Dinner Should be Enjoyed Naked

By Michelle Charpentier

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and events either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, locals, or events either living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright©2010 by Michelle Charpentier Smashword Edition.

Wednesday November 22.

What have I done? How could I have so easily committed myself to anything so foolish? I have officially lost my ever-loving mind! I was minding my own business, cheerfully going about my life when I felt the innocent vibration of my cell phone.

Without thinking, I flip it open saying, “Hello,” while continuing to rifle through the stack of papers on my desk. The voice on the other end made my hand freeze in mid-shuffle. It was Rick—big strong, handsome Rick. Rick with the athletic legs; muscular thighs that remind me of an Olympic weight lifter; six pack abs; powerful arms; and hands, which are soft and gentle enough to send tingles down my spine, just thinking about them. Add his curly black hair, combined with those chocolate brown eyes and I’m three quarters of the way to an orgasm. If I hear one, “Hey baby,” through the receiver I will have to grip the desk ‘cause I’m going all the way. Luckily, my office door is always shut!

After a few minutes of idle chit chat, I silently congratulated myself for staying cool. He has no idea I want him—all of him—to spend hours entertaining me in the privacy of my bedroom. My, oh, so lonely bedroom. Picture the classic scene of tumbleweed rolling across the prairies encountering nothing but dust, and you get an idea just how little action that room has seen in the past few years. This man could change all that, but I cannot seem too eager. If I take my time, let him know I enjoy our little bouts of conversation he may eventually ask me out on a date.

At this point, I will have to research what constitutes a date, since it has been so long since I have had one. I would hate to miss an invitation because I don’t recognize the lingo. Suddenly I’m jolted back to reality. Did I really hear him say what I think he said?

“So, how about it? Will you have dinner with me Saturday?” “Of course, I would love to,” I respond automatically.

Apparently, when my mind wanders my libido takes over. Oddly enough, my voice remains calm during a hormone-induced reply. This is good to know if I ever find myself at, say, a strip club when that all-important phone call comes in from the president. Men in g-strings gyrating close by, will have no effect on my ability to negotiate world peace. Yeah, for all humanity. Right now, however, my palms are sweating and my pulse is racing over the idea of having dinner alone with the man of my dreams. Thank goodness, video phones have not invaded the communication market or I would be busted. The key to pulling this dinner off is not to act too eager. Acting like an infatuated schoolgirl won’t do. I’m definitely past the age of giggling over a hot body. Okay, I should be. Time will tell if I have actually attained adulthood. My brain interrupts my angst, prodding me to pay attention, since dreamboat is still talking.

“Great, how about I pick you up at eight o’clock? We can go anywhere you’d like; any favorites?”

My mind is blank. I could not name a restaurant to save my life. “Surprise me,” I stammer. “I trust your taste.”

What a cop out. Can you say blithering idiot? Promise me a meal and I lose any ability for rational thought. Time to put the hormones back in control; they seem to be able to function intelligently under pressure. With any luck, I will at least get through the meal before he discovers I’m a complete idiot.

“Then I will see you Saturday night,” he purrs into the phone before it goes silent.

I savor the tone of his voice for a few minutes. His deep, husky tone had caressed each word before transcending the airwaves to my ear and sending shivers down my spine. I swear he spoke this way just for me.

I lean back in my chair, arms stretched toward the ceiling and coming to rest behind my head, and savor my awakened senses. A big beautiful manly, man wants to take me to dinner, and if I play my cards right, spend some quality alone time afterwards. Soft music playing in the background as candle light dances in the shadows, sending sensuous aromas wafting through the air, create the perfect atmosphere for love, runs through my mind. Right now, I would settle for some heavy petting, but I’m aiming high.

Reality starts to creep into my fantasy when my eyes land on the calendar. Saturday is three days away. Repeat, Saturday is three days away. Jolted upright, my mind finally registers, Saturday is three days away! Every known stereotype of women and dates scream through my fantasy-loving mind. I have nothing to wear. Are we going somewhere fancy or casual? What color is he wearing? Must we match? Certainly, we should not clash. What about shoes? Should I wear heels or flats? Will one get me more action than the other? Okay, put that question at the end of the list. My hair is a mess; is there time for a cut or perm? I really should be more prepared for a social life, but who knew all my begging to a higher power would finally pay off?

Looking for inspiration and a chance to brag a little, I pick up the phone to call my sister.

“Hello,” Marsha’s voice echoes from the cell phone. “

Hey sis, how’s it going?” A few pleasantries are always necessary before asking anyone for advice. It puts the person in a good mood so they forget how needy you really are.

“Just fine. You have today off?”

“No, I’m at work trying to figure out how to move this product before the end of the month. Nobody wants to buy anything when they can bitch at me for free. I do have one major problem to tackle. I’ve just been asked out on a date and haven’t a clue what to wear. I was hoping you could help me out; any ideas?”

“A real date or just coffee?”

“This will be a real dinner date where a waiter takes your order and brings real food.

“Really! And a man is taking you there? My goodness, this must be a first.”

“Thanks for rubbing that in, now how about some help.”

“Okay, what are you leaning toward—dress or pants?”

“I was thinking of a nice knee length dress, with heels. I just don’t know what color. I’ve always worn boring clothes. I want this outfit to sizzle.”

“Better make sure your boobs show then. Men can’t resist cleavage.”

“Boobs? What are you, twelve?”

“Stop being such a prude. You should be able to say boobs at fifty. Come on, repeat after me: boobs, boobs, boobs.”

I could hear the mirth in Marsha’s voice as she coaxed me. That is one family trait we all share: the ability to tease each other without taking it personally. A more normal family would not survive the conversations we had when the five of us got together. Our own mother shied away from them at times; not embarrassed over the context but uneasy with the candor. I think self-preservation would take over to keep her out of harm’s way if a bomb suddenly went off. With her in the distance, at least there would be someone to call 911 if necessary.

“Okay, smarty pants, think it over and I’ll call you later.” Flipping the phone shut, I hold it in my hands for a few moments to keep the connection with my sister just a little longer. I haven’t seen her in a few years and I miss her. Little sisters are a cute addition to the family when they first arrive as babies. Suddenly they begin to walk and talk and before long, the expectation is that you will keep them entertained. With a six-year age gap, we really didn’t have much in common as children. Before long, we were blessed with another sister. Initially this was a good thing, since the two little ones could keep themselves occupied. Mom assured me the girls would still need my companionship for the next few years, so then I had to entertain two.

The best part of having two little sisters is that they grow into women, quickly. While I was off establishing my life, they grew into intelligent worldly women with opinions I could trust. We don’t always take the same path but I can rely on their judgment to be solid, when I need their help. In reality, little sisters are only a pain for the first ten to eighteen years. That leaves at least fifty to eighty years to enjoy the camaraderie only sisters can provide. Every woman should have a sister.

A knock on the office door reminds me I’m still at work. Thoughts of dancing in the moonlight have to be pushed aside for now; the public awaits my expertise to help solve their problems. I love my job, but can’t these people see that my need to find the perfect dress takes precedence over their broken appliance? Well, I just hope none of them are mind readers; otherwise, there will be red faces on both sides of the counter. Deciding whether to wear a thong, briefs, or go au natural is a decision best made among the voices already residing in my head. I don’t need strangers butting in with unwanted opinions.

