And, because of that, I am having a great time accepting offers to meet new people.
And also, because I’m a lifelong learner, I am learning more and more about human nature and people in general. (i.e., women aren’t the only ones who are stupid.)
I replied to an email from someone on Plenty of Sardines. I was hopeful, because not only did this particular gentleman, JOE, live in Smythe, OREGON, but he was close to my age (a year YOUNGER), attractive, and had a pretty impressive resume.
We spoke several times on the telephone, and granted I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, but at least he was interesting to listen to and had some fascinating stories to tell.
I agreed to go with Joe for a drink, and also accepted his offer to pick me up. (I know, I know….)
It was after 9, and dark when he pulled up, and even under the cloak of darkness I could see that he was driving a white Cadillac. He sat in the seat and gestured for me to get in.
I opened the door and bent down to greet Joe. I almost fell over when I realized that he was at LEAST 10 or 15 years older than the picture he had on his profile.
I wanted to say, “Are you Joe’s DAD?”, but I smiled and said “Hi!” and then looked at the front passenger seat. While the seat was clean, the floor upon which I was supposed to place my feet was littered with fast food napkins, unopened mail, and a few unopened, flat brown bags.
Against my better judgment, and because apparently I can't COUNT, I hopped in and went three blocks to the local watering hole and had a cocktail with Joe’s Dad. About 30 minutes later I asked to be taken home.
“It’s been such a long day, and I am completely exhausted.” I said.
He drove me home pushing the gas and hitting the brakes simultaneously, which only solidified my vow of NEVER allowing anyone else to pick me up at the house again.
Before I got out of the car he said, “I hope we can see each other again! But you are probably looking for someone your age, or younger than you. Right?”
I looked at him. “Well, JOE, I thought you WERE younger than me?”
His eyes widened. “Um….oh Yeah! That’s right! I’m, uh, I’m 52!”
Strike ONE HUNDRED.
I thanked him, opened the car door (myself) and ran to my house. Then after securing the locks and fixing another cocktail, I reminded myself that it only takes THREE strikes to make an out.
Silly, silly me.