The Wonderous Dating Game

by J. M. Mason

  Before I left the bathroom, I leaned my head around the corner of the entry to make sure he wasn’t still sitting in the booth or lurking in the hallway waiting to jump out and destroy my being. It was way too dark to tell if he was still in the bar.

  As I sneaked back into the tavern, I signaled Sheila to see if it was safe for me to return to her. I was so disappointed in her, I was so afraid to leave the building alone, and it had become imperative that I trust her to help me now.

  What if this man was a bigger nut case than my imagination showed me, and he waited for me in the parking lot with an ax that dripped blood? He could injure me in all kinds of ways; stabbed, shot, beaten, and finally killed while my sons and friends wouldn’t know who he was to find him.

  “I raised my hand. I kept it up until you saw me and waved at me. I needed your help, and you just waved at me. Why, for Pete’s sake, why?”

  “Oh, you waved your hand, so I thought everything was great. I believe I told you just to raise your hand. Then I saw you jump up, and your eyes were so wide open with what I felt was fear, so I came to check on you.

  “I’m sorry if you think I let you down, but I told you before he came, and when I brought him his drink, raise your hand.

  “I’ll have Jackson walk you out to your car if you’d like to go home now.”

  “Why didn’t you turn on at least one light back there?”

  “Oh, I should’ve told you that they were remodeling in the back, the lights were shut off to replace the wiring. Sorry.”

  “The man was married, and he would’ve had his wife with him to pray for my sinful ways. But his wife had to do the Lord’s work, whatever that is. I was so afraid. I’ve known people who overdid what they thought was their mission in life before, but he freaked me out big time.”

  “I heard him talking loudly, and then I saw you were waving at me, so I just thought he was telling a story, which many men do when they have a beer or two. So, I just waved back to let you know I was watching your back.”

  The look of sheer dumbfoundedness must have painted my face red. I don’t really know if dumbfoundedness is a word or not, but it fits how I felt when she said what she said to me. I couldn’t think of another word more appropriate.

  She did tell me to hold up my hand up to gain her attention. I did wave my hand wildly in the air, which most assuredly has a different meaning. I couldn’t believe I was expected to mind the exact letter of rules that someone else made for me to get help.

  I’ll pay more attention in the future, so I don’t make the same mistake again. Maybe I should get the rules in writing so I can refer to them when the need arises.

  “Please, I’d like to be walked to my car. I don’t know if he went back to his wife to tell her he did good or not. I don’t want to take a chance of being waylaid in the parking lot.”

  Tears filled my eyes and leaked down my face in a tiny river. Jackson gently took my arm and led me outside to my car. His gentleness made me cry more.

  “Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing, I’m doing my job, which is to make sure the clients are safe when they come into our place to relax. Have a good night, and I’m sorry for what he did to you,” Jackson said. “I know that dude, and he acts like he’s chosen by God to save women from finding a husband. His wife is worse. You’re lucky she stayed home. I think she gets off on watching women squirm when her husband does his loud praying for their souls.

  “Funny, I’ve never seen them do this with a man. It makes me wonder if she has a fetish of some kind.”

  I was thankful the date wasn’t a threesome. A threesome would be awkward, and I don’t need that kind of experience to tell my grandchildren.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  As I used the online dating service and understood the unwritten rules of don’t tell the truth about yourself, put a photo of yourself when you were in your twenties online for the public to see, and expect an honest relationship.

  There was a pattern forming in my mind. The men’s wants and needs were different than my plans and demands; thus, I couldn’t fulfill their every dream, causing my failure to find the one man of my dreams and they don’t get the vision of the Stanford woman. This thinking becomes my fault.

  Men in my age bracket either wanted a romp in the hay with big-boobied women, and at least one of the men tried to get me live with him and his wife, so I could satisfy him sexually and help her in and out of her wheelchair. That made me feel wanted and cherished like I was to be a sex slave.

  The men who rejected me because I didn’t want to serve as Mama for their little children, caused me to believe I failed in the woman department. They were honest in so much as they said they wanted a live-in woman to care for the little ones so they could find their soul mate.

  They became upset because I balked and told them to stimulate themselves sexually and leave me alone. I reared my kids to adulthood, and I didn’t want to begin again with a four-year-old who would hate me. The child would want the real Mama.

  Not many men wanted a woman for companionship or friendship. I think, at this point in my dating adventure, I would’ve settled for a pen pal. When I got a letter, I didn’t like I could burn it, rip it up or just throw it in the garbage can and forget about them. A pen pal wouldn’t require I dress for the occasion, or act like a lady, and I could be myself.

  Women and men in the profile books weren’t allowed to view their competition, and they were forbidden to get tips from others seeking a companion. Because of this, there was no way for me to compare the desires of the woman and compare the data with what a man would like.

  It would be interesting to know if we women are just as narrow in our visions of the perfect mate as the men are in their ability to understand what a woman really wants. Spoiler alert: I’m betting we are just as shallow in our aims and wants like any man on the face of the earth.

