Three years ago this moment his body had been removed from the house. It wasn't un-expected, but it had all happened so swiftly. The love of my life had passed peacefully into eternity, and I was left with an empty space where all of his vitality had been.
The past three years have been sort of a vacuum. I've gone through the motions of some kind of existence - it's all been pretty blurry - and the only constant has been a persistent ache, as if part of my soul were missing.
It has only been recently that I've felt the unbearable weight of loss begin to ease - and 'me' is returning to me. It's been slow, marked by many pitfalls, but I can feel it happening.
The hardest thing to deal with is hearing the longing in my children's voices. Even though they're all grown up and have children of their own, there is a certain tone that resounds whenever they talk about their dad. I hurt for them. I want to comfort them. Add to that the birth of twin grandsons who will never know the warmth of the love of their wonderful grandfather, and there are times when the poignancy of loss wrings my heart once again.
But we trudge along - and the days become months, then years, and the memories become more precious as we try to hang onto what was. His legacy lives on in so many ways, and the reminders surround me. I thank God that this lovely man made me the mother of his amazing children. I thank God that I can sit in this house, every inch of which he touched, and so much of which he built. I thank God that there is sort of a reverence when people speak of him. I thank God that my husband gave all of us the gift of his love and devotion, his energy, his wisdom, his intensity. I thank God that we have the example of this man's life and his values to cherish. I thank God that he taught us all the beauty and power of the wind and sails. His spirit is in the breezes that blow us along the water.
I thank God that I have so much to be grateful for. From my perspective, it's been an incredibly short journey, but I wouldn't have missed an inch of it.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Milestones or Mileposts (You choose)
Okay, okay. I give in. Daughter and friends keep bugging me to write - and I keep waiting for inspiration.
And it suddenly just hit me: today's date. The third of the month. Exactly two years and nine months to the date. And I wonder why I am obsessing about this. I've always cautioned bereaved friends to honor the birthdates of deceased loved ones, not death dates. And here I am, ignoring my own advice. I don't really understand why.
I think the main reason is that I have thus far failed to "take shape," as it were. I've yet to find a purpose - or a new identity - or some sort of goal. I'm stuck out here in Never-Never-Land, with no real identity of my own. Oh, sure - I have identity, per se, but it's a leftover from the days when I was defined by marriage and "wife-ism." And that was a 24/7 constant. Now I'm a now-and-then grandmother - and a singer in the chorale - and my identity is as "Chuck Parry's widow."
I'm not a "clubber." Women's clubs, garden clubs, book clubs, country clubs hold no appeal for me. And it's always been thus - that's just my personality. And I've run the gamut of church groups, community organizations, political groups. It's the old "been there-done that."
I've thought of volunteering at the animal shelter - but I'm such a sap when it comes to pets, I'm afraid I'll become that "weird old widow who has 40 dogs and 60 cats." I've thought of volunteering at the library - too quiet - and I like to talk and be talked to. No to volunteering at the hospital - too depressing and reminiscent of what I've already been through.
Travel holds my interest - but there is one major drawback: the dog. He's 15 years old now, still grieving the loss of his beloved master - so I have to go somewhere where dogs are welcome, or leave him behind with friends. And if anything should happen to him while I'm away, I'd never, ever forgive myself.
I have one ray of hope - and that is a winter return to Key West. I did that for 3 months winter before last, developed some wonderful friendships and a life of my own - and certainly enjoyed the weather. Nothing like sunshine to chase the blues away - and Key West holds no memories for me as half of a couple. I can take the dog with me - and there is SO MUCH going on in that town all the time. No excuses for feeling bored and/or lonely. I'm hoping to luck-out and find a place to stay that doesn't cost $800 a night.
My other hope is that our 9-month-old twins will cut some teeth and learn to walk before I go away. Those are milestones I really, really don't want to miss. They are at such a cute age, and every new skill or accomplishment is positively endearing.
