If it’s possible for seniors to ever describe a date as a “hot” one—and I don’t mean because of menopausal hot flashes—I can actually say I had a bona fide hot date! It was almost sacrilegious because it was on a Sunday, and we definitely got steamy. The date was filled with heavy breathing, panting, and two bodies gleaming with sweat in a very secluded area. I even slapped him once.
One profile picture of a match intrigued me. It was a professionally done photograph of a distinguished-looking man in a dress shirt, tie, and suit. His hair was slicked back, revealing a slightly receding hairline, and he was graying a bit at the temples. He looked like he must be rather prominent, and I guessed him to be in his late sixties and probably at least six feet tall, or even taller.
Since that mode of dress and the quality of the picture were an anomaly in the profiles I had to choose from, I had to take a second glance. He had an interesting face, and had five other pictures on his page that he’d labeled. He explained that the main photo had been a media shot for a case he’d covered.
Ooh! This guy must have an interesting job! I thought.
I checked out his other pictures. I double-checked the first photo, and then looked at the others again. There was such a difference in dress and demeanor that at first I thought it had to be an entirely different person. The second picture was of a man in a T-shirt and hiking shorts, with a mustache, a goatee, and a boyish grin on his face, slouched against a boulder. His hair was a little disheveled and fell forward on his face, making him look young and roguish. That appealed to me—a whole different look to this guy! A chameleon! He had other pictures, but I kept returning to the hiking one because he looked so happy and almost impish.
I began to read his profile. Hmm . . . an attorney. Has two homes, one here and one out West. Mmm-hmmm! Even more interesting. His divorce had hit him out of the blue—his wife had evidently found someone more interesting, and he’d had no idea. He wrote he wasn’t interested in serial dating, being friends with benefits, or finding a gal pal, but wanted a serious, life-long relationship. I decided to take a chance and satisfy my curiosity about him.
I fired off what had become my standard email, a very shortened version of my earlier ones (my “Roving Reporter” would have been proud). According to all of my friends who had helped me draft it, my email was sweet, intelligent, and designed to make sure whoever read it would be dying to meet me.
I waited a day, then two. No response. I waited one more day to make sure he wasn’t on a tough legal case, and then decided to move on. But the fourth day, I got an email from him!
My heart quickened. I hoped he sounded like the happy guy I saw in the hiking picture. If I started corresponding with this man, I wondered if I’d better brush up on the legal terminology I’d learned in college forty years ago. I thought hard, searching for some terminology I could remember, but “shyster” was the only one that came to mind, so I gave that up.
Finally I opened his email and had to scan the page twice before I saw his answer. It was four words long. Four very puzzling words:
“CHECK WITH ME LATER.”
Huh? I re-read it. Ooo-kay! This was really puzzling . . . and a little annoying. It was like he was issuing me an order. Just how much later? Later this afternoon? In a week? Who writes an answer like that? Could he have taken another second and added a “please” to the front of that command?
I decided to wait for a while. Maybe he’d write me again with an explanation. Maybe he was in the middle of some important legal meeting and stole a moment to quickly fire that message off to me! Yes, that was probably the reason! At least, for my ego’s sake, that was the rationalization I was going to use.
Later, I checked my emails, but had nothing from him. By the next day, I was ready to toss this one in my “noway” pile.
However, I kept thinking back to the smile and tousled hair in the hiking photo. Maybe he was out in the mountains somewhere and had had only enough bars on his cell to text me that message. So I decided to wait and check back.
It wasn’t until a few days later that I remembered, and thought I’d try one last time. I fired off an email to him that read:
“IS THIS LATE ENOUGH?”
How concise a message was that? I was kind of proud of myself. Tit for tat, right? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Quid pro quo. (I’d finally remembered some legal terminology, even though I wasn’t quite sure what it meant. But it sounded good.) At least I’d have the final word, and in case I didn’t ever hear back from him, maybe this guy would learn to write to prospective matches in a nicer fashion.
Actually, it was probably too bad that I wasn’t going to meet him. His interests were exactly the same as mine, he was committed to staying fit, he liked every kind of animal known to humanity, and his favorite hot spots to dine, visit, or vacation were places with which I was very familiar.
One of those places stood out—it wasn’t actually too far from where I lived: a simple little county park, known for its meandering trails, cool woods, and some Native American mounds. Duh! There it was! Why hadn’t I caught that before?
I decided to try one last message. But it took me over an hour to come up with one that I hoped would elicit some sort of response. It read:
“Counselor. Checking back. Hiking this Sunday, Indian Mounds Park, one p.m. Interested?”
When there was no answer the rest of the day, nor the day after, I gave up.
Saturday came and I was having coffee with some high-school friends. They were always eager to hear the latest about my, uh, “social” life, so I told them about the man (I called him “Perry” after Perry Mason, my favorite attorney show from the early 1960s) who had passed a bar exam, but not mine. I described him as a jerk for signing up on a dating site, but not corresponding, and they all agreed with me. I felt vindicated.
