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As promised, here is another excerpt from Uncharted. The first excerpt can be found here.
Chapter 8
Dating
In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take.
—Lewis Carroll
The world had changed since I’d last dated. With no idea what to expect or how online dating worked, I logged on and started the process. The anonymity relieved some of my trepidation, but the concept seemed bizarre, like ordering a car online and selecting what options you wanted. I never thought about defining people, myself included, as a list of features.
Instead of asking about engine size, body style, and transmission, the dating site asked what height and body type I’d like in a partner, followed by, “What superpower do you wish you had?” Throw in the profound question, “What makes you happy?” and a mix of cynicism and sarcasm threatened to taint my responses. These were questions meant for a younger person. I sucked it up and played along.
Each morning my inbox contained a list of potential dates an algorithm had deemed compatible. Being a “Jersey girl,” I was tough and determined but with a soft side, and I tried to be fair. I knew my attitude could revert back to lessons learned in New Jersey with a swift and severe response if required. Maybe living in New Hampshire for so long I’d lost my edge, or maybe I’d lost my footing in this unfamiliar territory.
After several dates, I found some men pleasant, and some made it obvious why they were no longer married. How they found anyone to marry them in the first place proved to be a bigger mystery. On occasion, I even sought dating advice from my sons, a strange turn indeed.
A computer profile and conversations in a text box have their limitations. I understood not everyone embraced technology, especially in my age bracket. One date proved the folly of my generosity in overlooking warning signs. I hesitated, but he persisted. My inner “Jersey girl” must have been asleep because I relented.
We met at a local restaurant a few miles from my home. At the time, I was still sleeping on my air mattress. A bed would have been preferable, but the house wasn’t quite finished. When I got to the restaurant, my date was waiting for me by the door. We entered, and he asked for a table for two. The hostess picked up two menus and led the way.
The clanging of dishes and dinging of the kitchen bell melded with the lively cadence of conversations resonating throughout the restaurant. The scent of grilled hamburgers and fried fish rushed out as the kitchen door swung open. A waitress balancing a tray of food headed for the dining room ahead. The hostess guided us past the bar to a dark wooden booth.
Once seated, my date started the conversation.
“You know, you’re lucky I asked to meet you. I’ve been on dating sites for two years, and you’re only the second woman I’ve asked out.”
That woke up my inner “Jersey girl.”
“Oh?” I said, trying not to reveal what a jackass he sounded like. I should be flattered. He was an average looking, middle-aged man with the people skills of a flat tire.
“I’m very particular,” he continued. “I saw your picture, read your profile, and found you very interesting.”
“Thank you, that’s very nice,” I responded.
Why did I agree to meet him? What was I thinking?
Lunch arrived. I decided small talk was the way to go, keep it light. That’s how it went for a short time. I talked about the weather and work. Then he headed south again.
“I owned a garage, but I had to declare bankruptcy last year,” he said.
“I’m sorry, that’s unfortunate.”
I began having a whole conversation with myself in my head. This is not where I want to be right now. Why did he ask me out? Eat fast, girl. It’s your only option.
He droned on about the economy and how hard things were for the little guy to get ahead.
“We never thought this is where we’d be at this stage in our lives, did we, Barb?”
Ah, “we”? Not me, buddy, you. “No, we didn’t.”
“Dessert or coffee?” our server asked.
That wasn’t going to happen.
The check arrived as we were finishing up. He paid, and we headed into the parking lot. He led me toward his car, opened the trunk, reached in, and pulled out a bouquet. That was unexpected. We said our goodbyes and parted.
Later that evening, there was a message from him in my inbox on the dating site. You could call it a “nastygram.” He said I should have picked up the check after he told me about his bankruptcy. He also mentioned dog hair on my coat. I thought about responding with “I prefer Tigger’s company.” After a deep breath, I typed my response, “I’m sorry you feel that way,” and clicked send. Problem solved.
The mixture of dates became an exercise in limiting expectations. The man with strong political opinions made it clear that views contrary to his were wrong. The tall man with the pickup thought our height difference presented a problem. The man with five kids and a minivan made me laugh. A man I turned down for coffee objected, “But it’s only coffee!”
The dance tried my patience until I met Tim.
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