I thought dating would be a smorgasbord of scrumptious men after my four year relationship ended. The men started coming out of the woodwork, whether through meeting them through friends, arranged blind dates or the occasional reconnection through Facebook (which I hate).
I was flattered, had the upper-hand, and I was going to enjoy the process. But I was quickly reminded of why dating is not what it is cracked up to be.
The Rebound. Everyone has one. You are completely blind and incompetent to make sane decisions during this time. Friends and family should lock you in a padded room after a bad breakup.
But instead I met him….
I cared nothing about him besides his stunningly beautiful blue eyes and muscular arms. Somehow during the course of our dating, I overlooked the ridiculous stupidity that vomited from his mouth or, rather, texts. He would often text acronyms like “bb” which apparently stands for baby. (Why abbreviate a four letter word?!) And my all time favorite, “SMH,” which means “shake my head.” (You don’t know what this does to an English teacher.) No person over the age of sixteen should talk like that.
He was my trainer at the gym. (Note to self: Never date your trainer.) After his countless requests for me to get breast implants and his week-long gambling trip to Vegas which included a lovely picture with a stripper, I realized we were on different pages.
After all, he is ten years older than I; should he still be partying like it’s 1999? I ended it. And he called me 40 times from 2 different phones trying to win me back.
Four months after, he got hitched… probably in Vegas.
The Elderly. “I can’t believe I never thought of setting you up with him,” my dear friend stated eagerly regarding her single male friend. “He’s a lawyer, running for circuit judge and around forty years old,” she continued. I was willing to give it a go at least once, even though I was not keen on the age factor. We met at her house for dinner with friends. He firmly shook my hand and his blue eyes sparkled under his cute ball cap. The conversation was natural, and he seemed like a true gentlemen.
He asked me to dinner the next day. I obliged. We met at a local Mexican restaurant. Walking toward me was a man who looked much older. With his geriatric shoes, pleated khaki pants, and reading glasses around his neck, I was a bit taken aback. Is this the same man? Instead of the cute ball cap, he sported a comb-over, one of the worst I had ever seen. Ten desperate hairs draped across his bald head. “Maybe others will think he’s my dad,” I thought as I spotted several acquaintances.
The conversation was pleasant yet again. We talked politics, religion, relationships, and none of it uncomfortable. Normally, I am very forgiving with looks as long as the personality chemistry is there. But I could not believe this man was the age my friend told me. He never would reveal it… red flag, perhaps? Needless to say, we never went out again.
I later found out he is at least twenty years older, not thirteen. I see him from time to time at church and have thought about setting him up with my mom.
To Be Continued…
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