Another milepost is the clock, which has now passed the midnight mark, and it's time for this weird old widow to go to bed, perchance to dream lovely dreams of a time when life was filled with love and hope. And maybe tomorrow will bring a happier day and a new milepost to discover.
Okay, okay. I give in. Daughter and friends keep bugging me to write - and I keep waiting for inspiration.
And it suddenly just hit me: today's date. The third of the month. Exactly two years and nine months to the date. And I wonder why I am obsessing about this. I've always cautioned bereaved friends to honor the birthdates of deceased loved ones, not death dates. And here I am, ignoring my own advice. I don't really understand why.
I think the main reason is that I have thus far failed to "take shape," as it were. I've yet to find a purpose - or a new identity - or some sort of goal. I'm stuck out here in Never-Never-Land, with no real identity of my own. Oh, sure - I have identity, per se, but it's a leftover from the days when I was defined by marriage and "wife-ism." And that was a 24/7 constant. Now I'm a now-and-then grandmother - and a singer in the chorale - and my identity is as "Chuck Parry's widow."
I'm not a "clubber." Women's clubs, garden clubs, book clubs, country clubs hold no appeal for me. And it's always been thus - that's just my personality. And I've run the gamut of church groups, community organizations, political groups. It's the old "been there-done that."
I've thought of volunteering at the animal shelter - but I'm such a sap when it comes to pets, I'm afraid I'll become that "weird old widow who has 40 dogs and 60 cats." I've thought of volunteering at the library - too quiet - and I like to talk and be talked to. No to volunteering at the hospital - too depressing and reminiscent of what I've already been through.
Travel holds my interest - but there is one major drawback: the dog. He's 15 years old now, still grieving the loss of his beloved master - so I have to go somewhere where dogs are welcome, or leave him behind with friends. And if anything should happen to him while I'm away, I'd never, ever forgive myself.
I have one ray of hope - and that is a winter return to Key West. I did that for 3 months winter before last, developed some wonderful friendships and a life of my own - and certainly enjoyed the weather. Nothing like sunshine to chase the blues away - and Key West holds no memories for me as half of a couple. I can take the dog with me - and there is SO MUCH going on in that town all the time. No excuses for feeling bored and/or lonely. I'm hoping to luck-out and find a place to stay that doesn't cost $800 a night.
My other hope is that our 9-month-old twins will cut some teeth and learn to walk before I go away. Those are milestones I really, really don't want to miss. They are at such a cute age, and every new skill or accomplishment is positively endearing.
Another milepost is the clock, which has now passed the midnight mark, and it's time for this weird old widow to go to bed, perchance to dream lovely dreams of a time when life was filled with love and hope. And maybe tomorrow will bring a happier day and a new milepost to discover.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Summoning Courage
Summoning Courage
My devoted daughter has been relentless about my writing. "Mom, all my friends are waiting for your next blog. Mom, you've GOT to write something. Hey, Mom, you haven't written on your blog for months."
I know. I know. And truth to tell, it's been because I've been afraid. Afraid of what, you might ask? I can't really define it. Afraid. Afraid of almost everything - and I really don't understand why. I suspect it's one of the "phases" of grief, but I'm not sure.
I've been trying so hard to be brave. Trying so hard to adapt. Trying to cope. Trying to accept the alone-ness - and trying so hard not to sound like some mewling, self-pitying whiner. That gets very old for other people, very quickly.
Most of the time, I'm fairly successful - at least, when I'm out where someone can see me. But I had a sucker-punch meltdown the other night that hit me totally out of the blue when I was here alone. First, I'd been feeling kind of "down"' all day, for no discernible reason - and then I stumbled into a movie on HBO that was so reminiscent of my relationship with my husband - and the memories and the "poor me's" just rolled over me and left me flailing about in an ocean of tears.
I've always said that tears are God's release valve - at least, that's what I say to my friends, but I hate that feeling of being on an emotional bender. I feel so weak, so vulnerable, with no one to comfort me but me. I feel like a child who can't be consoled - and I hunger for someone to hold me. Just hold me and rock me - calm me - reassure me. An inner voice wailed, "I want my husband back!"