I just need to concentrate for a few more hours, and then I can agonize over my lack of suitable dating attire, in the comfort of my easy chair. In retrospect, I realize this would not be such a problem if I had dated more, as a teenager. Damn it all to hell my lack of interest in mindless teenage boys! Why did I spend so much time reading textbooks instead of fashion magazines? I bet all those cheerleaders who I considered too “girly” have closets full of sexy clothes, fabulous shoes, and pretty lingerie to fit any occasion. I’m smart, I can catch up quickly; just watch me. I’m a woman and I understand shopping comes naturally to us. We will put that stereotype to the test, big time, in the next few days; trust me.

As I wander back to the front of the store, customers start lining up at the counter, waiting to pay for their items. Since a big part of my job is taking other people’s money in exchange for merchandise, I really should get my head out of the clouds. I hope the line of customers will continue to grow, giving me little time to think about Saturday. Oh great, not only is the line growing, it is breathing fire. I don’t understand why people think we are magicians. If they don’t know what part they need, then how am I supposed to know? Apparently, a description is all the information I need, to be able to solve their problems. Maybe I should call the president and offer my services. Surely, I can negotiate world peace if I’m successful at this job.

Pay attention to the customer, my mind screams. It is the only way to get him out of here so you can make plans for Saturday. My eyes blink a few times as a diversion to allow the voices in my head to retreat so I can get back to the customer. I would like to say, “So what? My washer works.” Instead, I hear my voice say, “This is what you need. It’s fourteen dollars and ninety-nine cents plus tax.”

Slowly he pulls out his wallet searching for money. Maybe I’m being insensitive but if you come to the counter with an item that has to be paid for, how about being proactive and have the money already in your hand.

“How much did you say?” he asks after looking at the bills. “Fourteen dollars and ninety nine cents plus tax,” I try not to sound exasperated.“So how much is the total?”

He can’t be serious. Everyone should be able to add the taxes to their total. “Sixteen dollars and four cents,” I reply with my hand outstretched to encourage the money to jump from his wallet into my hand.

“Are you sure? The sign says eighteen dollars and fifty cents.”“I can charge you that if you want, but the price I just gave you is a better one.”“Are you trying to get smart with me?”

Someone has to get smart with this guy. Why would you argue for a higher price? I wish I could just refuse to sell him anything. If this were my store, I would take the part back and tell him to get out. No one who cannot recognize a deal staring them in the face should shop in stores. Instead, I use my best customer service voice to reassure him he is the most intelligent person in the room.

“No sir, I am just pointing out that the sign must be incorrect because you are getting a lower price.”

Finally, he hands over his money, takes the change and leaves. Unfortunately, another man steps up to take his place. His lips move forming words but the sound doesn’t reach my ears. This guy does not have a clue that I’m really thinking about red stiletto heels. My eyes glaze over wild thoughts invade my mind.

Do you think there is an age limit on wearing them? Who would police a thing like that? Probably the sales clerks at the shoe store—just like buying cigarettes at the supermarket. Signs would be posted at the checkout: Anyone Who Looks Over The Age Of 40 Will Be Proofed For Heel Height, or something similarly insane. A nubile blonde-haired person just out of high school would smile sweetly saying, “I need to see your license. Sorry ma’am you are past the age limit for wearing four-inch heels. “

Her slim fingers reach out to retrieve the shoes from my grip, but my hands won’t let go easily. My fingers tighten around the straps unwilling to release their hold. If I let go of these shoes I will be releasing my hold on youth. From this point on, I will be banished to the Old Woman Club, made up of those people whose journey through menopause was not a happy trip. Others will see me as old, as every wrinkle is intensified for all to see and every extra pound visible from miles away. Children will snicker as I walk by, and men will no longer gaze at my breasts instead of looking in my eyes, when we talk. This only proves that all those people who told me I don’t look my age, meant I looked older, not younger.

“Please,” I beg, “let me have this one last pair. Let me be young for one more day.” Slowly the shoes slip from my grasp, disappearing behind the counter. As I turn to go, I see an older woman at the next checkout gingerly place her shoes on the counter. As the checkout girl looks at her license, the woman lets her eyes roam around the room, trying to act nonchalant. Satisfied, the checkout girl hands back her license. The woman quickly puts the shoes in the bag, signs the credit card slip, and hurries out the door. My mind is racing. How did she do that? I have to find out. I fly out the door to catch her; I must know how she got away with it.

“Excuse me,” I shout, trying to get her attention before she reaches her car. Without looking back, her pace quickens. She must think I’m security, sent to retrieve her precious shoes. “Wait,” I shout. “I’m not here to hurt you; I just want to know your secret.”

Damn it! She made to her car. Against all I believe in, I break into a run. I hope no one I know is watching; I have spent years convincing people I physically cannot move faster than a leisurely stroll. If they see me, my entire persona will be in doubt. All those carefully cultivated characteristics designed to make my life easier will be in jeopardy. People will expect me to join in, have sympathy, want friends, or be friendly to others. My entire life could collapse. A quick scan of the parking lot eases my fears. I see no one familiar.

I reach the car just as the engines starts to hum. My hand rapidly bangs on the window in an effort to get it open. My desperation must have shown. The window slowly retracts in the doorframe as the woman tentatively whispers, “What do you want?”

“I need to know how you got away with buying those shoes. You must be the same age as me; how did you get through? Please tell me. I finally have a date with a glorious man and I can’t be seen in boring shoes.”

“It’s simple. Scout the store to find out when the youngest girl is working the checkout. Look for the cheerleader type. You know what I mean; they have bleached blonde hair, too much make up, and are usually chewing gum. They are less likely to be able to subtract quickly in their head. Act nonchalant but in a hurry; it confuses them. As soon as you leave the store, hightail it to your car. And don’t talk to anyone until the shoes are in your trunk.” With that, the window zooms up and the car jolts into reverse. “Bless you,” I whisper as the woman drives away. A voice from the other side of the counter breaks my concentration.

“Boss, the phone is for you,” Rebecca says as her head pokes around the corner. She quickly moves in and takes over the customer patiently waiting in front of the register.

“Thanks, I’ll take it in my office,” I reply. Closing the door, I fall into my chair at the same time my hand reaches for the phone. As I sit my eyes scan the emails sitting on my computer. Each email wants something, more spreadsheets, more sales, or another pound of flesh. I’m sure whoever is on the phone wants something also. Just wait until someone has the nerve to ask me what I want. My sons know the answer—Peace and Quiet! Sometimes I feel like telling the customers to take what they want and get out of the store. Boy, I really need this date. I’ve heard that sex can be a great stress reliever, especially with a man who knows what he is doing. My mind wanders back to Rick’s curly hair, long strong fingers, and bulging biceps that totally make me forget I have a call on hold. Reluctantly, I reach for the phone instead of lingering in the emerging fantasy.

