That Dreaded First Date WC 296

That Dreaded First Date

I dread first dates, especially when they don't go well. At seventy, I don’t have time to waste.

Recently, I was on one (at the Olive Garden) with this guy I met on datingforseniors.com. John was okay looking for a guy of 70. I’m no prize in that department, so that was fair enough. He was missing index fingers on both hands, which was good because I hate when people point at me.

He said he was retired but had been a brain surgeon. Without index fingers? Hmmm. It was interesting watching him twirl his spaghetti.

The conversation was stimulating. He had climbed mountains, backpacked in Europe, tubed down rivers, etc. Although, credibility-wise, the brain surgeon thing kept popping into my mind while he spoke.

“I haven’t done much lately,” I confessed. “I raised my three children, and I ran out of steam after my husband died.”

“But that was a noble endeavor, Beth. Never had any children of my own.”

He’d been married five times (he said) and had fathered no children. Maybe the missing index fingers thingy was genetic, and he didn’t want to pass it on.

As our evening ended, I looked forward to sitting home alone, eating popcorn, and watching a movie until bedtime.

John had other ideas.

He slid out of the booth. “I’m going to powder my nose and then I thought I could follow you home and we could have a nightcap.”

“Don’t. Get lost.”

“What?”

“Don’t get lost.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, heading for the men’s room.

I wondered if I should flee while John was in the John. No, that wouldn’t be polite, and I was curious about those missing index fingers…