And then the grown-up side of my soul kicked in. "Suck it up, Woman. He's not coming back. Not ever. Deal with it!"
Miraculously, I did. I dealt with it. I hauled myself up and out of the hog-wallow of tears and heartbreak and emptiness - and the rawness began to abate. Once again, I don't know how or why - maybe it was that "release valve" I'd preached to so many others. Maybe it was a change in the barometric pressure. Maybe it was the fact that in talking to my daughter the next morning I learned that she, too, had had a rough day the day before. Who knows?
Whatever, I've broken through whatever wall I'd constructed around my fragile self - and I've summoned the courage to tell you the REAL reason I've been so silent. The muse is waking up again, and I hope I'll be able to get back to the therapy of writing - because that's why I started this blog in the first place.
I think my courage has come back. I just pray it stays with me.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Date #2
Date #2
Mr. On-Line Date #1 didn't work out. After breaking two subsequent luncheon dates with me, he sent me a very polite e-mail, stating that distance was the culprit, since he lives almost 2 hours away. Ah, well... It's been a lo-oong time since I've had to deal with romantic rejection - and this one stung.
So I screwed up my courage one more time and went back to the on-line parade of too-young and too-old men - more muscle shirts and motorcycles - more English-as-a-second language - and more inappropriate overtly sexual messages. And then, along came a candidate. I had to sort of "pursue" him, as he seemed a little reluctant. Another one blaming "distance" as the hurdle. I assured him that I wasn't all THAT far away, and a meeting point was easily just an hour's drive for each of us.
He finally relented, and we set up the meeting date and place for lunch. It was a miserable, cold, rainy day - but I pressed on. We met in a lovely restaurant, and a three-hour lunch ensued. He was delightful, funny, interesting, and I didn't have to DRAG conversation out of him. He was also easy on the eyes - tall and attractive, well-spoken - and I'd learned during previous e-mails that he could spell and punctuate, which is a 'plus' in my book.
And date #2 came along this past weekend - here in my town, with a cabaret fund-raiser on Saturday night and a food festival on Sunday afternoon. It was the first weekend in almost 2 1/2 years that I haven't sat glued to the TV and feeling unutterably lonely. He was comfortable to be with - and seemed to enjoy himself. I was happy to introduce him to friends around town - and my surviving 15-yr-old dog fell in love with him.
So maybe there's hope after all - after this long, cold and empty winter. The air is filled with the newness and lushness of spring - and just maybe this will be a beginning of whatever. I feel the seeds of a nice friendship, even if it doesn't progress any farther - and I'm not intimidated by the "distance." (Hell, I'm an old California girl, accustomed to driving for HOURS to get somewhere I want to be.) I'm cautiously optimistic, and full of hope. So we'll see where it goes...
Mr. On-Line Date #1 didn't work out. After breaking two subsequent luncheon dates with me, he sent me a very polite e-mail, stating that distance was the culprit, since he lives almost 2 hours away. Ah, well... It's been a lo-oong time since I've had to deal with romantic rejection - and this one stung.
So I screwed up my courage one more time and went back to the on-line parade of too-young and too-old men - more muscle shirts and motorcycles - more English-as-a-second language - and more inappropriate overtly sexual messages. And then, along came a candidate. I had to sort of "pursue" him, as he seemed a little reluctant. Another one blaming "distance" as the hurdle. I assured him that I wasn't all THAT far away, and a meeting point was easily just an hour's drive for each of us.
He finally relented, and we set up the meeting date and place for lunch. It was a miserable, cold, rainy day - but I pressed on. We met in a lovely restaurant, and a three-hour lunch ensued. He was delightful, funny, interesting, and I didn't have to DRAG conversation out of him. He was also easy on the eyes - tall and attractive, well-spoken - and I'd learned during previous e-mails that he could spell and punctuate, which is a 'plus' in my book.
