Clear and concise as I thought I was with what I am and am not looking for in a man, some found loopholes and slid on under my otherwise carefully-guarded radar. I find that on the dating site that I am on, the men can be easily classified in two ways: Those that ride motorcycles, and those that do not. I cannot tell a lie---I don't go out of my way to search for a Harley-ridin' type, but then again, I never came right out and said I wanted nothing to do with them, either. Come to think of it, I've never ridden a motorcycle in my life. Who knows? Maybe if I ever did put on a pair of ass-less leather chaps, don a wife-beater, get a few tatts, and head out on the open road with the wind in my hair and a Lynyrd Skynyrd song in my heart, I'd be gone all the time. But, then, who'd take care of the young'ens, make the cookies, and let the dog out? So, avoiding the road to temptation, I simply never went down it to begin with. But, yet, the siren song called out........"ComeRideWithMe54" left me a message.
So tell me you don't do the same thing- notice someone's appearance first, that is. That's what I did. There he was, in all of his bodacious, muscle-bound glory astride his Harley. Fifty-four years old, and lookin' good. Dark hair, dark eyes, six-foot-three. Owned his own contracting company in Greenwood (employed), has children (grown), articulate, sounded sane....oh, yeah. He was apparently all that and a bag of Sun Chips. But the distance.....a good hour-and-a-half away. And so we emailed back and forth for a few days, and he offered to meet me half-way in Marion. For dinner. My choice. I liked that.
And so the day dawned that I was going to meet CRWM54 in Marion at a little Italian bistro. While driving, I received a text from my date stating he would be a little late, as he had to stop on the way and get a Reese's Cup at a convenience store. I texted back, and being the Mom I am, admonished him that "You're going to ruin your dinner". He replied that the Reese's weren't for him---they were for me. Sure enough, I did put in my "Interests" column that I had an affinity for Reese's. I also put "Diet Coke" as one of those likes as well, but apparently he was bypassing a Big Gulp in favor of chocolate. This, THIS, was a man who was paying attention already. I was now in the full-on throes of giddy anticipation.
I started getting that little nervous tickle in my tummy as I approached ever-nearer to my destination---possibly OUR destination. I prepared for a meet-cute, and how twenty years from now friends would still cajole us into telling how we met and how he brought me my beloved Reese's Cups just to make me happy.........
Here I was now, at 3909 South Western Avenue. I pulled down the interior mirror, freshened my lipgloss, fluffed my hair, and got the hell out of the car. Not knowing what my date was driving, I perused the parking lot, shrugged, and began to walk towards the door of the restaurant. "Sheila!", came the call. I turned and looked in the direction of the voice. That couldn't be right--it was a Ford Excursion. A big-ass Ford Excursion with very, very large tires and a motorcycle handle bar hood ornament. Good. God. A'mighty. And then out he came. He foisted himself from the behemoth's cab and landed with a thud on the concrete. Sure enough, he was six-foot-two; not quite the six-foot-three he claimed to be. I also didn't mind that I saw a receding hairline that I didn't notice in any of his profile pics, but one disturbing fetish-like detail wasn't mentioned that was now quite evident, were the spurs. That's right. My date wore spurs.
It's funny how the mind fixates on certain things....say a blemish, an unruly hair, or pointed, sharp, metal objects affixed to the back of ass-kickin' boots. Wyatt Earp handed me my Reese's, and I put it into my purse. He mumbled something to me how he hated Mexican food (this was an Italian Restaurant, so whatever), and in we went.
It's been my experience, that the easy part of going into a restaurant is finding a seat. That wasn't going to be the experience today, however. As we were led to a booth, CRWM54 suddenly seemed hesitant, NO, petrified. He explained the reason for his seat-skittish-ness. You see, he felt the need to be seated in view of the door so that should any knife-wielding trouble-makers decide to storm Rosie's Little Italy, he could get a clean shot in. This was said as he patted his jacket. I felt the color drain from my face. My date had spurs. AND a gun.
Once seated, I ordered my drink, he ordered his, and soon, the spurs, the gun, the avenging vigilante were behind us. Now it was time to talk and get to know each other. We talked about our children. I bragged about my children and their activities as any mother would, then it was his turn. Out came his IPhone, along with the query "Do you follow the rodeo circuit?" Darn it, no, but I've ALWAYS wanted to......sure enough, pictures followed of his daughter, who is indeed touring on the professional rodeo circuit. Well, shut the front door! I couldn't bring myself to mention ballet shoes and color guard flags again, lest I be "out-extra-curricular-activitied" by this feller.
And so we exchanged what we did for a living, and in his favor, he seemed intrigued about my work for a large women's handbag manufacturer. He asked me if I carried a gun. I toyed with replying "I sure do!", but then that would be lying, and I didn't want to piss him off if he decided he wanted to see something I couldn't produce, seeing as he was carrying one, and all. "Guess how many I carry every day to work---go on---GUESS!", he fairly shouted to me. "Oh, gee...you know, I'm bad about guessing that kind of thing...I don't know----ONE?" Seemed reasonable to me. "ONE?" he laughed. "Hayulllll NO! FOUR! I'm putting up an apartment complex in downtown Indy right now!" Well, great day in the morning, excuse the hell out of me. And so it went. Apparently, with all this talk of firearms and the need for them, he also felt the need to let the expletives fly. "F***" this, and "F***" that began to pepper the increasingly loud conversation. I'm conservative politically, but I was now face-to-face with a true right-wing zealot. I felt uncomfortable, and found I couldn't finish my food at this point. I was sure anytime now he would be able to smell my fear, sense my growing irritability, see me eyeing the EXIT sign......would I ever again breathe the air of freedom, see my children's faces, or buy that gallon of milk I made mental note I needed to get on the way home?
"Well, you know.....I wasn't going to ask you out at all....." came the astonishing revelation. "Oh?' I asked, wishing he had followed his gut in the first place. "Yeah...all I could think was how "June Cleaver" you looked". Wow. Here buddy, take that knife out of my back now. "Like June Cleaver" is a bad thing, I guess? "That's all you're gonna eat?", he asked me. "I just want to be sure I have room for this Reese's", I said as I patted by handbag. I think on my feet, you know.
We headed out to the parking lot, he to his big-ass Ford Excursion, me to my Chevy Cruze. "Hey, careful driving home, now!", bellowed CRWM54. "Haha! I'll try. I like to drive fast!" (especially away from spur-wearing freaks such as yourself), I cleverly shot back. "Shee-it!....Drive fast in your little Chevy?", was the reply. At that time, only one word sprang into my mind as I burned rubber from my little Chevy out of Rosie's Little Italy: "Jackass".
Fortunately, I had the little diversion of stopping for a gallon of milk on the way home. It was still light out, and I had dodged one unpleasant bullet that night. But, this too did indeed pass, and I vowed to be more vigilant towards the biking crowd in general next time.
Still, though, I wondered, as I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed, what his impression of me was. Usually, a man will call, email, or text to let you know what they thought of you. As I climbed under my covers, my phone went off. A text message. From that jackass outlaw. Never before, and likely never again will I get such an endorsement. "Sheila--you're a great American".
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