Oprah's Arches

Sharon E. Mortz
1664 Larkin Street, Apt.1
San Francisco, CA 94109          
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Oprah’s Arches

I recited my affirmations focusing on each word hoping the meaning was settling into my subconscious.  “I am an attractive, thoughtful, intelligent woman.” I repeated the mantra in an attempt at self-hypnosis hoping my brain sopped up the message.  The dating scene was nothing like what I remembered in my youth.  The Internet had equalized the sexes but clearly the dating pool hadn’t changed from nefarious to noble simply because of equality.

I continue to wonder if a woman in her fifth decade could compete.  Compete!  – I just wanted to be seen.  This sublime question stemmed from a very carnal observation:  men weren’t whistling at me anymore.  I approached this new challenge with an open mind and a positive attitude.  I was a confident woman ready to accept the challenges of the new millennium. 

* * *
Dave and I played phone tag before finally connecting.  Sinking in inane small talk,
I asked, “How old are you?” 

He said, “I’m 38.”

I replied, “I’m 59,” omitting the fact that in a week I’d be 60.

“Age is just a number,” he said.

Hmmm.  I didn’t want to burst his young, fragile bubble by informing him that 22 years offers a lot of experience and a lot of gravity.  I had to visualize my goal.  I reminded myself to start small, I mean young.  He was breathing and still talking to me.

The next vital question:  “How tall are you?”  This is the most important question.  Actually, above, “Are you breathing?”

“5’7”.”  As everyone knows that means 5’6” -- tops.

I cringed.  “I’m 5’9”.”  That’s in stocking feet.

“Does that bother you?” he asked me.

“Heavens no.”  That would be shallow.  That was a blatant lie.  Actually, my height really didn’t bother me at all.  His did.  I realized my low standards were going to have to be lowered.  I could see us now walking down the street:  shallow and short. 

He said, “So I bet you have long legs.  I like legs.”

“Great!  I have two,” I assured him.  He started calling me sweetie.  Good grief!  How needy was he?  I could feel him clinging over the phone.  He’d obviously been dating one-legged, 97-year-old Amazons. 

We decided to meet for a movie.  Not much of an investment.  I’d have to be careful not to suggest an “R” rated flick.  I began my beauty routine with the added challenge of trying to appear, if not 22 years younger, then somewhat younger.  Luckily, I had help.  I had watched Oprah the previous day and she had an eyebrow makeover that made her look like she’d had a facelift.  It was amazing! 

I got out my magnifying mirror and identified the straggly eyebrow hairs then realized what few hairs remained on were all straggly and white.  Like an engineer, I made all the measurements following Oprah’s “eyebrow expert” instruction.  I lined up the inside edge of my eyebrows with my nose and precisely drew the arch that would rival McDonald’s. 

I couldn’t deal with the 22-year difference so I cancelled the date.  But I was pleased with my eyebrows.