And date #2 came along this past weekend - here in my town, with a cabaret fund-raiser on Saturday night and a food festival on Sunday afternoon. It was the first weekend in almost 2 1/2 years that I haven't sat glued to the TV and feeling unutterably lonely. He was comfortable to be with - and seemed to enjoy himself. I was happy to introduce him to friends around town - and my surviving 15-yr-old dog fell in love with him.
So maybe there's hope after all - after this long, cold and empty winter. The air is filled with the newness and lushness of spring - and just maybe this will be a beginning of whatever. I feel the seeds of a nice friendship, even if it doesn't progress any farther - and I'm not intimidated by the "distance." (Hell, I'm an old California girl, accustomed to driving for HOURS to get somewhere I want to be.) I'm cautiously optimistic, and full of hope. So we'll see where it goes...
Sunday, February 10, 2013
The First Date
Well, it finally came to pass. The first date. After an unfortunate false start that had me wondering if I'd made a mistake - schedule conflict, his - disappointment, mine - we re-grouped and and finally set the date and the meeting point.
The activity was my idea. A dear friend of mine, a genius flutist, was giving a concert about 90 minutes from here, and I really, really wanted to go. So my "blind date" and I made plans to meet for an early supper, and, as I said, if we decided we couldn't stand each other, he could then go his way, and I'd go to the concert by myself. Otherwise, we'd go to the concert together.
With a week to plan for this auspicious event, my friends and family began to circle the wagons around me. Barbara warned me to guard my emotions, my children cheered me on, Mary Grace wanted to arrange for a phone call an hour into the date in case I needed an escape route, and my wacky friend, Elaine, started giving me warnings: Don't get into a car with him, take a blanket, water and food in the car (in case of a breakdown), be sure to take my cell phone - and she'd stand by and notify the state police if I somehow disappeared. And what was I going to wear, she demanded to know. (She was not amused when I said I thought I'd wear my see-through Bob Mackie evening dress festooned with rhinestones and crystals.)
I tried to stay calm, but cripes! I hadn't been out on a "date" since 1963! My date and I exchanged text messages and e-mails during the week, and finally nailed down a time and place to meet, describing what our cars look like. Since I really had no idea of where I was going, I went out and bought a new GPS, as my old one had become hopelessly outdated. I was going to have to navigate the outskirts of Washington, DC, which is a daunting task at best, even when you know the area.
THE day arrived, and things went so smoothly - too smoothly - so that I was sure I was going to have a flat tire, or a traffic jam-up on the Bay Bridge to screw things up. I needn't have worried. It was a bright, sunny day, I decided to wear black with a look-at-me-red sweater - a little touch of eye shadow - a little spritz of perfume. I fed the dogs and got them settled, and off I went, right on schedule. Maintaining a death grip on the steering wheel, I concentrated on what the GPS, aka "Myrtle," was telling me to do. My date sent me a text message telling me he, too, was on his way, and he "couldn't wait" to meet me. (As if I didn't already have enough butterflies!)
And suddenly I was there! And he was there, leaning against his car, waving, with a big smile on his face. All of Elaine's admonitions about not getting into his car went out the window immediately, (did I mention that he and I had previously spent more than THREE HOURS talking on the phone with each other a couple of weeks ago?) He knew where to go, about 10 blocks away, to a neat little restaurant in Chevy Chase - so I hopped in with him and off we went.
It was another three-hour event. The conversation came easily, comfortably - it was as if we'd known each other for years, rather than hours. The waitress kept checking on us - and he said, "We're going to be here for awhile."
"Yes," I added, "We haven't seen each other for a lifetime." We both laughed.
We went on to the concert together, and it couldn't have been more perfect. David-the-flutist was magnificent - I've known him since he was in elementary school with my daughter, and I've kept track of him as his musical career has developed. My date and I loved the music, happily closing our eyes and listening as David's magic flute transported us somewhere out in Never-Never-Land. (I highly recommend a flute-and-piano concert for a first date, if you're both into classical music.) The reception afterward afforded time for a wonderful reunion with David, and introductions all around - and a cupcake and some apple juice and/or wine.