Thirty minutes later another customer is satisfied while I’m less interested in anything not pertaining to my upcoming night of romance. I don’t care if their vacuum is broken; I only want to think of bubble baths that will make my skin irresistible to touch. I wonder what his favorite fragrance is. I hope it is not vanilla. Everything from flavored coffee to bathroom scents smell of vanilla. The last thing I want him to think about while smelling me is how clean his bathroom is. If I get lucky enough to have him that close I want him to smell the scent of lust. I have three days to figure out what lust smells like. I need to make a list of what goes into a wonderful date so I can tip the odds of having sex, in my favor. I’m hoping for a long, sensuous night of passion, but will settle for a hot steamy quickie. Something tells me Rick is all about the night, from flirting at dinner to long lingering kisses under the covers. I don’t believe quickies are ever a possibility. I wonder if there is a prayer for that. Which saint covers good sex? Since according to the Bible, we were supposed to go forth and multiply, it only makes sense there would be a patron saint of whoopee. Wouldn’t the local priest love that question? I think I will file that one away for a rainy day when I’m bored. Embarrassing a priest is a minor offense, not worthy of going to hell. It only gets serious when you involve the Pope in a sex talk.

A quick glance at the clock reveals it is finally time to go home. No more customer issues, today. Now it’s time to create the perfect plan for Saturday night. All I have to do is get through the five o’clock traffic.

Slowly the cars move along as if their tires have melted to the road. I hear my engine whine in protest. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I can’t make them go any faster. If I have time this weekend, I’ll take you out on the highway so you can run.” Wow, I’m talking to my car! I need a man! Out of the corner of my eye, I see a white panel van moving in the other direction. My heart rate quickens at the possibility that Rick is behind the wheel. I would love to be the steering wheel he wraps his fingers around. He can grip me like that anytime. My nipples are standing at attention just thinking about being caressed by those fingers. He shouldn’t still be in town but that does look like his truck. I can feel my inner thighs starting to sweat in anticipation of seeing his beautiful brown eyes. Craning my neck to get a better look my baby narrowly misses another car clipping her side. The truck passes by and I see the driver is not my sexy dinner date. I can’t believe I almost ruined my paint job because of an imposter. Try explaining the accident to a traffic cop.

“I was looking at a white van that reminded me of my potential lover when this car moved over into my lane scratching my car.” I pointed to the ugly scar left on the quarter panel ruining the red paint. Slowly a tear rolls down my check falling on the officer’s shoe.

“Did you see the other driver coming into your lane?” the officer asks trying to get all the information for his report.

“I did but it was too late for me to react.”

“She looked like she was having a seizure, officer. She probably isn’t supposed to drive.” The offending driver tries his best to put the blame for the accident on me. I hope that the officer doesn’t delve into his statement any further.

“Ma’am, is this correct? Do you have a seizure disorder? I need to see your license.”

“No, officer I do not have a seizure disorder. Here look at my license. He’s just trying to shift blame here. He obviously hit my car. I want him arrested!” Two can play at this game. I can play the hysterical woman very effectively. No way am I going to explain to these two I was on the verge of an orgasm while driving.

“Look lady, I can’t arrest him for scratching your car. All I can do is get his information so you can file a claim against his insurance. As for you, keep your eyes on the road instead of looking in other peoples’ cars,” the officer retreats to his patrol car and drives off. I climb behind the wheel relieved to be headed home. The road can be a dangerous place for daydreamers.

Wednesday November 22 5:30 pm

The quiet floods over me as I open the front door. No one here makes demands on my time or emotions except the cats who curl around my ankles to welcome me home. Kahlua is a big one eyed Siamese who believes he actually owns the house. I’m just here to feed him. He vocalizes these sentiments on a daily basis. Unlike the outside world, I can leave the room, blocking out his meowing. Phritz, a petite calico who after five years still is wary of strangers, is the quiet one. She seldom makes any noise, preferring to prowl the house like a tiger on the hunt. She lets me pet her a few minutes before she darts away nipping my hand along the way.

Pulling my hand away, I get a good look at my nails. They are not in bad shape but I think I will use some fake nails just to make them perfect. I have some fantastic nail polish that will match my dress perfectly. I believe the nails and polish are in the same place. I just need to find them. First, though, I need to find something to eat so I can stay focused. One drawback to living alone is eating alone. Sandwiches quickly become a staple since they can be adapted to fit any meal. As I fall back into the couch, plate in hand my mind starts to imagine a perfect meal.

“Hi honey,” big hunky Rick, sings as I stroll through the door after a hard day at the office. He hurries across the room arms outstretched offering a much needed hug. A long lingering kiss gives me a hint of what is for dinner. Besides the wonderful aromas wafting from the kitchen, I taste marinara on those big luscious lips. My stomach growls hungrily.

“It’s good to be home,” I murmur as my lips caress his cheek. “Is dinner ready yet?”

“Just as soon as you are ready, my love.”

Quickly I head to the bedroom to shed these work clothes and change into something more comfortable. Grabbing a silk camisole top with matching lounging pants I swiftly shed the constricting work clothes anticipating a scrumptious meal served by a hunky man. My breasts heave a sigh of relief as they find freedom from their confinement. The feel of silk on my bare skin is definitely pre-foreplay. Already my nipples are becoming erect from anticipation. I love the way he sets the mood after a long day at work. Who says men aren’t romantic. Spying my pink high heel bedroom slippers, I reach under the bed to retrieve them. Rick loves the puff of pink fluff that cascades over my toes.

Pressing my breasts against his back, I wrap my arms around his waist letting my hands caress his soft, silky hair covering his chest. My lips travel slowly over his shoulder blades, my tongue making swirls across his skin tastes a hint of salt while my nose gathers a wisp of Old Spice. He takes my hand as we slowly walk to the table where a fabulous dinner awaits. Always the gentleman, Rick holds my chair, leaning into my hair as I sink into the chair. His breath on my neck sends electric shivers up my spine. My senses drink in the atmosphere created by the long tapered candles flickering in the dimly lit room. A faint scent of roses fills the air. The flicker of the of candles’ flames reflects softly in the deep brown eyes gazing at me from across the table. Slowly, Rick reaches down cradling my foot in his strong supple hands. He slips off my slipper and begins to massage my foot. His strong fingers caress the arch of my foot releasing any tension caused by the outside world, but at the same time awaking a need to feel those fingers caressing the skin all over my body. My foot twitches as the caressing starts to tickle.

“Oh Rick, that tickles,” I giggle.

As eyes open, I realize the soft caressing of my foot is actually Kahlua rubbing his body against me for attention. It is a good thing I live alone. Sudden outbursts of passion don’t have to be explained to the cats as it would if I had a roommate. I look down at my lonely sandwich and sigh. I wonder how close my fantasy is to the real thing. Could he possibly be a man who enjoys romance as much as I need it? By Saturday, I should have my answer.

Finishing the cold sandwich, I look for a piece of paper to write down everything I have to accomplish tomorrow in preparation for Saturday. Grabbing a small notepad off the end table, I push back in the recliner to think. I might as well start with the toes. If there is any chance my fantasy was prophetic, I must have pretty feet. Nail polish and heavy-duty skin cream go first on the list. Legs are smooth which is perfect. Since it is unseasonably warm for November, I don’t have to worry about panty hose. I believe I can get away with bare legs. I had better pick up a pair of light hose just in case. I hope he likes the natural look because a bikini wax is out of the question. Maybe a trim to make sure everything stays inside the panty lines but that is it. I have to check my make-up to see what I have. It has been so long since I used any I’m sure it is out of date.

