In scrounging around for a first-worst-date story this week (after all, I’ve already done my own dates from Ames, Omaha, and Walnut Creek – how many first-worsts can one person have?), I discovered something. I hate some of my friends, the ones who’ve never had a bad date, ever.
First there is Jim, whom I ran into last week at a Sun Kings concert in Concord.
“I met my future wife when I was fifteen,” he said. “What can I say?”
Jim and his wife had several great decades together before he lost her to cancer.
He then met my girlfriend, Lisa, on Jdate.com, his very first J date, I might add. Their kids are the same ages and in the same social circles. Lisa can attest to how wonderful Jim is. Let’s just say a good date involved rose petals and water . . .
There is also Carol from chorus, married for fifty-five years.
“Nope, I’ve never had a bad date,” she said at rehearsal. “I can’t help you out.”
Then there is Linda at Curves, happily married to her second husband for twenty years.
“No, I can’t say that I’ve had a creepy date,” she said. “Now, my daughter Kelly . . .”
“So, I am a loser magnet?” I asked, doing reps on the hydraulic leg machine thingie.
“No, not at all,” Linda said. “I just didn’t go out with guys who gave off a bad vibe.”
“Oh, so you’re saying I have no bad-vibe radar?” I asked. “I am missing the creep-o-filter?”
“I’m not as nice as you are, Susan,” she said.
Good save, Linda.
I thought of Paula at my summer dance club.
“You and my friend, Elaine, seem to attract the same kind of guy,” she told me one night.
What did she mean? Weirdos? Losers? Mama’s boys? Guys with any other issues I’ve forgotten to mention?
I’d always thought of myself as a glass-half-full kind of gal. Give him a chance! He might be wonderful under all that fur! Who cares if he’s homeless? At least he won’t try to get rid of MY furniture!
A Bay Area comedienne, whose name I’ve forgotten, said at her night-before-Father’s Day set at Tommy T’s that if you like a guy 51%, it’s enough to make it work. She said that you can figure out the rest. At our age, I think she’s onto something. We all have our stuff, our lifelong baggage. Mine is just carry-on size, but sometimes the zipper gets stuck.
My ex-husband once called me a Pollyanna. I prefer being called an optimist. Okay, maybe I am a little too willing to accept a date. Maybe a slice of skepticism could serve me well.
Oops! Too late, I already said yes for tomorrow night . . .