Sunday evening. It has been a hectic weekend. I'm in my study listening to Fats Waller tell some poor woman that her feet are too big. Only innate courtesy prevented me from making similar comments to the ladies I met at last night's speed dating session. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
On Friday night I attended a rehearsal of "Alice in Wonderland", this year's musical offering from the school my daughter attends. I enjoyed it very much, especially the bits that went wrong - scenery collapsing, kids forgetting their lines and one particular young girl who serenely ignores the fact that music is meant to be sung in a particular key! The worst part is that Miss Eleven, who was formerly playing the Ace of Hearts, has now been promoted to the role of Caterpillar. I've learned to sew and darn and even knit a little over the past eight years, and I was quietly confident about turning out a giant Ace of Hearts card/costume over the next few weeks. A caterpillar is an entirely different matter. In the sketch provided to me, the costume looks like an elongated, lime-green squeezebox! I'm going to need a lot of help from my mother-in-law. In fact, I need her to take over the entire project!
I bribed Mr Fifteen into attending the rehearsal by promising we'd visit an Italian restaurant on the way home. Eating out two nights in succession is not what we usually do, but there are nights when only Superman could combine cooking and chauffeuring and still get to bed before midnight. And I like to think I'm fostering multi-culturalism by spreading our patronage across Chinese, Indian, Mexican and Italian eateries, even though Miss Eleven does tend to sulk if it doesn't come with fries.
My new friend Steve has been absent from the gym the last three mornings. In part, I'm taking this personally - maybe my timidity last Thursday has sent him off to greener pastures. And, also in part, I'm adopting the view that I really don't need the angst that an intimate relationship might bring. So now I can concentrate solely on exercise and swimming without the distraction of having a gym buddy.
On Saturday I watched my son's football team win and then watched my daughter's netball team lose. You have to be positive whatever happens and let the kids know they've done the best they could. In my son's case - as his hand is still bandaged - I commented that his team would probably have won by more had he been fit to play. He has no false modesty. He agreed. In my daughter's case, I offered the opinion that the other side was only marginally better on the day and that they had a very tall goal shooter. She agreed and vowed to grow faster from now onwards.
Which brings us to yesterday evening. Saturday night - allegedly the loneliest night of the week.
The venue for the speed-dating session was a rather dreary convention room in my nearest town's swishest hotel. The guide books describe the hotel as three-star. I think the reviewer must have received a huge bribe before arriving at that assessment.
The event had been advertised as being tailored to singles aged forty and upward. Just one glance around the room told me how far "upward" can go! There may have been three or four women in their forties - and that's a charitable estimate - but the overwhelming majority of those present - male and female - were nudging sixty-five. Don't get me wrong. I respect Senior Citizens' rights to date, but I was not expecting to find them so heavily represented at a "forty and upward" function.
Anyway, I'd already paid my fifty dollars. The curiosity and anticipation with which I'd approached the evening had now turned into morbid fascination and dread. I've approached many hair-raising theme-park rides with similar dread over the years but I've never chickened out. So I stayed put for this "ride" too.
There were fifteen small tables set up in rows, with two chairs at each table. The fifteen women were each assigned a table. The fifteen guys were instructed to spend five minutes at each table, moving on when the organiser - a fiercely vivacious and large-breasted dwarf with flame-red hair! - rang a bell. All thirty of us were given a card on which to tick the names of those with whom we'd "clicked" and would like to see again. Two hours were allotted for this process, including a break for dinner. Just one glance at the buffet table and you knew where the dwarf was making most of her profit. The wilted salad and cling-wrapped sandwiches must have set her back about twenty dollars max! Stewed tea and coffee were also available.
I'll spare you a detailed account of what followed. I do like engaging with people and, since many of the women had played this game before, there was no difficulty in getting conversations flowing. I asked no-one how old she was; I tried to determine whether any woman's smile had dentures behind it; and I did a great deal of what I do best - listening. I enjoyed hearing women do their utmost to paint themselves in a good light and I eventually cottoned on to some of the jargon - I now know that "security" and "companionship" are code-words for "hope you've got money" and "hope you're not expecting sex too often". Suffice to say I placed not a single tick on my "dance card".
Once every guy had spent the requisite time with each woman, we handed in our cards for collation. We milled about for several minutes while the dwarf worked furiously at determining an outcome for each participant. She then saw us one-on-one in a small ante-room. When my turn came, I sensed that I'd disappointed her by not ticking a single name for possible further contact. Apparently no-one else had been so hard to please. To my surprise, I had actually been allocated a tick by six (obviously desperate) women. I suspect this was a direct outcome of being courteous and a good listener. Women love a man who actually listens to them and nods understandingly. Certainly I had made no other effort to sparkle and shine. This was definitely a night on which my loins had been shaken but not stirred!