A quick check on the dresser confirms my suspicions. Standing in front of the mirror, I flip my hair from side to side like a supermodel on a catwalk. The soft ash blonde locks fall a couple of inches past my shoulders. The ends flip up softly indicating there is some life left. Must be the shampoo I’m using. I cannot tie it into a knot like the girl in the commercial but it does feel soft to the touch. A trim would not hurt so I’ll put that on the list for tomorrow. Must remember, I only have eight hours to pull it all together.

Gently, I pull the skin around my eyes up in a slant. Almost fifty and very few wrinkles is a plus. The fourteen-year age difference does not seem huge to me; think of the fun we could have if I look even younger. With the right face cream and lighting, I could easily pass for thirty-five. Drop a few sentences ending with “daddy” at the right time and watch what happens. I could become the next Hollywood starlet look alike. Not quite, boobs are too small. That reminds me, a pushup bra might be in order. Cupping a breast in each hand, I try to find a flattering position. Up too high and most breasts look false; too far apart might show their age. If I find the right dress, I could go braless. A nice v-neck will show off their size and smooth skin. They are in remarkable shape considering I breastfed all three of my sons. A v-neck would be more comfortable and give a smoother line. Just need to keep most of the girls covered. Granted a well-displayed bust makes life easier, but I resent the staring. First, speak to my mind then ogle my chest. Is that too much to ask? A nice dress that shows just enough cleavage to keep his eyes on me goes on the list.

Finally, I come to the shoes. One pair of sneakers, two pair of work shoes, old fuzzy slippers, and flip-flops are the only things piled on the closet floor. Shoes never seemed important until now. I don’t wear shoes if I’m at home. Often I take them off as soon as I get in the car just to feel the freedom being barefoot gives me. My feet enjoy the sensations of soft rugs or the coolness of hardwood floors. Being free gives my skin a chance to breathe. The only problem I have is the ability to find something to stub my little toe on even in a room where there is absolutely nothing there. I swear I can hurt myself on air. Besides forging a new relationship, I guess I’m developing a new attitude towards my wardrobe.

Scanning the list, I realize it is time to grow up and become the woman I’m supposed to be. Feminine clothes, high heels and the proper make- up are all out there waiting for me to find them. Jewelry is definitely an issue. I have one pair of earrings, a couple necklaces and one set of bracelets. Nothing matches, especially since I seem to lose pieces almost as soon as I get them. It’s as if I purposely sabotage my own jewelry box for no apparent purpose. This is where daughters would have come in handy. There would have been a chance of exposure to all things feminine. If I had more time, I could have become a big sister to a teenager to get some pointers. On the other hand, maybe I could have searched out help at the local high school. That would be a great idea for a class. Once a week a group of women could sit in the classroom and have cheerleaders teach them make up and fashion tips. The girls could get extra credit for community service.

“Tiffany, what would you wear on a first date with an attractive man?’

“How attractive is he? Is he cute like Brad Peters or Jimmy Stallion?

“He is cute like Bruce Williams but with curly hair.”

“Bruce who? I’ve never heard of him, is he old or something?” I forgot these were teenage girls clearly only aware of men in their own age group. Better to keep the advice to generic information that works with any age.

“Let’s just say the guy is cute. What would you wear?” I could see the look of concentration on the girls’ faces as they gave this some thought.

“Definitely a mini skirt with a cute little lacy shirt,” one of the girls squealed clapping her hands excitedly. You would have thought she had just one a million dollars on a TV game show.

Yeah, and pink platform shoes,” her teammate added with the same enthusiasm.

“Girls, remember we are older than you are. We can’t wear miniskirts or platform shoes.” Maybe this was not such a good idea after all. I don’t think these three will be able to bridge the age gap.

“Oh right, you guys are old. Do people your age really date? How late can you stay up? I thought you all went to bed at eight o’clock. Girls we need to huddle.” All three girls wrapped their arms around each other in a protective shield whispering intently. Every few moments one would raise her head to look at us then rejoin the others in deep conversation. If we didn’t feel inferior before we sure did now. One of the girls pulled out her cell phone to make a call. Great, now they are going to broadcast to their friends how pathetic we are. After a few minutes, the huddle broke and the girls faced us with sad eyes reserved for injured animals.

“We think we can help you. My mom has this magazine called Older Women or something like that. It has all kinds of pictures in there of women your age dressed up. We asked her to bring us a copy after her bingo game so you guys can look at it. Maybe you can find some help in there.” As she stood there with her arms in front of her in a sympathetic shrug, I wanted to scream. Three cheerleaders feeling sorry for me, a successful businesswoman with an MBA who just happens to be more than twice their age.

“Thanks girls, I know this was difficult for you. Hopefully, we haven’t taxed your brains too much.” Getting up I head for the door. If I want this kind of abuse, I’ll stay home and get it from my cats. The tip about the magazine was right on though. Maybe I can pick one up on the way home.

Phritz jumps into my lap bringing me back to reality. Clearly, I still have a lot of work to do before I am ready. If this relationship takes off, there is sure to come a point when clothing will be optional. We will become so comfortable with each other we will eat dinner naked with only a napkin covering our lap. Of course, I will serve dinner here since I can’t think of any restaurant that allows nude dining. Getting ready will be a lot less stressful. I hope and pray this date is worth it. Remembering Rick’s coal black ringlets and long muscular legs brings a sigh to my lips. Saturday cannot come soon enough!

Thursday November 23rd

Rick’s lips gently caress my neck sending electric shock waves throughout my body. His tongue flicks over my skin; his hot breath heightens the sensations. Slowly his hands caress my thighs, working their way up to that special spot only he knows how to excite. As his fingers separate the moist skin protecting my pleasure center, his lips gently tug at my nipples. My body trembles with excitement, not knowing which sensation is more powerful. First one nipple then the other hardens under the teasing from his lips and teeth. I cup his face in my hands before gently pulling him up to kiss me. His lips tenderly press against mine as our tongues probe each other’s mouth. Quivering with anticipation, I eagerly accept his long, hard shaft inside. Thrust after thrust brings us both closer to climaxing. His stamina is incredible. Never has anyone spent so much time building such intense physical sensations. Every nerve in my body was tingling our breathing becoming harder and harder. Finally, in a wave of intense heat, fireworks exploding in the sky above the bed we both reach climax. With sweat dripping, lungs gasping for air, we cling together in the afterglow. Rick rolls onto his side giving me room to snuggle up under his chin. Our legs entwine as his arms wrap around my body, one under my head the other around my waist. A few kisses later, we both drift off to sleep spent by our passion.

The warmth of another body lying close to me in bed was a welcome feeling. It has been many, many moons since excited utterances not caused by a leg cramp echoed in this room. Alas, today was no exception. I turn over with fingers crossed hoping the dream is real and there would be a man dreamily looking back at me. Unfortunately, the only eyes looking at me are small, blue ones attached to a calico cat. As my eyes become accustom to the daylight I realize the warm body next to me is not my dream man but the bodies of two cats curled up in the blankets positioned as close to me as possible. While I appreciate their company it is just another reminder I need physical contact with a man.

