Hats Off: To a Wing Man
May 09, 2011, By Ron Mattocks 0 comments
Of the things I expected to be doing at age thirty-five, dating wasn't among them. And yet there I was, a solid year after a divorce, ready to reenter the game again—excited by possibilities, clueless as a bag of hammers. I mean, I knew the singles landscape had changed since my foray into such territory over a decade earlier, but where I got lost was in figuring out which path would lead me to eligible young ladies.
Someone mentioned that bookstores were a good place to meet interesting, single women, which I took as a welcome suggestion given my fondness for reading. This tactic, however, did not work out so well for me, probably because being a man loitering in the Nicholas Sparks section is a dead giveaway of your intentions.
The next avenue I explored, despite a heap of personal reservations, was online dating. I managed to convince myself that, after all, this was the modern age and thus it was time to get with the program. In my day, one need only circle "yes" or "no" in response to an invitation to the ice cream parlor. Today the process is slightly more sophisticated with screen after screen of selection boxes representing a different set of highly specific criteria used to filter through a database to locate the best date matches for you. Essentially, it’s the same setup Auto Trader has in place for consumers searching for a used vehicle, only instead of a clicking your way to a red 2009 Dodge Charger with a Hemi, you hoped a red-haired, 25-year-old lingerie model popped up as your discreet “adult friend.”
"You used what online service?!'' my best friend Mark asked.
The fact that he just spit beer halfway across the kitchen caused me to hesitate as I repeated myself. Turns out, this wasn't exactly the kind of dating service I wanted to be using. I guess I should have figured this out on my own based on some of the messages that showed up in my inbox: Peanut butter? You wanna do what? It all made sense now.
Noticing my chagrinned expression, Mark sat his Budweiser on the counter. "I think it's time we teach you about girls."
A dribble of condensation ran down the dark glass bottle into a pool at the base. "All right," I agreed. Even though I had already learned quite a lot about girls since eighth grade health class, I understood what Mark meant. He and his wife had taken me under their wing after the divorce and kept me from withdrawing into a shell. Now Mark wanted to improve my pick-up-artist skills, and he beamed like a proud papa signing up his son for Little League, except that rather than going to a baseball diamond we would conduct "batting practice'' at the clubs.
After a rough start spanning a string of Saturday nights, I finally got a ''hit'' with a nice girl-next-door type. We seemed to be getting along fine until Mark inserted himself into the situation and proceeded to dominate the conversation. I was relegated to spectator status for the rest of the night. The lesson according to Mark: You got to keep bringing the heat if you don't want to get relieved and sent to the bullpen.
NEXT: Reading the Signs
