If there’s one thing I’ve noticed all of us “oldsters” have in common, it’s that we quickly get into habits. It doesn’t matter what the habit is—there are as many different kinds of habits as there are people—but everyone has at least one. I had an embarrassing incident with one of my dates because of an unrecognized habit that I had.
I was driving home early one evening from visiting my parents when my cell phone rang. I normally don’t answer when I’m driving, but this dating thing had made a lot of abnormal behavior on my part seem normal, so I answered. It was a surprise call from “Big Bad John,” alias the guy whose name I couldn’t keep straight. He explained he had driven the two and a half hours from his home to Des Moines to visit a relative. He was done with that, and wondered if he could see me.
I immediately slowed to a crawl, and told him I was in the car and could meet him somewhere. He said he knew where the casino was, if I didn’t mind going there. My last time being at the casino with the Ebenezer Scrooge clone had grossed me out, but I told Big Bad John I’d meet him there. I was tempted to tell him to be sure not to have any drinks, in case he was anything like the toilet bowl gold-digger, but the odds against that happening again had to be enormous, I hoped.
I pulled a U-turn and drove back to the city. I stopped a block from my rendezvous to grab my makeup bag, spent five minutes fussing over trying to make one strand of hair lie straight, and then pulled up in the corner of the large casino parking lot, where BBJ was already parked.
I was actually glad I would see Big Bad John again. After the first date, we had progressed from more emails to telephone calls, since he lived so far away. I loved talking to him because he was actually funny, had a lot of stories to tell, and was very intelligent.
But I guess I had forgotten what he really looked like, because after he heaved his big frame out of a surprisingly little car and smiled down at me, I saw he had a dimple. I hadn’t really noticed that at the restaurant on our first date. It was adorable, and I’m a sucker for dimples. I was relieved he didn’t give me a hello kiss. After the Georgie Porgie incident, I had sworn off kissing for a while, and was proud of myself that I no longer fantasized about kissing in the mirror--that had been way too much work.
We talked while we walked indoors. He asked if I’d like to play a slot machine. I never had before, so I said I’d just watch him. Just in case his luck was as big as he was, I offered to split any winnings with him. He didn’t comment on that, because he was obviously distracted by, or attracted to, a machine that featured a picture of a very busty and scantily clad woman in a very suggestive pirate outfit. The flashing neon lights beckoned players to enjoy finding her “treasure chest.”
Oh, brother! Leave it to a guy to pick that one. Big Bad John sat down to play. Over all the noise of the beeps, clangs, and buzzes from the various slot machines, I hollered into his ear that someone had once told me that I was a pirate’s dream: I had a sunken chest.
I expected him to laugh at that old joke, but he just flashed his dimple in a grin as he looked at my bosom for a second. Then he shook his head, and began pulling the slot machine’s handle. I looked down at my chest to see if what I’d said was true.
The pirate lady’s treasure chest remained unopened as he blew twenty bucks on the slots in just a few minutes. He announced he was quitting, and we should find a quiet place to visit. He was retired, so naturally we grabbed free pop and free coffee and sat at a table overlooking the racetrack. We talked . . . and laughed . . . and talked . . . and bantered back and forth. We even made a date for the Iowa State Fair that would be in Des Moines in a few weeks.
Soon it was getting dark and almost past bedtime. It was nine p.m., and Big Bad John still had a two-hour drive to make. We hurried back out to the parking lot and continued talking until we said goodbye. A beautiful full moon hung over the racetrack and casino building. I gave him a hug and turned my head quickly so that he brushed his lips on my cheek instead of my lips. No way was I going to risk another mouth-to-mouth kiss by anyone!
I slid into my car and fumbled for my keys, while he stood next to me to make sure I got off safely. I don’t know if it was the moon that made me act like a lunatic, or just what possessed me. I didn’t even look at him, but said, “Good night. Love you!”
AACCKK! I realized what I’d said immediately as I said it. I clapped my hands to my mouth so fast my teeth hurt. Mother of GAWD, where had that come from? I looked up at Big Bad John in horror. What would he think of me saying that after only our second date? It made Dave’s second date kiss seem like a pat on the head, compared to someone blurting out to a guy that she loves him! I couldn’t talk fast enough to apologize and hoped he didn’t take me seriously. This was only the second time I’d seen him, and both times had ended with my cheeks burning in humiliation. His dimple was getting a workout—he was laughing at me. He kindly said there were all sorts of love!
Oh, gee whiz, what did that mean? The last time BBJ had said something to me, I’d analyzed and fretted over the meaning until I had almost ruined my bathroom mirror!
So I yelled at him as he got into his car, “I mean—Like you a lot!” Maybe that would negate the error.
The entire way home, I agonized over having a big mouth that I couldn’t control. All I could come up with for an excuse was that, when I say good night on the phone to my mom, my dad, my daughters, the grandkids, my siblings, my cousins, or any dear friends, I always say “Good night! Love you!” Guess it was just a habit.
Until this happened, I hadn’t realized how often I said it. Maybe “love you” had become another synonym for “goodbye.” Since I’m too old to break most of my habits, I should probably prepare myself for someday telling the grocery store clerk or the guy who changes my oil, “Love you!”
As soon as I got home, I posted this gaffe on Facebook. I thought maybe publicly confessing my humiliation would erase it. But I was pleasantly surprised at all the confessions I received from my cyber friends after they read my post. Evidently I was not the only one with the habit of telling people I love them. Various friends of mine had accidentally given the verbal Valentine to an attorney, the Sears dryer installer, and the dog groomer, to name a few.
Ah! I felt so much better. Then I had to write: Love you, Facebook friends!