Staring at the ceiling, I try to gather enough energy to get out of bed. Momentary depression stymies any attempt to move. Again, like each morning, I beg a higher power to help me find fulfillment with a man. I hope that Rick is the one sent to fulfill my need for a companion, lover, and partner. I cannot pin my hopes on him but I must be open that he might be the one. Hanging onto that hope, I get up reaching for my bathrobe and head to the kitchen for coffee. Waiting for the cup to heat up in the microwave, I try to remember where I left that list. I only have today to shop for an outfit, get my hair trimmed, and decide on makeup. Since I don’t have daughters, girlfriends would come in handy. Both my sisters and my mom live out of state so they are no help. I don’t make a point to meet people socially so there is no one to take shopping. If I stick to shopping at stores with well-dressed consultants, I may be all right. I wonder if any of the stores have gay sales associates. I hate to rely on stereotypes but all the fashion shows have gay men spewing advice to fashion challenged women so I have to believe they know more than I would about current fashions. I will have to keep my eyes open while in the stores. I know enough gay men to be able to spot them without being obvious. Sipping the last of the coffee, I return to the bedroom to get dressed and head out.

Before I can make it out the door, the phone starts to ring. Looking at the screen, I see it is my sister calling back, hopefully with some advice. More than likely she has more wise cracks though.

“Hello sis, what’s up?” I ask.

“Oh nothing just thought I would see if you found an outfit yet.”

“I am on my way to the mall right now to see what I can find. Did you come up with any real ideas?”

“It depends. What does he look like?”

“He is a god. He’s Italian with curly black hair, deep brown eyes, and muscles galore. He plays racquetball three times a week and it shows in his thighs. They are massive. It makes me wet just thinking about them.”

“So I take it you are planning on having sex with him?”

“I’m not planning, I’m insisting even if I have to liquor him up first. If you could see his butt, you would understand immediately. Sometimes when he makes a delivery, I put heavy things on the dock so he has to bend over and pick them up. That way I can stare at his behind without him seeing me. I feel like the lecherous old men who hire the young blonde secretaries just to have someone to look at.”

“Is that all there is, a cute butt and curly black hair? Surely there must be something else you’re interested in or you wouldn’t be putting this much time into finding the right clothes to wear.”

“There is the muffins and coffee.”

“Excuse me?”

“He brings me a coffee cake muffin and coffee everyday he delivers to the store. Stupid me when he first called to offer I told him no because I thought he was just being nice. I never thought he was actually interested in me. Apparently, the only reason he called ahead was to hear my voice. I’m surprised a ton of bricks didn’t come out of the phone and hit me on the head.”

“So besides being pretty to look at he is sensitive, how nice.”

“Snicker all you want but I’m enjoying the attention.”

“You deserve a good man. Go find something that will knock his socks off,”

“I plan on it, talk to you later sis.”

With that, the phone went dead. Slipping the phone into its holder resting on my hip I start to think about coffee cake muffins. I wonder where I can get one. There must be a muffin shop in the mall. Not all of them serve coffee cake muffins though. Most people want the regular flavors like blueberry or bran. Most people are boring. Variety is supposed to be the spice of life; I don’t think most people have a spice rack. Finding a muffin will be on my list of things to do today. Right after I find the perfect dress to for sex.

10:00 am

I love my car. The sleek lines set it apart from an average family car. The red color pops against the leather interior, creamy in color soft and smooth to the touch. Just sitting in the driver’s seat listening to the hum of the engine puts a twinkle in my eye. The engine has more horsepower than any one person would need making accelerating exciting. You can feel the power vibrate through the driver’s seat straight up your spine. I enjoy pushing past bully drivers who leave their manners at home. Just a slight squeeze on the accelerator reminds them cuts will not allowed whether you are in line to buy concert tickets or driving down the highway. With the radio turned up, the sunroof open I head to the mall for some serious shopping.

The unseasonably warm weather means I can leave my heavy clothing at home making it easier to try things on. Jeans, a light pullover and red snappy sandals is the perfect outfit for roaming the mall. Easy in easy out of the dressing rooms means less tears more peace of mind. Sighing heavily, I leave the comfort of my car and head for the mall entrance. Once inside, I take a moment to collect my thoughts. I’m not a shopper. I hate sharing my personal space with strangers. No matter where I walk, it always seems like someone is trying to use the same space. I can pick any empty aisle in a store and guarantee within seconds someone wants to walk down the same aisle. They never stop to look at anything on the shelves; they just want to make me move. I resent the intrusion. By the end of a short shopping experience, you can almost visualize the dark stormy clouds hanging over my head. It is a wonder the clouds don’t let loose and drown me before I leave the mall.

Then there are the kids. I have three so it is not as if I don’t like them but really, when kids are screaming in an enclosed mall no one is enjoying themselves. You can tell the poor kids would rather be home sleeping or playing with their toys instead of cooped up in a stroller watching their mothers’ sort through clothing. The poor little people cannot even see anyone above the kneecap since their strollers sit so low. Picture yourself strapped into a stroller shoved out into traffic hoping everyone gets out of the way to let you pass. “Look out,” you yell as a sea of multicolored legs swarms around you; legs with oversized purses swinging at their sides ready to bang into the cloth stroller. No one understands your fear because no one understands baby talk. All the adults hear are cries from a fussy baby with no clue what is causing the high-pitched shrieks. Covering your face with your tiny hands, you try melting into the stroller’s cushion to avoid making any contact with the crowd. If the sea of colors does not make your eyes spin just think of the aromas at knee level. Not everyone uses the expensive perfumes you know. Some people even forget deodorant, which allows earthy smells to waif downward seemingly aimed right at your nose. With such an assault on every sense, it is no wonder kids get cranky after hours at the mall.

With the state of the world these days you cannot even show sympathy for the kids and ask their mothers to take them home. Imagine the nasty looks you would get before the ranting starts as they defend their parenting abilities. Every parent thinks he or she knows best. I have yet to meet someone who willingly admits they have not got a clue how to raise kids. As a society, we don’t put any importance on childcare classes until someone becomes a parent and problems arise. Too bad most people cannot afford nannies. If parents would spend less on jeans and more on babysitters, we all would be happier!

If we incorporated childcare classes in the high school curriculum, I bet the birth rate would drop dramatically. After caring for a real baby even for a short time, the wise kids would remember for a very long time how hard it is. Nannies would make a comeback since more people would wait until they could afford one before having children. Nannies would teach manners making society a better place. Maybe nannies are the way to achieve world peace.

Coming up with ideas to bring about world peace isn’t hard to do, maybe I should move to Washington. I could open a think tank just to come up with ideas to float by the President. In the mean time, my job is to avoid babies in the mall. It is easier to avoid any store an ear piercing shrill is coming from than try to concentrate with noise echoing in your head. With any luck, I will be in and out of the mall before sensory overload destroys their world.

