This time let me royally entertain you! I found this incredible funny ‘blog’ from a humorous writer on ‘Linkedin’, asked permission which was granted and hope you have as much fun reading it as I had. Laverne Bardy has written a book with the enticing title “How The (Bleep) Did I Get This Old?”. I checked it out on Amazon and read as much as was allowed by clicking on “Look Inside”. My smile never faded and if you need a smile, a laugh or something relaxing to read – check it out!

SURVIVING THE SINGLES SCENE

Laverne H. Bardy

After 23 years of marriage I returned to the dating scene and realized that nothing had changed. The men were older, but still motivated by the same primal urges, and forty years and three children later, I was still trying to preserve my virginity.

In my quest to meet men, I went to singles’ dances, placed my bio with an Online dating service, and took out ads in the Personals; things I swore I’d never do. Although I listed intelligence, a sense of humor, and sensitivity as qualities I wanted in a man, it didn’t take long for me to discover that what I actually wanted was good looks and chemistry — a distressing reality that caused me to face my shallowness and lose total respect for myself.

I learned that all older men think they’re handsome. When they look in the mirror they see the same high school football star that graduated fifty years earlier. Bald, fat, and hair sprouting from their noses go unnoticed or are viewed as enhancements.

Most older women, on the other hand, cower in front of the mirror with only one eye open, barely able to stomach what they see. They spend thousands of dollars a year on makeup, hair dressers, manicurists, personal trainers, black wardrobes and undergarments that restrict natural jiggling. When they return to the mirror they see a well dressed, beautifully coiffed, overweight woman, well past her prime.

I met Freddy Online. He was anxious to take it to the next level on our second date but I managed to fight him off. On our fourth date I prepared dinner, which I soon learned was a really stupid thing to do. He enjoyed my cooking, and afterward we watched a video. As we sat there, with his arm resting on the back of the couch behind my head, he leaned over and kissed me. While our lips were locked, his free hand began its downward journey from my face to my neck to my shoulders. Anticipating my usual resistance, he hesitated, and when I offered none, he slid his hand down a little farther.

I was ready this time.

“What the hell …….?” Freddy pulled out a piece of paper.

“I don’t know,” I answered, coyly. “Let’s see what it says.”

He unfolded the paper and read aloud. “It says, This is as far as you go, Buster.”

He broke into a slow smile that turned into an embarrassed laugh. He didn’t make another move for a solid three minutes.

Next, I tried a Singles Dance. I love dancing so I rarely refuse anyone who asks me. Big mistake.

Herbie wore what looked like might have been his overweight father’s baggy black sport jacket and navy blue slacks that possibly belonged to his ten-year-old brother. They came to his ankles, revealing brown penny loafers and white socks. His neck swam in the collar of his way-too-large shirt, and his clip-on bow tie was yellow with blue polka dots. He spoke rapidly, in one long sentence without pauses.

“Hi you’re pretty my name is Herbie I’ve been fired but I’m doing telemarketing as a temp with Kelly Girls now I like your black stockings I can’t wear black socks…..” He lifted his leg to show me his white cotton ones…… “Because I have a fungus and the doctor said I can only wear white ones would you let me take you to dinner sometime?”

It was apparent that Herbie had not yet completed his Dale Carnegie course.

Dennis was a chemical engineer – quite intelligent. However, the wide gap between his front teeth caused him to whistle and spit with each of his words, and although his jaw moved up and down when he spoke, the expression on his face never changed. He reminded me of the puppet, Mortimer Snerd.

“I enjoy dancing with you, Laverne,” he said. “May I call you sometime?”

“Don’t take this personally, Dennis, but I’m not ready to date yet since my divorce.”

“I’m very sorry. How long has it been?”

“Barely 21 years.”

“…………………………………..Oh, I understand. Will you call me when you’re ready?”

“Absolutely.”

Alan had the subtlety of a 42nd Street hooker. He complimented me on my lovely, slim calves, which is all he could see from below my hemline. “I bet you have beautiful legs, ” he said.

“Oh, I’m afraid you might be disappointed. The top half of my legs are not as slim as my calves are,” I admitted with candor.

“I’m not an idiot,” he said. “Did you really think I thought those piano calves had the strength to hold up that large ass?”

I barely had a chance to rebound when he added, “I’d like to rub your thighs, your back and everything in between.”

It was at that moment I discovered my ability to fly.

Then there was Dick. I met him through an Online dating site. We agreed to meet at a fairly central location for dinner. He was bright, financially sound and well travelled.

As we sat talking in a quiet corner of an upscale restaurant, I restrained myself from braiding the hairs extending from his ears. The hump on his back, and his paunchy stomach were fairly well camouflaged with the wild print on his Hawaiian shirt. His Shar Pei wrinkles only showed when his face was relaxed, and barely at all when he smiled, so I spent most of the evening telling jokes.

Other than those minor flaws and the fact that he was a total snob – salmon was sent back because it wasn’t exactly the right texture and color: not too dry, not too moist, and the silverware looked cheap and tinny, and his coffee wasn’t the temperature he’d requested – he wasn’t too horrible.

We had finished dinner and were waiting for desert when our conversation became somewhat heated. He described his rocky relationship with his grown children, which he blamed on his ex-wife. He was a diehard golfer and during his marriage he made a point of playing golf every available moment. His wife never insisted that he stay home and spend time with his children when they were youngsters, so he blamed her for his poor relationship with the kids.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re telling me that because your wife didn’t insist you stay home and not play golf, it’s her fault your kids don’t like you today?”

“You’re damn right,” he said with conviction. “It was her responsibility to make me stay home.”

“And you don’t bear any of the responsibility?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I honestly expected him to break out laughing and confess that he had been joking.

“Hell, no.”

I’d had just about enough of Dick, whose last name should have been Head. I listened to him find fault with the tiramisu, his uncomfortable chair and the style of my shoes, and I counted the moments until I would be rid of him.

As we walked out of the restaurant toward our respective cars, he reached over and gave me a superficial kiss on the lips. I, in all my suaveness, attempted to wipe my fresh lipstick from his mouth, missed and wiped his teeth, instead.

Despite my negative experiences, I continued my quest for an intelligent, humorous, sensitive (good looking) man, because, to be perfectly blunt, I had taken a breather from men for a while, and was now ready to date again. I was weary of lunches, movies and dinners with women, and ready to trade in all those breasts for quality time with an Adam’s apple.