And all too soon, it was time to say good-night and part company. At my car, I just easily stepped into his outstretched arms for a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek - it felt natural and comfortable - and we both went our separate ways. We talked on the phone while we were both en route to our homes, and the conversation was full of plans for our next get-together.
So my instincts were right - this was a "good guy" - interesting, fun, gentlemanly, enthusiastic about life - and please, God, let there be date #2. It's so nice to have something to look forward to.
Well, it finally came to pass. The first date. After an unfortunate false start that had me wondering if I'd made a mistake - schedule conflict, his - disappointment, mine - we re-grouped and and finally set the date and the meeting point.
The activity was my idea. A dear friend of mine, a genius flutist, was giving a concert about 90 minutes from here, and I really, really wanted to go. So my "blind date" and I made plans to meet for an early supper, and, as I said, if we decided we couldn't stand each other, he could then go his way, and I'd go to the concert by myself. Otherwise, we'd go to the concert together.
With a week to plan for this auspicious event, my friends and family began to circle the wagons around me. Barbara warned me to guard my emotions, my children cheered me on, Mary Grace wanted to arrange for a phone call an hour into the date in case I needed an escape route, and my wacky friend, Elaine, started giving me warnings: Don't get into a car with him, take a blanket, water and food in the car (in case of a breakdown), be sure to take my cell phone - and she'd stand by and notify the state police if I somehow disappeared. And what was I going to wear, she demanded to know. (She was not amused when I said I thought I'd wear my see-through Bob Mackie evening dress festooned with rhinestones and crystals.)
I tried to stay calm, but cripes! I hadn't been out on a "date" since 1963! My date and I exchanged text messages and e-mails during the week, and finally nailed down a time and place to meet, describing what our cars look like. Since I really had no idea of where I was going, I went out and bought a new GPS, as my old one had become hopelessly outdated. I was going to have to navigate the outskirts of Washington, DC, which is a daunting task at best, even when you know the area.
THE day arrived, and things went so smoothly - too smoothly - so that I was sure I was going to have a flat tire, or a traffic jam-up on the Bay Bridge to screw things up. I needn't have worried. It was a bright, sunny day, I decided to wear black with a look-at-me-red sweater - a little touch of eye shadow - a little spritz of perfume. I fed the dogs and got them settled, and off I went, right on schedule. Maintaining a death grip on the steering wheel, I concentrated on what the GPS, aka "Myrtle," was telling me to do. My date sent me a text message telling me he, too, was on his way, and he "couldn't wait" to meet me. (As if I didn't already have enough butterflies!)
And suddenly I was there! And he was there, leaning against his car, waving, with a big smile on his face. All of Elaine's admonitions about not getting into his car went out the window immediately, (did I mention that he and I had previously spent more than THREE HOURS talking on the phone with each other a couple of weeks ago?) He knew where to go, about 10 blocks away, to a neat little restaurant in Chevy Chase - so I hopped in with him and off we went.
It was another three-hour event. The conversation came easily, comfortably - it was as if we'd known each other for years, rather than hours. The waitress kept checking on us - and he said, "We're going to be here for awhile."
"Yes," I added, "We haven't seen each other for a lifetime." We both laughed.
We went on to the concert together, and it couldn't have been more perfect. David-the-flutist was magnificent - I've known him since he was in elementary school with my daughter, and I've kept track of him as his musical career has developed. My date and I loved the music, happily closing our eyes and listening as David's magic flute transported us somewhere out in Never-Never-Land. (I highly recommend a flute-and-piano concert for a first date, if you're both into classical music.) The reception afterward afforded time for a wonderful reunion with David, and introductions all around - and a cupcake and some apple juice and/or wine.
And all too soon, it was time to say good-night and part company. At my car, I just easily stepped into his outstretched arms for a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek - it felt natural and comfortable - and we both went our separate ways. We talked on the phone while we were both en route to our homes, and the conversation was full of plans for our next get-together.