10:30 am

So far so good, I’m in the mall and not a stroller in sight. Cautiously, I look to the right then scan to the left just to make sure all is clear. Farther down the mall, I can barely make out the shape of a double stroller turning into a clothing store. I promptly turn on my red heels and head in the other direction. Looking through the windows, I try to decide what to look for first. So what should I search for first the perfect dress or to die for shoes? I’d better start with the dress. As long as I get the right dress, I can grab a pair of plain shoes if I run out of time or in my case an inclination to shop. I need to keep my eye on the prize- a fantasy dinner with a sexy man who wants to spend time with me. Confidently, I step into the nearest dress boutique waiting for inspiration to strike. Scanning the racks, I notice the colors this year all seem to revolve around three degrees of dark; brown, browner, and black. The cloth seems void of color before they cut the pattern. Out of curiosity, I check the price tag of a simple black slip like dress and nearly pass out! $200 for a piece of fabric void of any personality let alone one that is only fit to be worn in the tropics. There was not enough fabric to keep a breeze from blowing right through you. I can just picture how someone would look wearing that itsy bitsy piece of cloth when the temperature falls below seventy degrees. First would be the insulated stockings to keep your legs warm. Next, you would need a woolen slip to keep your special places from feeling the cold air. It is hard enough to find someone you have chemistry with; it would definitely put a damper on things if you had to knock icicles off your pubic hair before foreplay was possible. Finally, an ankle length coat would finish the outfit ensuring any man asking you out would definitely be interested in your mind since it would take hours of disrobing to see your body. I don’t mind showing some skin, I mind paying for something that is not there. That fabric could not have cost more than ten dollars a yard making the entire dress worth around fifteen dollars. If this is what I have to choose from, I fear disappointment is waiting for me at the end of the day. Maybe a larger store will have a more reasonable selection.

Pushing on, I head to the next store still searching for the one perfect dress that will both make me beautiful and give me the confidence to get back out into the dating world. I wonder if the Wizard of Oz has a store in this mall. Oh, lord there is a stroller up ahead. Ducking into the lingerie department, I manage to avoid contact with the little bundle of joy. Passing through the nightgowns, I feel the soft silky fabric lightly touch my forearm sending shivers across my skin. Pausing, I take a closer look at the nightgown rubbing the fabric between my fingers. I wonder if I should buy a negligee for our first night together. Normally I sleep in the nude but I don’t know what he is used to. For me slipping into something more comfortable would entail leaving all my clothes on the floor and not putting anything else on. Parading around naked might send the wrong impression. I don’t want Rick thinking I do that in front of everyone. Right now, the only living beings exposed to nudity in the home are the cats and they do not pay any attention to me. As long as I make sure they have food in their dish, I am free to do whatever I want in my own home. Cats are such magnanimous creatures. Still it wouldn’t hurt to try this one on. Standing in front of a mirror I hug the silky sheath close to my body.

The fabric feels cool as it glides over my skin. Each step I take creates a sea of silky blue softness that winds like a minx around my calves. Stretching my arms out, I twirl around watching the nightgown balloon out around me. The warm sunshine falls on my upturned face as fresh air fills my lungs. The grass feels cool against bare feet. A field of wild flowers sprays their perfume into the air. I feel free. No worries, no cares to cause any stress. I feel just like a child again. A song swells up in my breast begging to be set free. As I part my lips to let the melody ring clear a shrill shriek hits my ears shattering my daydream. Quickly, I drop the nightgown and continue to move away from the noise.

Continuing my quest, I finally find the dress section. Scanning each rack, I see the same scenario as the first store. Dull colors, old woman styles, nothing that shouts'" buy me and you will get laid." Instead, I hear “now dear sex isn’t everything. Just be happy someone is giving you a free meal.” I’m not in this for the meal I answer. I want adult company, intelligent conversation, and actual touching. I crave kisses, hugs, lingering looks, foreplay and yes sex. I’m almost fifty years old; old enough to admit aloud what I want without being embarrassed. The only embarrassing part would be if someone caught me talking to a rack of dresses. Then I might be considered a bit loony which could get me a night at the nearest mental ward. Best to keep thoughts to myself before someone calls security. I smile at the sales clerk passing by as I turn to leave the store. I hope that the next store will have something I can work with. I have to try something on at least so the trip isn’t a total waste of time. Hopefully, the dresses look better on me than on the rack.

Slowly, I wander down the mall scanning possible stores to enter. If I had more estrogen, maybe this would not be so difficult. I find all this searching tedious. A quick check of my watch tells me I need to step it up. It’s closing in on twelve o’clock and I still don’t have anything accomplished. Standing in front of another dress boutique a sigh escapes my lips. I must take this next store seriously. I will try on dresses. I will pick one out. I will pay for it and be happy. If I repeat this mantra enough times, I just might believe it. Visualize and it will come true I chant silently. With eyes closed, I imagine walking over to a rack with many beautiful dresses. I see myself picking out four to try on.

As I turn to walk to the dressing room, a voice breaks through. “Excuse me,” a woman says as she pushes by in an attempt to enter the store. I move out of the way after realizing I’m standing in the middle of the doorway. I hate people who do that and now I have become one. I should be more sympathetic next time someone blocks my path. Quite possibly, they are having the same doubts about shopping that I am. It’s time to stop hesitating and get looking for something to wear.

Entering the store, a wave of relief begins to wash over me. Color, I see color. A sea of reds, blues, greens and off whites lay before my eyes. Blinded by the shimmering sequins I feel my way deep into the racks searching for that one special dress. Surely, the dress I need is in here. Starting with the blue dresses, I scrutinize each piece for color, cut and accessories. The color has to be deep. However, not so dark I look like a ghost. Since I’m light, I need a color that won’t make me look washed out. I want the dress to fall just below the knee so I can wear heels. No bangles or baubles though. I want to add my own jewelry. After a few minutes of searching, I find five dresses to try on. I’m definitely making progress. Yippee! Heading toward the changing room, I feel a sense of accomplishment. Let us hope the momentum continues as I try these on.

Standing in front of the mirror, I spread the dresses out for further inspection. Let us start with the blue one. I have always favored blue as a favorite color but lately as I have aged, I wear any color. It must be the first phase of aging. First, you become sort of color blind when picking out clothing, then you start talking to yourself aloud. I think the third phase starts when you give unsolicited opinions aloud to strangers. As soon as that starts, brochures to a Florida retirement home will magically appear in our mailboxes. I can picture it clearly. Communities filled with older adults wandering around in rainbow colored clothing spouting opinions to neighbors as they walked by.

“Hey, Bill you should cut your nose hair.”

“Sure Gladys as soon as you cover your droopy boobs.”

“You love’m and you know it you dirty old man.”

Schools could schedule field trips to the community to observe the effects of aging; similar to trips to the zoo. Maybe that is why the elderly live in gated communities. Just like at the zoo, the kids stand on the outside of the fence safe from the inhabitants. Older people are not in the habit of biting or throwing things at strangers but there is no sense taking any chances with these impressionable youngsters. There could be feeding stations set up along the fence line where the kids could purchase cookies to feed the friendlier oldsters. Once close to the fence, the kids can get a better look at the color combinations floating around the grounds. At the same time, teachers can give lectures on the importance of staying mentally fit so they never mix pink and purple clothing with stripes and checks.

Taking a deep breath, I reach for the first dress. It falls over my head landing nicely on my shoulders. The v-neck hugs the girls nicely, showing just enough cleavage. The length is good, but I don’t like the sleeves. They are too puffy. A quick glance in the side mirror shows a good looking behind. All those minutes spent on the trampoline pays off. High tight buns just round enough to give a curvaceous shape but not big enough to block the doorway. Too bad the sleeves are not right. Alterations are a possibility but I don’t have time. I need to look fabulous right off the rack. Moving on, I look at the next dress.

