...Continued --The Class Act

The Class Act. "Hey, Pretty, call me back. I can’t wait to hear from you,” his soft, sweet yet masculine voice resounded on my voicemail. He was my middle school crush whom I had run into 14 years later.

My middle school crush was better known as a “lady’s man.” You know this kind of male – the lion in the jungle who loves to hear himself roar, see how many females he can pounce upon, and after, gloat in victory while stroking his mane.

But I thought I’d give him a chance. After all, he knew the kind of girl I was, so maybe he had changed.

 

As he walked up, my mind went back to him playing football in high school. His towering physique loomed over the dinner table, and I instantly remembered why everyone liked him so – his charm was far greater than his looks.

I was intrigued. Why was he interested in reconnecting with me? Had he really changed?

 

To my surprise, he was humble and honest. He recounted the past few years and made it clear he was a more serious person now, exhausted with the bachelor life. I believed him. He opened the door, paid for dinner, and guided me up the stairs with a gentle touch, making sure I didn't stumble in the darkened stairway.

We went on a few dates, and he wanted to see only me. I had reservations in my gut but didn’t know why. Or maybe I did.

 

Maybe it was the time I was recovering from a week-long sickness of strep throat and was invited to a relaxing day at the pool -- or so I thought. “ I could use some some sun. Maybe it will make me feel better, “ I told him as I rummaged through my clothes searching for my swimsuit.

I arrived on the scene. Entering the pool gate, I saw a sea of people, at least a hundred. The loud music made my head hurt as I searched for him among the crowd. There was not a chair to sit in. At first glance, the girls were pretty, until you saw the beer can in hand and belly hanging over the bikini. The guys looked like guidos from Jersey Shore as they bumped the beach ball in the pool. “Was I a part of a taping for MTV?” I thought.

I stayed no longer than 45 minutes, and he agreed to leave with me. Apparently, this was an every-weekend occurrence during the summer months.

As weeks passed on, I met his friends. There was always an excuse to “go out.”

It seemed that every time people saw us out together, I was warned -- and not always by close friends. On several occasions, they were people I had never met, including the anonymous texter, once while Mr. Charming was on a beach trip with all females (granted, he had planned it before me.)

The texts recalled his Excel spreadsheet of hundreds of women he had slept with and the list of his future prey. After being creeped out, I still took it with a grain of salt. Unless the texter came forward, I wouldn’t take it seriously.

After these texts, however, little things began to annoy me, including the reoccurrence of his shirtless body. Whenever we entered his house or went to a friend’s house, the shirt came off. And a time or two in public.  But the best outfit was yet to come.

His birthday weekend was coming up, or rather his “birthweek” as he called it. The Saturday arrived and all his friends gathered at their favorite pub starting at noon. I refused to come at noon. I arrived at 4:00, unfortunately, four hours after the drinking had begun.

And there he was… not shirtless this time, although that would have been better, but with a “peewee” football shirt tight around his body which hung as a belly shirt. I was mortified. I was dating a cave man.

They drank and drank and ended the night with karaoke. The images of him booty dancing on some random girl and falling out of his chair feet up as he leaned over to whisper something are still etched in my mind.

I dropped him off at his house, and I went home. The next morning, I received a call. He was confused and remembered nothing from the night. “Come eat breakfast with us. It’s Sunday Funday,” I gave in. After hours of sitting in the front lawn with his friends still drunk and continuing to drink the day away, I knew I had to leave. I was too old for Sunday Funday.

“I have to be productive, “ I told Mr. Charming. That was the last time I saw him. A few weeks later, he sent me a video of him on his knees drinking a Smirnoff Ice. The message read: “Look what you’re missing out on.”

I replied, “Classy.”

Smorgasbord of Scrumptious Men

I thought dating would be a smorgasbord of scrumptious men after my four year relationship ended. The men started coming out of the woodwork, whether through meeting them through friends, arranged blind dates or the occasional reconnection through Facebook (which I hate).

I was flattered, had the upper-hand, and I was going to enjoy the process. But I was quickly reminded of why dating is not what it is cracked up to be.

The Rebound. Everyone has one. You are completely blind and incompetent to make sane decisions during this time. Friends and family should lock you in a padded room after a bad breakup.

But instead I met him....

I cared nothing about him besides his stunningly beautiful blue eyes and muscular arms. Somehow during the course of our dating, I overlooked the ridiculous stupidity that vomited from his mouth or, rather, texts. He would often text acronyms like "bb" which apparently stands for baby. (Why abbreviate a four letter word?!) And my all time favorite, "SMH," which means "shake my head." (You don't know what this does to an English teacher.) No person over the age of sixteen should talk like that.

He was my trainer at the gym. (Note to self: Never date your trainer.) After his countless requests for me to get breast implants and his week-long gambling trip to Vegas which included a lovely picture with a stripper, I realized we were on different pages.

After all, he is ten years older than I; should he still be partying like it's 1999? I ended it. And he called me 40 times from 2 different phones trying to win me back.

Four months after, he got hitched... probably in Vegas.

The Elderly. "I can't believe I never thought of setting you up with him," my dear friend stated eagerly regarding her single male friend. "He's a lawyer, running for circuit judge and around forty years old," she continued. I was willing to give it go at least once, even though I was not keen on the age factor. We met at her house for dinner with friends. He firmly shook my hand and his blue eyes sparkled under his cute ball cap. The conversation was natural, and he seemed like a true gentlemen.

He asked me to dinner the next day. I obliged. We met at a local Mexican restaurant. Walking toward me was a man who looked much older. With his geriatric shoes, pleated khaki pants, and reading glasses draped around his neck, I was a bit taken aback. Is this the same man? Instead of the cute ball cap, he sported a comb-over, one of the worst I had ever seen. Ten desperate hairs draped across his bald head. "Maybe others will think he's my dad," I thought as I spotted several acquaintances.

The conversation was pleasant yet again. We talked politics, religion, relationships, and none of it uncomfortable. Normally, I am very forgiving with looks as long as the personality chemistry is there. But I could not believe this man was the age my friend told me. He never would reveal it... red flag, perhaps? Needless to say, we never went out again.

I later found out he is at least twenty years older, not thirteen. I see him from time to time at church and have thought about setting him up with my mom.

To Be Continued...

A Profound Phrase

 

For better or for worse- the most profound phrase ever created.

Love is far more than a feeling. If you depend on your "feelings" to get you through a tough situation, you might as well hang it up.

Love is a choice. It's deciding to throw away the petty things. It's a decision to live unselfishly. It does not point out wrongs. It's patient. It's kind. It's unfailing. Those things described definitely aren't feelings. They're attributes that we have to work pretty darn hard at.

I'll leave you with this song by the sultry John Legend. 

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