I met a guy in Starbucks a few days ago. I was working on my latest piece and consumed in the moment when he walked past me and stood at the receiving counter. He kept stealing opportunities to turn my way and I knew the inevitable was going to happen.
This time there was no need to brace myself because he was physically appealing. Yes, looks matter and I’m not going to lie that if he were many inches shorter with a face that only a mother could love — I wouldn’t have granted his request to deposit himself at my table.
We spoke at length. Well, he did most of the talking while I listened and gawked at the man who could hopefully knock me up before I reach the age of forty five. I think he noticed that he was on display in my eyes because he abruptly started asking me a plethora of questions.
Now, fifteen years ago, I would’ve supplied the answers with charismatic ease but when you are over forty — you are instinctively adhered to tread with caution.
You’re not a clichéd wallflower open for exploratory pleasures that you may have never been privy to. You are too young to be cast out but too old to claim any ounce of subjected innocence. So, I lied about my age upfront and proceeded to tell him that my name was Marie — don’t ask me why I chose it.
He absorbed my lies innocently as he went on and on about his African heritage and how at thirty eight he was struggling to find his life mate. Basically his search for a woman who loves her family beyond measure while also able to accommodate his needs has proven to be an almost impossible task. As I sat there internalizing his testimony, I began to feel guilty that I was essentially going to burst yet another bubble with my confession.
I told him the truth and he took it well. He asked me if my gray hair was real or if I colored it and I lied and said that I was a slave to the latest trend. He believed me. And then we exchanged numbers. He was a businessman who just flew back to Los Angeles from Australia. Almost every guy from Africa is an expert importer and exporter of “goods” so I tried to keep an open mind as I cautiously kept up with the complex details of his livelihood.
At the end of his extended monologue he asked if I could hang later that day. I had nothing planned but I didn’t want to seem too eager — you know how it is! So, I lied again. I told him that night was off limits but the weekend would be awesome. He was fine with that. So I waited. Sure enough on Sunday morning I received a text.
A text. Okay, I’m an old-fashioned girl, which means that I’m incapable of absorbing the handlings of modern age communication. Text messages are for already acquired souls who have overcome the challenges of cementing trust and allegiance. While we are still in the throes of recognizing each other, I fully expected us to connect verbally without the tutelage of a keyboard designed to safely convey what would be better presented vocally.
But I am adamantly in the minority when it comes to modern day dating. Text messages don’t get me revved up for the future — it destroys the momentum and leaves me stricken with the notion that I am expecting way too much. This viable cop out that is validated by the dictated climate that subjects us to the notion that typing a summarized thought and sending it with the best of intentions is a validated method of initial bonding.
Randomly shooting off words that aim to hunt for more but lack the sincerity that usually accompanies an unexpectedly welcomed phone call continues to be a seasoned let down that leaves me yearning for a time before my time when men cohesively panted at every step a gal took regardless of the destination.
When my mother regales me with tales of being wooed — I listen with fantastical astuteness. The idea that a guy could’ve visually alerted his interest in me is a breathtaking notion when faced with the more refined method of played out emojis and alphabet wrestling that never impresses.
Sending sporadic messages that reveals nothing more than the fact that you woke up late on a dreary Sunday morning doesn’t advance you to the next phase of our courtship.
I guess that means I am helplessly picky in most eyes but in mine — I am endearingly resilient to that “old school” mentality. I want to feel like I am way above the standard mode of communication. Text messaging is an activity that we indulge in without any reverence because the receiver is almost always expecting it or doesn’t care either way.
A phone call is an art form that signifies a deeper thought process that I can not only relate to but also nostalgically appreciate. If a guy picks up his phone and chooses to voice dial me — that means he is truly in it to win it.
And trust — I will be ready to receive his frequency with open arms and possibly an invitation for a home cooked meal and whatever else our itinerary can accommodate.
Believe me when I say it’s the basic things that lead to….