Then, in the middle of our conversation, my phone buzzed with a text. It was Perry! All it said was: “Sounds good. Call me, please,” and a phone number. Unbelievable!
Of course, I got a high five from all my friends . . . except for the guys in the group. One of them even growled that no way would he let a daughter or sister of his meet someone in such a deserted place without knowing the guy first, especially since they’d all decided Perry was a jerk.
I assured everyone I’d checked my date’s credentials (which had intrigued me even more), and that I was perfectly safe. After awhile, I figured that since I only had a little more than twenty-four hours to get ready, I’d better say goodbye, and I took off.
The warning words from my friends had actually been good ones, and I began to regret my decision to meet somewhere that truly was a bit isolated. I was prepared to ask to change the venue. (That phrase sounded so legal!)
I called Perry as soon as I got home. At least, I think it was him. All the preconceived notions I had about the man in the business suit with the curt email to me disappeared when I talked to the chatty and delightful voice that must have belonged to the guy in the hiking shorts. He loved my response to his first email, he said, and apologized for how short and cryptic it was, but he’d been busy and was only able to fire off a quick note. So I’d been right! He loved being back in Iowa, and was planning to stay here, he told me. Right now he was rooming with a friend, and trying to find time to visit places he used to go in Iowa before he’d moved out West. He hadn’t been to that park for years, he gushed, and did it still have the three mounds? Yes, I told him.
He started asking me directions on how to get there, since it had been awhile. Unfortunately, I’m one of those people who talks with her hands. I can’t keep track of how many times I’ve totally confused someone on the phone by saying things like “go over here, and then turn this way . . . ”
I did this to poor Perry. I was in the middle of pointing and curving my arm to “show” him which road to take, when he interrupted and asked if I would like to meet first at a restaurant in town. Then he could either follow me out to the park, or if I wanted to, I could ride along with him. I liked that he was a take-charge kind of guy, but in a nice way.
He went on to say he’d like to see if we had any chemistry. I was a little anxious at that. Maybe this was a guy’s version of my version of “romantic sparks.” Well, there would be only one way to find out. We made plans to meet at a restaurant in my town. The date was set, and if I’d had any second thoughts about meeting in an isolated place after my friends’ warnings, they disappeared.
I spent the rest of the afternoon and following morning trying to find something that looked like hiking shorts that I could fit into, and ended up rushing to a local store to see if there existed a cute shirt in my size that would wick away perspiration. It was July, after all. Hot and humid July.
So it was that on a Sunday morning, I was planning to meet Perry at one p.m. Iowa weather kept its promise to be a hot and humid day. I decided to quickly mow my yard during the morning’s cooler weather, since I had plenty of time. That way I would be able to get that weekend chore done, just in case the date went well and we ended up going out to dinner somewhere.
Mowing took longer than I’d thought, so I had to skip lunch and ended up rushing to shower. Then I had to decide whether to wear a pretty cotton tunic, or the polo shirt that wicked away moisture. I went for the polo shirt, not for its capability to keep me cooler, but because its color went well with what was going to pass as my hiking shorts.
I got to the restaurant on time. Right as I walked in, my cell rang. It was Perry, who apologized and said he’d be about fifteen minutes late.
“No problem,” I assured him. That would give me time to order a drink, because I hadn’t had time for lunch, and maybe he would decide to grab a bite to eat before we hiked.
I was sipping a diet pop and talking to my sister on my cell when he came in. Wow! He looked good—and younger than his pictures! That was a change from some of the other dates, for sure. I told Sis goodbye, flipped my phone closed, and shook hands with him.
He was definitely shorter than his professional shot had made him appear, but he looked athletic and had that youthful grin on his face that I had found so captivating in his other photo. The waitress appeared to ask if he’d like a drink, and checked to see if either of us would like anything to eat.
I was the one who’d finagled this date, and I’d suggested the time just so we wouldn’t have to eat. That was because I was paranoid that I would get something stuck in my teeth and make a horrible impression. But I was absolutely starving by now. I hoped Perry would suggest we sit in the air-conditioned restaurant and at least order some fries or nachos, or something. But he didn’t ask me if I wanted anything else. He just got water for himself.
We visited for a while, and I was getting interested in what he had to say. But all of a sudden, he asked if I was ready to take off, and he left to go to the restroom. I was only half-finished with my drink. I hated not knowing exactly what to do. Should I wait here for him? Find the waitress and pay? Or what?
I waited a minute, and then fished money out of my purse, found the waitress, and paid her. I went outside and met Perry waiting for me.
He volunteered to drive to the park. That was nice, at least. He was parked next to me, so I opened my trunk and got out a cooler.
Perry looked at me. “Oh. Is this going to be a picnic?” Did I detect a bit of a snooty undertone? At least it sounded that way to me.
