I have to confess that I soon became secretly thrilled to be on the electronic dating circuit. I have always admired people who are independent, strong, and able to grasp life and get everything out of it they want without needing anyone or any help. I am not one of those wonderful beings. I was chicken—and I didn’t reaIize it at first. The thought of having someone else to talk to besides my dog Ralphie, and getting to mix and mingle with friends as part of another couple, instead of being a “fifth wheel,” was intoxicating. I felt happy. But there appeared to be other feelings.
Suddenly being thrust into the world of dating, especially since I had not been with a man for quite a number of years, can be a shock to a woman’s system. Not only was I scoping out every single man who came across my computer, but suddenly every individual stranger I happened to see in day-to-day circumstances became an object to scrutinize, just to see if he could possibly be the one.
I believe it is only natural that the huntress seeks to be the hunted—and with the thrill of the chase, there awakens innate urges: urges as old as Eve, when she bit into a strawberry and its juice stained her lips (the Garden had more than mere apples, you know, and someone had to invent lipstick!).
Of course, I’m talking about that urge we women get that can cause shudders to ripple through the body, cause the breath to come in gasps, and that can actually physically hurt when it’s not satisfied. It is the urge . . . to shop for oneself.
I hadn’t felt that urge for decades. I was dating. I needed to get some new things, and not from the Internet. I didn’t have to shop for my kids, my dog, my relatives . . . just for me! Heaven help me, it was an almost sinful feeling to experience so much pleasure when that fact sunk in. Woo-hoo!
Makeup, hair color, new clothes, shoes, glasses, contacts—whatever tripped my trigger, I gave in to it. Only once did my conscience bother me. I spent almost one hundred dollars on a face cream that promised to make my old-age spots disappear. But I could justify that. I just wouldn’t buy a new supply of Cadbury Eggs next Easter season. Yes, it was pathetic, I know, but I could save a hundred dollars giving up those addictive sweets.
I even became obsessed with Spanx. The notion that you can have your cake and eat it too, and look slim just by putting on Spanx, was too much of a temptation. Like a bricklayer at the base of the Dubai Towers, I set out to make my foundation as solid and supportive as possible. I was now the proud owner of an assortment of Spanx that addressed the same parts of my body as the picture of cuts of beef did at the local locker. I had Spanx that accentuated my calves, trimmed my thighs, made my muffin-tops delectable, and made my “girls” proud! I was amazed at how versatile Spanx was: bust, butt, waist, hips, back, and front, there was something for every part of my body. That was, except my turkey-wattle neck, but I could throw a scarf around that!
Those extra-small, designer-brand dresses wouldn’t be any problem to slip into now. My muffin-top was actually cinched in to form a “natural” waist. My sagging glutes formed a round, apple-like little butt, and my chest . . . well, no one would ever again be able to crack jokes about my bosoms knocking against my knees.
I even planned to get all new underwear! No more granny panties. No XXL cheap sports bras. No hiding the varicose veins under elastic-waist stretch pants. I would be able to wear real pantyhose. Just thinking of how I would look made me feel thirty years younger. Whoever my next date was going to be, I pitied him. I thought:
Mama’s feelin’ frisky!