I gathered that the women who'd wanted to see me again would be told that I didn't fancy them. This seemed a trifle harsh. I suggested to the dwarf that she simply tell them I'd withdrawn, or changed my mind about dating, or entered a monastery - anything rather than straight-out rejection. I'm all for honesty but there are times when it is too cruel for my liking. Having let the dwarf and six desperate women down so very badly, I slunk away into the chill night air, fifty dollars poorer but infinitely wiser.
I elected to play my "self-flagellation" CD on the way home. It's one I put together for just such a night as this - full of sad, indignant, victim standards like "Cry Me a River", "Crazy" and "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes". That cheered me up a bit and I'd changed over to some bouncy, cheeky "Blossom Dearie" by the time I reached the long driveway to the house. I was actively looking forward to telling the kids what a whacky evening I'd had.
In case you think it's a bad parent who leaves his children unattended on a Saturday night, please note that they did have a minder - I'm no longer allowed to use the term "baby-sitter' - in the person of a young university student, Suzie, who lives nearby. She needs the cash and my kids get on well with her, so it's a good arrangement all round. Once Suzie and her scooter had disappeared down the drive, my son popped some corn and we gathered round the dining table for the speed-dating inquest.
The kids know I have no plans to re-marry or to bring another woman into the house where their mother lived and died. They also know - grudgingly, because they think it's gross - that their father does need adult company now and then. I think they like the fact that I haven't retired to a rocking chair yet and that I strive to have a life beyond parenting. My daughter was agog to know every tiny detail. My son saw the whole thing as a joke. How right he was! Giving full reign to my powers of description, I told them exactly how god-damned awful the event had been. Both of them were astonished that people aged seventy or more still thought about dating. I pointed out that I may well be doing the same thing when I'm seventy.
Today - Sunday - has been what my kids call a lazy day. In other words, they did absolutely nothing all day except eat the hamburgers I made at lunch time and the spaghetti bolognese I cooked this evening. Having also attended the gym this morning and done all the laundry as well, I don't actually feel the full benefit of laziness. To get even, I'm compiling an indoor and outdoor "to do" list for the coming month or so. It's a daunting list but - if I offer an increased allowance - I'm hopeful of enlisting Mr Fifteen's assistance with the tennis court and pool areas. It's called optimism!
And on that note, with Crystal Gayle assuring me she'll "Do It All Over Again", I'm off to bed to dream of dwarfs and elderly caterpillars seeking companionship!
On Friday night I attended a rehearsal of "Alice in Wonderland", this year's musical offering from the school my daughter attends. I enjoyed it very much, especially the bits that went wrong - scenery collapsing, kids forgetting their lines and one particular young girl who serenely ignores the fact that music is meant to be sung in a particular key! The worst part is that Miss Eleven, who was formerly playing the Ace of Hearts, has now been promoted to the role of Caterpillar. I've learned to sew and darn and even knit a little over the past eight years, and I was quietly confident about turning out a giant Ace of Hearts card/costume over the next few weeks. A caterpillar is an entirely different matter. In the sketch provided to me, the costume looks like an elongated, lime-green squeezebox! I'm going to need a lot of help from my mother-in-law. In fact, I need her to take over the entire project!
I bribed Mr Fifteen into attending the rehearsal by promising we'd visit an Italian restaurant on the way home. Eating out two nights in succession is not what we usually do, but there are nights when only Superman could combine cooking and chauffeuring and still get to bed before midnight. And I like to think I'm fostering multi-culturalism by spreading our patronage across Chinese, Indian, Mexican and Italian eateries, even though Miss Eleven does tend to sulk if it doesn't come with fries.
My new friend Steve has been absent from the gym the last three mornings. In part, I'm taking this personally - maybe my timidity last Thursday has sent him off to greener pastures. And, also in part, I'm adopting the view that I really don't need the angst that an intimate relationship might bring. So now I can concentrate solely on exercise and swimming without the distraction of having a gym buddy.
On Saturday I watched my son's football team win and then watched my daughter's netball team lose. You have to be positive whatever happens and let the kids know they've done the best they could. In my son's case - as his hand is still bandaged - I commented that his team would probably have won by more had he been fit to play. He has no false modesty. He agreed. In my daughter's case, I offered the opinion that the other side was only marginally better on the day and that they had a very tall goal shooter. She agreed and vowed to grow faster from now onwards.
Which brings us to yesterday evening. Saturday night - allegedly the loneliest night of the week.
The venue for the speed-dating session was a rather dreary convention room in my nearest town's swishest hotel. The guide books describe the hotel as three-star. I think the reviewer must have received a huge bribe before arriving at that assessment.