“Oh, no, don’t worry. I just thought I’d pack some bottles of water on ice because it’s kind of hot today.” I answered him tone for tone. He quickly nodded and thanked me. Then he took the cooler from me and put it in his car.
Once in his car, I quickly forgot that he’d sounded stuck-up. We had a fairly nice conversation, with me asking most of the questions, although he did ask me a lot more than Bernie the “talk-aholic” had. We drove the gravel roads to the Mounds State Preserve, parked the car, and got out. He had come prepared, too. He sprayed mosquito/tick spray on his legs and shoes, and handed me the can. Ah, that was thoughtful!
Then he reached down, rubbed his legs with his hands, and then rubbed his face. Guess I wouldn’t have to worry about any kissing today!
We started hiking. Or rather, he did. I was hurrying to keep up with his strides, so I had to alternate between a trot and a sprint once in awhile. I attempted to stay beside him so we could talk some more, when I suddenly noticed the vegetation that I was walking in alongside the trail.
“Hey!” I stopped. “Is this poison ivy?” I asked uncertainly.
“Looks like it to me.” He had barely paused to glance at it.
Somehow, I got the feeling he didn’t want to deal with anything that would interrupt his hike. Even his date.
“Okey-doke. Guess I’ll walk behind you.” I felt very much like a female slave walking behind the male owner. At least he couldn’t see me stick my tongue out at him.
It turned out to be a good thing I wasn’t next to him, though. Then I wasn’t in close range to the belches that suddenly began emanating from him after we’d started hiking up a small hill. My definition of a man in a very professional job like Perry’s was that manners should be a given. After the third burp without so much as an apology or “excuse me,” I felt offended, tapped him on the shoulder, and rather brusquely asked him if his free water at the restaurant had been too spicy.
He looked a little abashed, but didn’t say anything, just kept on hiking. When I saw a mosquito land on his back, I told him to hold on a “sec,” and took a little bit of delight in slapping the bug a bit harder than I should have. He only thanked me and continued on.
We finished our hike about forty-five minutes later. I did get to walk beside him for a bit, but I was breathing heavily and panting (from exertion), and very sweaty by the time we got back to the parking lot. Perry suggested we sit at a picnic table and talk. Well, that was nice, I supposed. Maybe there would be some camaraderie after all.
To be grudgingly truthful, because by then I was sure I didn’t like this man, we did have an interesting conversation. It ranged from monarch butterflies to Richard M. Nixon. Unfortunately, it also included a rant from Perry about Iowa highway patrolmen who’d had the nerve, evidently, to stop him only because his license plate was out of state. (He must be a defense attorney, I thought.) Oh, and he also divulged the fact that he was renting an apartment, and the roommate he’d talked about was a woman.
Really? Do sixty-something men have female roomies? I thought. Surely he has enough money that he doesn’t have to share a residence. Didn’t his profile say he had two homes, one in this state? I had assumed that “home” meant a complete “house.” I had also assumed that when he said he wasn’t looking for a gal pal, he meant a gal who wasn’t sharing the same living quarters as he. Apparently I had made several wrong assumptions about this man.
But at that point, I didn’t really care. There definitely was no chemistry between us, and I was anxious to get home and into my lovely air-conditioned house . . . the house I shared with no one, except Ralphie the dog.
We hopped into Perry’s car, and started out on the park’s gravel road. I found out why, in all probability, the Iowa highway patrol had stopped Perry: He suddenly became like a sixteen-year-old new driver trying to impress a girl. Was this man going through a second childhood?
Childhood was actually too kind a word. “Grossly immature” would be more descriptive. This man was sixty-four years old, and on the way back into town, he sped. I had no idea someone could burn rubber on gravel, but I was sure I’d heard the squeal of his tires as the rocks and dust flew up! He also kept the windows down in his car. That allowed the wind and dust to complete my totally frazzled look.
I kept my hands on my hair so I wouldn’t end up looking like Kramer from Seinfeld. I didn’t say a word, but only because I didn’t want to give Perry the satisfaction of knowing he was scaring the bejeebers out of me. What a jerk! My high-school friends had been right!
He raced into town. Either he was hoping he would bait another trooper and get a ticket so he could sound off on how wronged he was, he was truly showing off to win me over, or he was trying to get the date over with as fast as he could. I suspected it was the latter. At least, that was certainly how I felt!
Somehow, we made it safely back to the parking lot where my car was. I figured he’d rev his engine up while I clambered out of his car, and would then peel out. But he actually turned off the engine, carried my cooler, and walked me over to my car. Then, as if he felt there had to be closure, he said, “Well, maybe we can get together sometime.”
“Right,” I answered drily. Good thing we weren’t in a court of law, sworn to tell the truth.
He turned and walked back to his car. No wave. No handshake. No hug. Not even an attempted kiss. Really, what a jerk!