I Can't Handle Love (#400 of Why I Don't Date Anymore:)

Another day and another well-intentioned “friend” trying to set me up with my future ex-husband.  Currently, I reside somewhere between Mrs. Robinson and a permanent move across the street to my local assisted living center. Apparently, I still have “it”, though I need reading glasses to see that I do.   At this juncture, I’m flattered that I’m thought of as a good catch, but the ones that want to catch me, usually suffer cardiac arrest way before they get there.  I’m not complaining, BUT, I still have all my hair, no belly and all my teeth, (well, not exactly ALL) so, why am I matched with guys with 15-year-old profile pics where they look like George Clooney, but IRL are George Washington, sans the wig and wooden dentures? A bit dramatic? Let me illustrate this point.

(Some details have been altered to protect the “guilty”-mostly me)

A few months ago, an acquaintance of mine reached out via FB messenger and told me she had a “great guy” for me to meet.  She had gone out with him a few years ago, but he had been too old for her.  That didn’t bother me, since she is a few years younger than I am.  However, when she said “He has a little bit of a stomach”, MY stomach reacted, strongly. This beautiful girl was happily remarried and was attempting to do something good, but you know what they say about “good intentions”.  I convinced myself that “dad bods” were all the rage and that it might be nice to feel skinny standing next to a portly fellow.  The perpetual optimist that I am, or at least pretend to be, won the mental coin toss.  I agreed to have him take me out to dinner.  The worst scenario would involve a “foodie” call, meaning, I would have a free meal at a nice establishment.

After an enlightening conversation with “Joe” on the phone, he chivalrously offers to pick me up, even though I suggest that we meet at the restaurant.  We are off to a great start since I sense a sweet, generous soul.  When he pulls up in a “souped-up” SUV, I see a tanned, attractive face peering out of the window with tufts of grey hair crowning his head.  I exhale.  It could have been worse.  The hair could be growing from his ears. Thank goodness, he is presentable.  I hop into the car (Yes, I still can) and we proceed to drive to a local kosher place a few minutes away.  The only issue is that he’s driving the wrong way.  I thought it was strange since he was born and raised in the neighborhood I live in.  He seems a bit flustered.

“Do you know where the restaurant is?”, I, politely, ask

“Of course I do!  I grew up here!”

“Um, then why are you going in the opposite direction’?

 He laughs.

“I guess I’m blown away by your beauty!”

Now, I would find this flattering if I was 13, but at  ** , it doesn’t sound too intelligent.  Yes, I’m a semi-intellectual snob.  I decide to just let it go and we finally reach our destination about 10 blocks away.

His phone rings in the car.  The Bluetooth is working and so must the BOSE speaker system because I hear an elderly woman talking in stereo.

“Hi, this is Mrs. Berger.  I need a ride to NJ tomorrow.  Can you take me?”

My first reaction was that he must, REALLY, be an amazing human being who helps the elderly and is active in community charities.  This was short-lived because he responds.

“It’s 100 dollars”.

I’m speechless.  We park the car and he tells me that he runs many businesses.  One of which he employs drivers and he, himself, chauffeurs VIPs.  Sort of the Orthodox Jewish Uber.  I respect anyone who makes an honest living, but that woman sounds like she doesn’t have too many trips left in this world.  I refrain from offering to drive her myself and reprimand myself (in my head).

I open the door and let myself out of the car.  I watch Joe descend from the SUV, in semi-horror.

From the neck down he looks like “Humpty Dumpty”.

I know I’m cruel, but he is significantly shorter than I am and carries all his weight in his tummy and it is “third trimester” large.  His legs and arms are perfect.  We sit at a table near the window and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that he has a handsome face and a beautiful smile, but I realize that he is no cerebral giant when he says.

“You’re beautiful. I love women with “love handles”.

I may possess many things, including a severe case of sarcasm and verbal diarrhea but LOVE HANDLES?????

I glower at him “Love handles”???   He really doesn’t know what it means.

“Yes, you have a great body and you’re not too skinny”.  He continues to dig a hole that evening and I reward him by telling him his mom must have dropped him on his head when he was a kid.

Now you know why I just can’t date.  I'm impossible:)