hurry.” I should’ve checked the clock one more time, but I didn’t. My mind was filled with the painful bent toe.
I was dressed and ready by eight o’clock when I hurried down the hallway to the living room. The clock on the wall above the table showed I had two hours before I could get into the dating service office. I had time to clean the kitchen, which took whole five minutes.
“That’s great. What is wrong with me? I hurt my toe for nothing, now what do I do until the office opens?”
I picked up a magazine and impatiently flipped the pages and considered a second cup of coffee, which was vetoed because of not knowing the location of the bathroom at the Joyous Love office, and I was high enough from anticipation. The hands crept slowly around the dial. It was worse than waiting for Christmas when I was a little girl.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Finally, it was ten o’clock, I sat in my car and waited for Marge to get to work like a stalker. I watched her as she stepped out of her car and walked toward the entry, she was unaware she was being followed by an anxious woman in search of a man. Her eyes widened when she saw me standing beside her waiting for her to open the door to allow me to enter.
“Oh, you scared me, where in the world did you come from?” Marge asked holding her hand over her heart.
“I had a message on my answering machine,” I answered. “And I wanted to be here as soon as you opened. I’m sorry I startled you.”
“My, you’re anxious, aren’t you?”
Marge led me into the store, turning on the lights as we made our way to the back of the building to the parlor. I could hardly contain myself, and I wanted to run, not walk to the room ahead of Marge. Yet, I had to wait because I didn’t know where the room was in the dark.
“Please stay here while I go get the information you need to find the profile,” Marge said, eyeing me, and then added, seeing that I was overly excited, “I’ll be right back. Stay here; don’t move.”
I think she was afraid I’d follow her into her office if she didn’t tell me twice to stay put. Waiting isn’t one of my strong points, and it was all I could do to remain in my seat.
It wasn’t long before she returned, carrying an index card in her right hand. With a quick smile, she picked up a profile book, turned the page, and handed it to me with a summary of a man I hadn’t seen before, who very well could be the one to flip up my skirts.
“I suggest you read his profile carefully before making up your mind about him. We’ve made it as easy as possible. Please, look it over closely before you decide.”
I nodded at her with wide eyes and wondered what she was trying to tell me. She didn’t know I looked every profile over closely.
The man’s recent photo looked presentable. He was clean-shaven, and his hair was cropped short in a butch cut. Grandma said a girl could tell a lot about a man by how he combs his hair. I never understood what she meant by that statement, and I just chalked it up with the reason for holding up a pinky finger when drinking tea.
The butch cut made it challenging to know if he was combing his hai
r or not. I wish I knew why that was important. He wasn’t the most handsome of men, yet he wasn’t the worst looking man I had ever seen, he should be good to go out for a cup of coffee.
After reading his profile twice, I agreed to meet him. Marge gave me his phone number along with his name. She told me she would give my number to the man with my full name. The rest was up to us to find a time to meet.
Excitement filled my whole body. I couldn’t wait to have him call me. At last, someone wanted to meet me despite the fact I wasn’t twenty years younger with big boobies.
It was difficult to contain my exhilaration on the drive home. I wanted to stop and shout to the people that someone wanted to meet me. Instead, I was at home, pacing the floor in front of my telephone, begging it to ring as I watched the minutes ticking by, dissolving into hours — just my luck. I’m waiting for a man again.
“I can’t wait another minute for him to call me,” I muttered to myself. “Why hasn’t he called yet? He’s the one who chose me?” I groaned. “Fine! I’ll call him and see if he’d like to get a cup of coffee.”
Dialing the phone with trembling hands and a flock of butterflies fluttering in my belly, I called the number that Marge had written on a card. The phone rang and rang. I was beginning to believe he wasn’t going to answer when a female voice came on the line.
“Hello.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello, what do you want?”
“Is this the number for Henry? I was given this number to reach him.”
“Yes, dearie, I’m his mother, this is where little Hanky lives, can I tell him who's calling, please?”
“My name’s Stella, is Henry in? Please, may I speak with him?” I asked.
She yelled without taking the receiver away from her mouth, “Henry, somebody on the telephone wants to talk to you, are you home?”
There was silence on the line, then I heard his voice. My heart felt like it turned a flip-flop in my chest. I was hooked. His voice was deep and made the butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence up in my tummy, flutter around and around in my belly.