The event had been advertised as being tailored to singles aged forty and upward. Just one glance around the room told me how far "upward" can go! There may have been three or four women in their forties - and that's a charitable estimate - but the overwhelming majority of those present - male and female - were nudging sixty-five. Don't get me wrong. I respect Senior Citizens' rights to date, but I was not expecting to find them so heavily represented at a "forty and upward" function.
Anyway, I'd already paid my fifty dollars. The curiosity and anticipation with which I'd approached the evening had now turned into morbid fascination and dread. I've approached many hair-raising theme-park rides with similar dread over the years but I've never chickened out. So I stayed put for this "ride" too.
There were fifteen small tables set up in rows, with two chairs at each table. The fifteen women were each assigned a table. The fifteen guys were instructed to spend five minutes at each table, moving on when the organiser - a fiercely vivacious and large-breasted dwarf with flame-red hair! - rang a bell. All thirty of us were given a card on which to tick the names of those with whom we'd "clicked" and would like to see again. Two hours were allotted for this process, including a break for dinner. Just one glance at the buffet table and you knew where the dwarf was making most of her profit. The wilted salad and cling-wrapped sandwiches must have set her back about twenty dollars max! Stewed tea and coffee were also available.
I'll spare you a detailed account of what followed. I do like engaging with people and, since many of the women had played this game before, there was no difficulty in getting conversations flowing. I asked no-one how old she was; I tried to determine whether any woman's smile had dentures behind it; and I did a great deal of what I do best - listening. I enjoyed hearing women do their utmost to paint themselves in a good light and I eventually cottoned on to some of the jargon - I now know that "security" and "companionship" are code-words for "hope you've got money" and "hope you're not expecting sex too often". Suffice to say I placed not a single tick on my "dance card".
Once every guy had spent the requisite time with each woman, we handed in our cards for collation. We milled about for several minutes while the dwarf worked furiously at determining an outcome for each participant. She then saw us one-on-one in a small ante-room. When my turn came, I sensed that I'd disappointed her by not ticking a single name for possible further contact. Apparently no-one else had been so hard to please. To my surprise, I had actually been allocated a tick by six (obviously desperate) women. I suspect this was a direct outcome of being courteous and a good listener. Women love a man who actually listens to them and nods understandingly. Certainly I had made no other effort to sparkle and shine. This was definitely a night on which my loins had been shaken but not stirred!
I gathered that the women who'd wanted to see me again would be told that I didn't fancy them. This seemed a trifle harsh. I suggested to the dwarf that she simply tell them I'd withdrawn, or changed my mind about dating, or entered a monastery - anything rather than straight-out rejection. I'm all for honesty but there are times when it is too cruel for my liking. Having let the dwarf and six desperate women down so very badly, I slunk away into the chill night air, fifty dollars poorer but infinitely wiser.
I elected to play my "self-flagellation" CD on the way home. It's one I put together for just such a night as this - full of sad, indignant, victim standards like "Cry Me a River", "Crazy" and "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes". That cheered me up a bit and I'd changed over to some bouncy, cheeky "Blossom Dearie" by the time I reached the long driveway to the house. I was actively looking forward to telling the kids what a whacky evening I'd had.
In case you think it's a bad parent who leaves his children unattended on a Saturday night, please note that they did have a minder - I'm no longer allowed to use the term "baby-sitter' - in the person of a young university student, Suzie, who lives nearby. She needs the cash and my kids get on well with her, so it's a good arrangement all round. Once Suzie and her scooter had disappeared down the drive, my son popped some corn and we gathered round the dining table for the speed-dating inquest.
The kids know I have no plans to re-marry or to bring another woman into the house where their mother lived and died. They also know - grudgingly, because they think it's gross - that their father does need adult company now and then. I think they like the fact that I haven't retired to a rocking chair yet and that I strive to have a life beyond parenting. My daughter was agog to know every tiny detail. My son saw the whole thing as a joke. How right he was! Giving full reign to my powers of description, I told them exactly how god-damned awful the event had been. Both of them were astonished that people aged seventy or more still thought about dating. I pointed out that I may well be doing the same thing when I'm seventy.
Today - Sunday - has been what my kids call a lazy day. In other words, they did absolutely nothing all day except eat the hamburgers I made at lunch time and the spaghetti bolognese I cooked this evening. Having also attended the gym this morning and done all the laundry as well, I don't actually feel the full benefit of laziness. To get even, I'm compiling an indoor and outdoor "to do" list for the coming month or so. It's a daunting list but - if I offer an increased allowance - I'm hopeful of enlisting Mr Fifteen's assistance with the tennis court and pool areas. It's called optimism!
And on that note, with Crystal Gayle assuring me she'll "Do It All Over Again", I'm off to bed to dream of dwarfs and elderly caterpillars seeking companionship!