So my instincts were right - this was a "good guy" - interesting, fun, gentlemanly, enthusiastic about life - and please, God, let there be date #2. It's so nice to have something to look forward to.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
The Dating Game
Okay - it's been a little over two years now, and although the LAST thing I want is another husband, I'd sure love to meet someone to at least go to the movies with. He doesn't have to be an Adonis - just someone reasonably intelligent with a sense of humour, who understands words of more than one syllable. So I take a deep breath and sign up for a journey into the vast mysterious world of on-line dating. On the advice of a friend, I sign up on one of those over-50 sites, which promises "perfect" matches and love and romance beyond my wildest dreams. Well, hey, who wouldn't want that?
So I fill out the "dating history" form - (what "dating"? I was married for the better part of 50 years, and whatever dating I did prior to that is pretty dim in my memory - except that in those days we had "rules," about what "nice" girls did and didn't do.) And I go through all the choices about who/what I'm looking for, age ranges, and geographical distances. And what are my interests? And do I like children? What do I read, what movies do I like? Do I like dogs? Blah-dee-dah-dee-dah. I specifically state that I am NOT looking for marriage, and I have an aversion to men in muscle shirts who ride motorcycles. I am painfully honest about my age, # of children, # of grandchildren, and indicate that I'm looking for someone who is well-read and has some vitality.
Well, Holy Moley! There was no way I could have known what I was getting into. Each day, when I opened my e-mail, there would be 5 "matches" awaiting my perusal. Now don't get me wrong - I LOVE men. But I've found myself wondering if these guys have ANY idea of what appeals to women. Some of the pictures defy description. Others show some guy squinting into the sun with a decidedly angry look on his face. Some look like those "Wal-Martian" horrors we all share on the internet. Some guys have teeth, some have so much facial hair you'd be hard-pressed to define any facial features. Some are these old codgers proudly holding up a freshly-caught fish. (Yeah - now THAT'S really appealing.) Some are dressed like pimps we see in the movies. And my favourites are the guys in "do-rags" and muscle shirts proudly standing astride or in front of their gleaming Harleys. Some wear gold chains and earrings - others look like Hell's Angels. Or axe-murderers. One guy's photograph just showed his bald head, his eyebrows, and the tops of his glasses.
As time went on, I found a very few that piqued my interest, and availed myself of the "Send A Message" service. Most didn't respond, and those who did seemed to have a major literacy problem. What I ultimately realized was the seemingly illiterate ones were immigrants - and English was their second language. That didn't bother me so much - I understand how tough the English language can be for those who didn't grow up speaking it. What did bother me was what I've come to believe is a cultural difference. These guys immediately launch into barely-understandable poetic word images of love and passion, expressing their desires to show ME how beautiful I am! And how I am a "treasure" to be cherished and loved and "caressed." Huh? What?!! Wait just a minute here! Who said anything about "caressing?" The only thing I know about you, pal, is that you're 68, and you live in Dundalk! You want "caressing," you'd better choose another stranger. Good grief!
I switched dating sites. The pickings were moderately better, although one of the latest candidates lives so far down south, he'd have to have a Lear jet to meet me for coffee. He's also an absolute "hunk," whose photos look professionally produced - and he's looking for someone to help him raise his motherless teenagers. The red warning flags are waving in my brain. Do I look like a football player from Notre Dame?
All hope rests on a man who seems to be a "regular guy." No fish, no motorcycles, no earrings - and not one word about "physical chemistry," passion or "caressing." English is his native language. He's in the right age range, geographically feasible, intelligent-looking, and interesting. We're going to meet at a half-way point for lunch this weekend in a very public restaurant, and we'll see what comes of it.
The inner me wonders how I came to slide down this rabbit-hole - and it's hard not to feel sorry for myself. What am I doing here? How many Tweedle-Dums and Tweedle-Dees will it take to find a movie companion for this aging grandmother who'd just like to have some fun? I have plenty of "chemistry" in my daily pill regimen - and my dogs love to be caressed. I'm passionate about my grandchildren and good music. It'd just be nice to have someone to share it all with.