Bright vibrant yellow washes over my body like sunshine on a summer’s day as the fabric flows around me. Sounds like a feminine product commercial. Wear this dress and be free from cramps all day long! Think of the money you could make if wearing a yellow dress really cured menstrual cramps. Every girl would get a yellow frock on her 13th birthday in preparation for woman hood. It would also make it easier for men to know how to plan dates. If his date shows up wearing a yellow outfit, then he would know certain activities would be out of the question. If he canceled the date after seeing yellow, the woman would know he was a rat right up front. He either only wanted sex or automatically assumed the date would be a threesome; he, she and PMS. I will file that for future reference. There might be a patent in there somewhere.

As I wrap the green dress around me, visions of being trapped in an evergreen forest flash before my eyes. The long sleeves fall just past my wrists encroaching on my palms making my fingers look like tiny twigs sprouting from a tree branch. Slowly spreading my fingers as wide as possible resembles new spring growth reaching for the warm sunshine. Instead of fingernails, I envision pink buds ready to explode releasing delicate white flowers. The green fabric falls midway between the knees and ankles; my legs becoming the tree trunk. Toes wiggling, I bury them in the thick carpet as if they were roots digging deep in the dirt to securely anchor them. Feeling the soft breeze on my face, triggers a swaying motion deep inside. Back and forth, my body rocks as if following the movement of the wind. Arms stretch overhead feeling the gentle pull of the wind currents. In the distance, a bluebird sings the sweet song of summer. A soft buzzing in the distance breaks through the lilting melody. It sounds vaguely familiar. Buzz, buzz, buzz, the noise gets closer to my ear yet I cannot quite place where I have heard it before. A dull thump in the middle of my forehead brings me out of the forest and back to reality. To my left I notice a fly buzzing around on the floor, its wings flapping rapidly as it tries to get back in flight. Reaching my hand up to my forehead, I notice a bright red spot spreading across my skin. Great, now I will have to make sure I have concealer on hand just in case this does not fade. This date is getting more complicated as the day goes on. Looking up to the ceiling, I silently wonder what I have done to earn this aggravation. Sighing I get back to picking out the perfect dress.

Next up is a chocolate brown sheath that falls in a rectangle around my body, landing just below my knees. Small sparkling spots dotted the fabric in what looks like a random pattern. Turning from side to side to see every angle in the mirror one thought comes to mind, pretzel. Well I’ll be dipped, I look like a pretzel. The sparkles look like salt sprinkles. A large pink tongue emerges

from the looking glass stretching out to touch me. I step backwards putting myself just out of reach of the upcoming lick. As much as I would appreciate the attention, I don’t think it is appropriate behavior for the first date. I push the wiggling flesh back toward the mirror with the palm of my hand promising to wear the dress as soon as socially possible.

Let’s try the orange one next. The fit is good, not too tight. The sleeves end just above the elbow; the hemline, however, is another thing. I pull at the waist hoping more fabric is waiting to fall toward the floor, but no luck. Maybe if I wiggle at the same time it will grow longer. Nope it is still too short. I have great legs but no one over twenty-five should wear a mini skirt. This color orange is too bright anyways. I could never get lost in the crowd wearing this. What if I have to duck out the back because the date is just that bad? Everyone would see this bright orange figure running down the street. They could easily point out where I was going so he could find me. Then I would have to make up an excuse for running out on the date. I can’t make up excuses that would not hurt his feelings that fast. The truth would blurt out and there would definitely be no second date. This dress would cause too much trouble so I had better pass. Maybe I should look for something with a pattern. I have not looked at anything with stripes or polka dots yet. I wonder if they still make dresses with polka dots. Does anyone use the word polka anymore when talking about dots? I don’t think so. I will just look at a few more racks.

Opening the door of the dressing room all I see is a sea of fabric. Starring me in the face are racks and racks of fabric. My head pounds just thinking about immersing myself back into that ocean of colors, fabrics, shapes and styles. As I slump against the door jam, a sales associate makes her way over to the dressing room.

“Can I help you?” she asks excessively cheerfully. Awkwardly, she leans toward the half-open door to see what the dressing room looks like. I can tell by the look on her face she knows exactly how long I have been in there. A look of concern slowly spreads across her face as she surveys the explosion of clothing inside the room.

“Why yes you can,” my mind screams. “You can help me find the dress that will impress my date so much he swears undying love and devotions. You can help me find fabric that flows gently over my mature but impressive body without making me look like a hooker. You, my dear, can help me find a complete outfit in this store so I can finally go home, take a hot shower, and sleep peacefully knowing I will look fabulous come Saturday night.” As I look at the poor woman, I realize she cannot help me, I must do this myself. Reluctantly sighing, I mutter “no thanks” and head out to the sales floor.

I snake around the perimeter looking for a rack I have not rejected yet with little success. Finding the polka dot dress section is easy. There is a big flashing sign over head with an arrow pointing downward. The words “Ugly Dress Section” pulse in bright green letters. Curiosity gets the better of me as I move in the direction of the light. Reaching out toward the dresses my hand brushes the fabric and flinches as if burned by a match. I’m not fussy but cheap fabric has a distinct feel. I can just imagine wearing one of these dresses against my skin. As I walk into the restaurant, my shoulder starts to itch. I try to ignore the sensation when my thigh joins in. I reach down with my hand and ever so slightly scratch the area but to no relief. The itch has now moved to my breast just under the nipple. There is no way to reach that itch nonchalantly. I’d either suffer or look like I’m having a spasm throughout my entire body. With my luck music would be playing and the other diners would think my jerking around was some new dance craze. I wonder if Rick would wait long enough to ask what was going on or just bolt out the back door. No way am I taking that chance. Might as well look at the choices while I’m here so I can say I put every effort into finding this perfect dress. Who knows, I just might get some inspiration.

Stripes, squares, geometric shapes, none of these should ever find their way onto fabric worn in public. Maybe that is my mistake. These garments should only come out of the closet from behind closed doors. There is probably a secret society devoted to wearing ugly clothing. They would be just the opposite of being a nudist. I’m not sure I would want to live with anyone who dresses like this at home. The advantage would have to be with the nudists. At least they did not pay good money to look this bad. I have seen street people better dressed than what is offered here. As I thumb through the racks all I can think of is how unproductive this is. I need to find a dress before the end of the day and time is quickly running out. Turning away in disgust at my inability to find a simple frock for a simple dinner my eyes are distracted by a glimpse of color. Squinting to get a closer look the color seems to be cranberry. Mesmerized I move in that direction as if following a beacon. My pace quickens as I realize the color belongs to a dress. My eyes dart in all directions searching for anyone else who may have seen the same dress. I need to get there first. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion toward the Holy Grail. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman look in the same direction as the dress and I panic. I cannot let anyone else get there before me. Suddenly my footsteps match the speed of the pulse racing through my veins. The other woman picks up speed as if she knows what I’m thinking. Run, run quickly but inconspicuously I yell at my legs to try to get them moving. Just then, a mother pushes her baby buggy in the path of my rival considerably slowing her down. As she tries to maneuver around the obstacle, I reach out touching the dress. I won, I won, I won! I cannot believe it I actually won.

