Sunday, July 17, 2011

All the Young Dudes, Carry the News: I am not a Coug!

Cougar: An older woman who frequents clubs in order to score with a much younger man.
Urban Dictionary definition

The night before my birthday I met friends out for karaoke at Double Wide. I was equipped with a cute dress, high heels and bravado in anticipation of becoming a year older at midnight. Quickly, I spotted a man with big brown eyes and an even bigger brown beard. He saw the interest in my eyes and smiled. A few times through the night he’d pass by to say, “You look nice,” or “I really like your dress.”

As the night grew long, I lounged on one of the pleather sofas scattered outside. Bearded brown eyes walked by. I motioned for him to come over.

As he sat down, I said, “In three minutes it is my birthday. I would like a birthday kiss.”

He obliged. A few times. It was nice.

When we pulled away, he said, “Happy birthday. How old are you?”

“39. How old are you?”

“21.”

I burst into laughter as I thought he was very witty. No. He wasn’t witty. He was 21. He showed me his portrait-format driver’s license (vs. landscape) to prove. I gulped and remarked, “I could be your mother.”

“I know!” Ken reflected, “Isn’t it kinky?”

“Yes,” and as the shock wore off, we had one last kiss.

Ken asked for my phone number. Emphatically, I let him know that I was not sharing. When I recounted the story to a friend, she laughed. She pointed out that, in order, I was against giving someone my number who 1. Lives in Fort Worth, then 2. Is 18 years younger than me. Yes, being geographically undesirable is a big deterrent. I had yet to wrap my mind around dating someone much younger.

And then another young dude interlude …

One late night I stopped by Lakewood Landing to meet up with some friends. While waiting at the bar for my water, I noticed, though the kitchen was closed, corndogs were available. As I waited for my order, a younger man down the bar from me asked his two friends between us to see if I was married. His friends relayed the question like kids passing notes in a line of school desks.

I smiled and said ‘no’ as I showed my hands to prove no ring on the wedding finger.

Then the inquisitor walked toward me, introduced himself as Prescott and asked again.

“No, are you?” I replied.

Prescott took off his Buddy Holly glasses to give me a better look at his face, and replied, “How old do I look?”

This puzzled me, “What does your age have to do with if you are married?”

Prescott scoffed, “Why do you think that I’d want to be married at my age?”

“Same here, Prescott. Why would I want to be married at my age?”

Corndog arrived, and I bid adieu with this advice, “Prescott, I’m going outside to eat my corndog, and you are going to work on your pick-up lines.”

And the third time is a charm …

Another night of karaoke with friends, I wore the same dress, heels and bravado as the night at the Double Wide. A few men of various ages approached me throughout the night and made small talk. I was polite but clear that I had no interest in anything but conversation with my friends and performing some humble renditions of some great tunes.

As I was nearing departure, Brian, a tall young man, approached me. I had small talk with him earlier. This was different. He made it very clear, “I want to take you out on a date.”

I looked up from my phone and into his eyes. Quick on my barstool, I inquired, “Are you single?”

Affirmative.

“How old are you?”

“24.”

Déjà vu from my birthday kisser, I spontaneously and uncomfortably laughed, “Brian, we don’t have anything in common.”

“How do you know?”

“You are 24! I am 39 …”

“I could have lied.”

Piercing glance caused him to backpedal, “I really liked your karaoke performance.”

Another glance, caused him to reply, “I am not saying that if you had a concert that I would buy a ticket.”

I was amused. We briefly discussed the public display of self-indulgence that karaoke is.

My mind raced through past experiences and exactly what Brian was doing. I asked, “What would we do on this date?”

“I would take you to dinner then for a couple glasses of wine. We would talk, and if we have stuff in common, we’ll go on a second date. If not, no harm.”

Everything in me thought that this is a guy showing confidence (not arrogance) and sincere interest.

I gave him my number.

I have no expectations for Ken, Prescott or Brian but for them to continue their interest in women of their age, but these encounters left me with lots of thoughts: I was flattered. I wondered if these attempts were conquests. I pondered what they expected. Then I realized those are all the same thoughts I would have of men my age.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Martin the angry Martian

Martin is from Garland. He had written several insightful, thoughtful emails to me through Match.com over a few weeks. These messages coupled with photos of a lean, bald, active man piqued my interest.
Though I am a geographical snob, he passed the test by having purposeful reasons why he lived in the suburbs: home equity and proximity to a lake for his boat.

I was eagerly looking forward to our date as he suggested Top Golf. I had never experienced Top Golf, but friends gave it rave reviews. I did tell Martin that I took a few golf classes in college and at one time, owned clubs.
Between work hours and twilight, Martin called to say that he was running late and asked if we could push our time back by 30 minutes. Worked for me. Considerate.
Martin called as he was on his way. I told him to take his time as I might be 15 minutes late – at most. His voice sounded strained with annoyance. I emphasized that 15 minutes was tops. He replied that he’d turn around and go back home as he just left the house.

Red lights and slow drivers were out that night, and I barely made Top Golf at time promised. Once inside, I sighed relief as I did not see Martin and assured myself I arrived first.

After a few moments, I called. He answered his phone, “Where are you?”

“Oh, inside. Are you here?”
Martin’s voice grew tense, “I’m in my truck.”
“Well, come on in!” I replied with cheerful enthusiasm.
“Did you bring your clubs?”
My mind began racing to remember if he told me that I needed clubs, or did I give the impression that I still owned that historical set? “No. Did I need clubs?”

“You didn’t bring clubs!?!”

Remembering him being an inch taller than me from his Match.com profile, I was quick to say, “No, sorry. Can I use yours as we are similar height?”

A rambling of thoughts began spewing from his mouth that did not seem to make sense, “I don’t want to lug my clubs all over the place all night. You said you had clubs.” Etc.

Trying to make sense of it all, “Martin, how does me not bringing clubs make for you to have to carry your clubs all night?”

“We don’t know how long we’ll have to wait to play!”

This was a simple remedy as I was in front of registration. An hour and a half wait. Effort to calm down the situation, “Martin, leave your clubs. Come on in and have a drink.”

Top Golf might as well have been any bar in Dallas as we never hit a ball. However, after Martin’s welcoming tyrant, I was not eager to be near him with a club in his hand. I had a flashback of my 7-year-old brother at a miniature course knocking me down with one quick swing to my legs with a putter.
By the time we were sitting at the bar relaxing with a cocktail in hand, I decided this situation was akin to a flight. The plane will go down, either smoothly or in flames. I was determined to bring it in for a gentle touchdown.
Martin’s first attempt at non-golf conversation was to inquire if he looked like his photos. “Kind of.” Honesty left my lips before survival instinct kicked in. To me, he looked like an angry, intense, divorced man who had pre-determined dating was a kick in the ass.  At this point I would agree.

Conversation stayed light: nutrition, exercise, childhood memories.

Still afraid that I had been lingering near a swarm of sleeping bees, I thanked Martin for the drinks and said that I was going to meet friends for karaoke. I told him he was welcome if he wanted.
I admit that I was terrified that if I made clear that the date was over at Top Golf, he’d go look for his clubs.

Karaoke, friends and another cocktail were the proper landing gear. I shook his hand and said goodbye to Martin the angry Martian.