  Let me count some of the ways that we women show how shallow we are when dealing with romance:

  We want a man with muscles that ripple and glisten in the light, defining every bulge and move, they can make their pecs dance around to titillate us. Yes, oh my goodness, yes, this is my favorite. Do it again, I want more and more of this. Pop! Pop! Pop! Oh, that is so darned good. Enough!

  Romance is a great desire for women — candlelight dinners, flowers, poetry, etc. Know that we women would want the man to eloquently spout the poetry. Sonnets like, ’I was here, you were not, so you are a dirty snot,’ may not be appropriate for the prince charming to gush to his future mate, while sitting side by side under the moonlit sky, yet many men believe the story about the man from Nantucket is poetic.

  Long walks on the beach is a popular desire of many women, it doesn’t matter that most of the nation doesn’t have access to a beach to walk along, yet we list this as something we want in a mate. Why? Can’t we just walk on a treadmill, while viewing a video with the same results? Why must we get sand in our shoes? Then when we want to make mad passionate love on the beach in the moonlight, we get sand in the crack of our hind end.

  Gazing at the stars, meaning we want him to look deeply into our eyes to see the stars dancing because of the love we want them to feel for us. And it also keeps their minds on us alone. My take on this is when a man gazes into a woman’s eyes is that he is noticing the fake lashes hanging as he wonders what else is false.

  I’m sure there are many more things that we desire from our potential mates. Basically, I feel we want to have a romantic relationship that meets the woman’s daydreams, and men want a relationship that matches his wet dreams.

  I wondered if men and women of the middle age bracket were feeling their end of life crisis and loss of the same intensity of sex they had when they were in their teens in the same manner. Were they looking to the future, knowing that it won’t be long before they are sitting in rocking chairs on the porch, aimlessly rocking in the sunshine? Maybe finding a special someone to celebrate their last hoorah is the main reason
to want the impossible.

  I made a mental note to find time to discuss this with Jenny and Jodie when they return from their vacation. I’m sure they’ll agree with my observations on the subject.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Those who are wanting to produce a family may have a different view of the meaning of companionship and friendship than those of us who don’t want to see a maternity outfit for the rest of our lives. The baby bump is overrated.

  Maybe, that’s why I’ve reached the place in my life where I’m disillusioned with the concept of happily ever after. The glow of romance like I found in the romance novels that fed my fantasies is gone forever, killed by the reality of life and my body parts that are falling toward my toes.

  The dating service should have the means of screening persons who sign up for the right to meet someone, yet I don’t think anyone would enroll to use the site if they had to spend more money or answer the questions honestly concerning their legal background: ‘Will I find your name on a list of sexual predators?’

  “You just need to be careful about who you decide to meet,” Jenny said when I broached the subject of meeting men the way I’d been doing a couple of weeks ago. “Go to the grocery store and hang out at the meat counter. Timing is the key to happiness,” Jenny said.

  What was Jenny talking about the meat counter? What does that have to do with dating? I’ll have to ask her the next time I think about it.

  I was surprised when I asked a man who was ten years older than me, why he wanted someone in their twenties or thirties. He told me about thinking about his future and not wanting to go to a nursing home for his final days, and he didn’t want to care for an ailing wife. Those men who wanted to have a companion thought it would be better to have a young one to care for their needs when they needed nursing care in their old age.

  I think this was the one excuse that didn’t just disappoint me, it saddened and angered me. It was an insult to me, who is older, wanting to find someone to love and have that love returned as a partner to the end of my life.

  The man is insulting to the younger lady because he wants her to sentence herself, caring for his medical needs. He visualizes the hands cleaning his urine and feces-soaked body. What he doesn’t see is his face aging as the girl finds she has nothing in common with the old man lying beside her body in bed. Her feelings for him fade as he ages.

  Hell, baby, all the young lady wants is money and lots of it. They want the car you bought when you were going through the mid-life crisis, and she is only thinking about what you can give her, not taking care of you or anyone else in your old age.

  Some men feel old just like women and find the need to find a way to make them look and feel younger by ushering a young spring chicken around the barnyard. If we women want to usher a young cock around, we are part of the jungle and called cougars. This thought brings goosebumps to my arms.

  I think I like being a cougar better than being a chicken. Good for us old gals who were put out in the jungle to stalk and conquer the young men. Then I rethink the issue. I don’t want to raise someone else’s kids to suit myself. I like a man.

  Because my lack of trust I’d developed with the unfortunate dates I had subjected myself to and the credibility of the men seeking women was in doubt, I concluded that online dating is something I must avoid.

  I discussed this with Jenny and Jodie when they returned from their vacations. My mental status was in danger of falling into the bottomless pit of despair because my ego had taken a beating and quit ticking sooner than expected.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Dr. Johnson was out of the office delivering a baby, so we had time to waste with our important concerns with the dating game. Because the temporary help did all the filing that had piled up during the weeks and other things we did when the doctor was out of the office, we found ourselves at loose ends with nothing to do to pass the time, although we hoped that Dr. Johnson didn’t notice that things went better without us, and we pretended to be busy, just in case.