Okay - it's been a little over two years now, and although the LAST thing I want is another husband, I'd sure love to meet someone to at least go to the movies with. He doesn't have to be an Adonis - just someone reasonably intelligent with a sense of humour, who understands words of more than one syllable. So I take a deep breath and sign up for a journey into the vast mysterious world of on-line dating. On the advice of a friend, I sign up on one of those over-50 sites, which promises "perfect" matches and love and romance beyond my wildest dreams. Well, hey, who wouldn't want that?
So I fill out the "dating history" form - (what "dating"? I was married for the better part of 50 years, and whatever dating I did prior to that is pretty dim in my memory - except that in those days we had "rules," about what "nice" girls did and didn't do.) And I go through all the choices about who/what I'm looking for, age ranges, and geographical distances. And what are my interests? And do I like children? What do I read, what movies do I like? Do I like dogs? Blah-dee-dah-dee-dah. I specifically state that I am NOT looking for marriage, and I have an aversion to men in muscle shirts who ride motorcycles. I am painfully honest about my age, # of children, # of grandchildren, and indicate that I'm looking for someone who is well-read and has some vitality.
Well, Holy Moley! There was no way I could have known what I was getting into. Each day, when I opened my e-mail, there would be 5 "matches" awaiting my perusal. Now don't get me wrong - I LOVE men. But I've found myself wondering if these guys have ANY idea of what appeals to women. Some of the pictures defy description. Others show some guy squinting into the sun with a decidedly angry look on his face. Some look like those "Wal-Martian" horrors we all share on the internet. Some guys have teeth, some have so much facial hair you'd be hard-pressed to define any facial features. Some are these old codgers proudly holding up a freshly-caught fish. (Yeah - now THAT'S really appealing.) Some are dressed like pimps we see in the movies. And my favourites are the guys in "do-rags" and muscle shirts proudly standing astride or in front of their gleaming Harleys. Some wear gold chains and earrings - others look like Hell's Angels. Or axe-murderers. One guy's photograph just showed his bald head, his eyebrows, and the tops of his glasses.
As time went on, I found a very few that piqued my interest, and availed myself of the "Send A Message" service. Most didn't respond, and those who did seemed to have a major literacy problem. What I ultimately realized was the seemingly illiterate ones were immigrants - and English was their second language. That didn't bother me so much - I understand how tough the English language can be for those who didn't grow up speaking it. What did bother me was what I've come to believe is a cultural difference. These guys immediately launch into barely-understandable poetic word images of love and passion, expressing their desires to show ME how beautiful I am! And how I am a "treasure" to be cherished and loved and "caressed." Huh? What?!! Wait just a minute here! Who said anything about "caressing?" The only thing I know about you, pal, is that you're 68, and you live in Dundalk! You want "caressing," you'd better choose another stranger. Good grief!
I switched dating sites. The pickings were moderately better, although one of the latest candidates lives so far down south, he'd have to have a Lear jet to meet me for coffee. He's also an absolute "hunk," whose photos look professionally produced - and he's looking for someone to help him raise his motherless teenagers. The red warning flags are waving in my brain. Do I look like a football player from Notre Dame?
All hope rests on a man who seems to be a "regular guy." No fish, no motorcycles, no earrings - and not one word about "physical chemistry," passion or "caressing." English is his native language. He's in the right age range, geographically feasible, intelligent-looking, and interesting. We're going to meet at a half-way point for lunch this weekend in a very public restaurant, and we'll see what comes of it.
The inner me wonders how I came to slide down this rabbit-hole - and it's hard not to feel sorry for myself. What am I doing here? How many Tweedle-Dums and Tweedle-Dees will it take to find a movie companion for this aging grandmother who'd just like to have some fun? I have plenty of "chemistry" in my daily pill regimen - and my dogs love to be caressed. I'm passionate about my grandchildren and good music. It'd just be nice to have someone to share it all with.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)