  When I walked into the office that morning, I was feeling mentally deficient and emotionally bankrupt. I was disillusioned in the system, and my hope for a mate was in the quagmire of doubt. I envisioned walking alone through the rest of my life with a dozen cats having babies. At least something in my future will be getting some action.

  My mind was pulled back to the here and now when Jenny’s voice demanded my attention.

  “I was with a dating service until I met John one day at the grocery store,” Jenny said. “We both reached for the same cellophane covered package in the meat counter at the same time. It was like we were drawn to the same one by fate.

  “It wasn’t as if it was the only pound of hamburger in the case, but it was to us at that moment.

  “We stood, each holding one side of the packet of ground beef as our eyes met. It was love at first sight for me.”

  “That explains the comment you made about shopping a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “I was rather confused by that statement and planned on asking you about it.”

  “Yeah,” Jodie interjected. “I did the dating service thing, too. There are more jerks out there than there were at the dance club the other night. I never fit the mold for the perfect female for any of them.”

  “I don’t think the men are so much jerks as they’re little boys looking for their mamas to watch over them,” I said. “When we marry them, we continue to treat them like little boys. We just take over where mama left off when we said I do.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Jodie said. “What do you mean we treat them like little boys?”

  “Well, we get our man water, beer, etc., when they have two perfectly good legs,” I answered. “When he’s sick, we wait on him hand and foot and treat them like babies with a cold.

  “Instead of picking up his Tighty-Whities brown with skid marks, he expects us to do it for him, just like his mother did. He should’ve learned many lessons from his mother, yet she coddles him because he’s a male.” I paused a moment to sip my tea to moisten my throat and continued. “We have a job outside the home, just like the so-called man of the house has a position. Yet, we get to do all the laundry, cooking, cleaning, and the rest of the chores in the home, while he bitches because he needs to keep up the yard work.

  “To top it off, he gets the fun of making a baby, while we hold that child inside our body as the baby deform us with the baby bump. Then we have the pleasure of the hours of ripping pain as the baby tears its way into the world, so we can get up several times in the night because the baby cries and cries.

  “Despite all that’s done for him, we’re thanked by the baby forming the first sound that sounds like Dada instead of Mama. He’s so excited the baby called him Daddy for the first time. Who knows if the baby isn’t telling Daddy to jump in a lake? But no, he goes out to the bar to brag about the smart kid he produced.”

  “Our big macho man comes home from work and complains he is so tired,” Jodie added her two cents. “Order us to get him a beer while he flops down on the couch, moaning and groaning in pain. He yells about us not having the evening meal on the table the moment he walks through the door. I remember my dad doing this when I was a girl.”

  “Why do we take over the work Mom began?” I asked. “Why do we let them get away with it? Who died and made them the lord of the home?”

  “Now I know what you mean about us becoming their Mama’s,” Jodie said.

  There was silence for a few minutes as we were lost in our thoughts about how we differ from men. Suddenly Jenny began to laugh. Jodie and I looked at her like she’d lost her mind or was making fun of us because she was happy in a relationship.

  “What would happen if we turned the tables on them?” Jenny asked. “When we get home from work, we slump down on the couch with our hand in the front of our pants, sing the blues about how hard we worked, and complain because the supper isn’t on the table the minute we walked through the door.

  “W
e ask after batting our eyelashes to have our feet rubbed because we wore the four-inch heels all day. Then, when the food is on the table, we complain it looks like shit, and Mom never cooked a meal that looked and tasted like this poor excuse for a meal.”

  “They would throw a temper tantrum,” Jodie said. “And we would have to clean up the mess they made. I wish we could have a partner in marriage. Yet, in business, one of the partners is bossy.”

  “I remember when my ex and I were married a week,” I said. “And he asked me to bake him a carrot cake. The neighbor lady gave me a recipe she found in an old cookbook, which was very detailed and time-consuming. The carrots were to be cooked until they were soft enough to rice. I had to look up what it meant to rice carrots, which is like mashing potatoes.

  “I prepped everything just like the recipe said to do, mixed the batter like we learned in Home Ec in high school, put the mixed ingredients in the greased and floured pan, then baked it for the length of time called for in the recipe. Then I grated the rind of two oranges and made the orange glaze as directed in the recipe.

  “The house smelled so good as I prepared his favorite dinner waiting for him to walk in and tell me how good the house smelled and how he adored me. Let me tell you, I’m still waiting for those statements.

  “After we ate, I got up, sliced the cake, put a healthy slice on a dessert plate, and set it down in front of him. I turned around and dished up a piece for myself.

  Then he said, ‘What kind of cake is this?’

  ‘Carrot cake, your favorite cake. Do you like it?’ I said.

  ‘It’s OK, but it isn’t as good as the one my ex-wife made for me on my birthday and other special days,’ said my ex.

  “I walked over to the table without saying a single word, took the fork from his hand that held the second bite of cake, picked up his plate, and threw the plate with the slice of cake as hard as I could in the trash and heard a satisfying tinkle as the glass plate broke. Then I picked up the pan with the rest of the cake, along with my plate, and tossed the whole mess into the garbage can.