Wait a minute my sensible side says. Let’s just look at the dress before we get all excited about winning. Considering how our luck has been today we may be celebrating prematurely. You are right I concede. Let’s just look before we leap. Slowly I focus on the dress. Holding it up to my chest, it seems to be the right length. I will be able to wear two-inch heels with no problem. Laying the fabric over my arms, I can see the sleeves will fall just above my elbows. I won’t have to worry about how my upper arms look until I have fully captured Rick’s undying adoration. At least until summer rolls around which will give me enough time to pretend to work out. The scoop neckline will show enough cleavage to

show off a nice necklace that won’t get lost in the folds of breast tissue. A band just underneath the neckline will serve as a cinch while the fabric falls away to just above the knees. Even the color is perfect. A deep cranberry compliments my pale skin and will be a nice backdrop for the gold jewelry I have as accessories.

It shouldn’t be too hard to find shoes to finish the outfit. A nice gold sling back will do just fine. There’s just one more test to pass before I can rest easily. How much is this going to cost? Slowly my fingers reach for the dangling price tag with trepidation. Please, please let this be a reasonable price. I start to hyperventilate as the numbers register, thirty-nine ninety-nine jumps off the tag. Hallelujah, I have found my dress. Even if the date goes all to hell, at least I won’t have blown my budget for nothing. If the date goes really well, so what if some fabric does not make it through the night, I’m still not out much money. Checking the time, I’m impressed with my performance. It is only twelve forty five; I still have money left and plenty of time for lunch. Finally, the day is looking up. Reaching down I grab the phone as it vibrates on my hip.

“Hello,” I say waiting for the sweet sound of heaven to reach my ears.

“Good morning. I just had a few minutes between stops and thought I’d give you a call.” Rick’s voice is so sexy just hearing it over the phone gets me excited.

“I’m glad you did. I’m at the mall trying to find an outfit for Saturday night and I could use some support. I’ve never seen so many ugly dresses in my life.”

“You certainly have legs that should be shown off in a dress.” Oh my god, did I hear a hint of excitement in his voice? He’s looking forward to this date as much as I am.

“Nice of you to notice,” I reply trying not to sound too excited. “Hopefully you will notice a few more things Saturday night.” Wow, I’m not this forward with someone I’m just starting a relationship with but there is no time to waste. From the outfit to the attitude he’s not going to have to wonder if I find him attractive. This outfit has to scream classy woman must have your body repeatedly. If push comes to shove, I’ll grab his package to get the message across. He seems to be a smart man so I doubt that will be necessary to get his attention. Later on that night, I plan to grab his package along with his butt and every other body part I can reach while on my back.

“I’ll let you get back to shopping. Have fun and I will call you later.” Smiling to myself, I replace my phone in its holder clicking it in place with a new sense of purpose. I have set the hook now I just need to reel him in.

1:00 PM

A rumbling stomach reminds me it’s time to find some lunch. Clutching my newly purchased frock, I head out of the store toward the food court. I’m feeling so satisfied I would whistle if I could. Instead, I hum as I leisurely stroll toward sustenance. It would do no good to find the perfect outfit but not have enough strength to put it on and dazzle my date. I wonder if it would be too morbid to leave a note to be buried in this dress if I die before dinner on Saturday night. It would be a shame to waste the perfect outfit. Knowing my sons, I would have to leave a large poster nailed to the television with instructions for the proper burial. I can picture the three of them trying to figure out who would have to dress me. Rock paper scissors would probably be the prevailing decision making tool. Either that or the older two would convince the younger one he was the favorite child which would make it his duty to make sure Mom was properly dress at her own funeral. I can almost feel the love.

Finally at the food court, I realize it is time for a little nourishment and relaxation. This decision will be much easier than the last. I’m sitting down in a booth and letting someone else wait on me. I duck into the first restaurant just in time to hear the melody of crying babies. Hungry babies cannot eat restaurant food and would rather be home in bed. Just what I wanted to hear while eating. I scan the seating area to see how far away from the noise I can get while I wait for someone to seat me. I spot a booth in the corner that will do just fine. I point out the seat to the hostess who is either too bored to care or in a very agreeable mood, either way

I’m settled far away from the noise.

Sipping a cup of coffee, my mind starts to focus on what is next on the list. It should be easier to find shoes. A plain color that is comfortable will suit me just fine. Probably gold or silver would be a safe choice. Black would be too dark, brown not spiffy enough. My feet must sparkle but not clash with my jewelry. I wonder if I can find a pair of ruby slippers just in case I need an escape route. Instead of running out the back door or climbing through the bathroom window, I could just close my eyes, click the heels together, and wish myself back in the comfort of my own home. Besides, if it doesn’t work, as long as my eyes were closed, I can always deny it ever happened. Just like when we were little kids hiding behind our hands. As long as we couldn’t see anything, we believed they couldn’t see us either. Imagine if that really worked. If a cop stops you for speeding, put your hands over your eyes and pretend it never happened. When the cop reaches the window, put your palms over your eyes and presto chango, no ticket. The cop could talk all he wants but no one would hear him. He would finally leave, shaking his head wondering what was happening. Once he realized there would be no rational paperwork to file, he would adjust and look for another lawbreaker. I’m sure within minutes a new prospect would pass by giving reason for another pursuit.

“Here’s your sandwich,” the waitress says as she places the Ruben in front of me. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No thanks,” I answer silently inhaling the aroma of corned beef mixed with the sweet smell of Thousand Island dressing. “On second thought I’ll take some more coffee please.”

“Alright, I’ll be right back with it.” As the waitress crosses the room, I place a silent bet on when or if she comes back. Quite often, they take your order and never return. It’s as if they are just parroting the words hoping everyone says no thanks thus letting them continue on their way to the back room. I’ve always wondered what goes on in that backroom. A clatter from the back sounds just like the tinkling of glasses hitting together like a toast. I think I hear a giggle float through the open door.

Looking around for the restroom, I see it is just past the secret swinging door where all the curious noise is coming from. I make my way to the restroom pausing ever so slightly to sneak a peek through the window half expecting to see party hats and confetti littering the counters. Instead, cooks with pots and pans clanging mingle in the kitchen cracking jokes to pass the time along with the oregano. Ducking my head so as not to seem like I was eavesdropping I continue toward the restroom.

Once inside I catch my reflection in the mirror. Lips form a smirk as I silently congratulate myself on what I have accomplished so far. I have the perfect dress, which only took me 3 hours to find. I’m in the middle of a satisfying lunch that I have not spilled on myself. Most importantly, I have a plan for the next part of the day. I’m going to spend time looking at every pair of shoes I can find until the right pair jump out at me. Turning around I realize this is the perfect place to start looking. If I stand right in front of the sink and tilt my head sideways, I can see each pair of shoes resting under each stall. I can scan every color and style, take mental notes on what works and what does not without being considered a pervert. So far, all I see are two pair of black pumps. No sparkles no shine how boring. Even the most staid outfit is jazzier with a bright vibrant pair of shoes. They don’t have to be heels, flats or ballet type slippers will also do the trick. Nice shoes are a classier and lesser expensive way than using jewelry to show your style especially now with all the colors available to choose from.

Growing up we had white, brown, black, or dark blue for shoe colors. That worked great as long as television broadcasted in black and white. As soon as Dorothy came alone with her ruby slippers girls everywhere were stunned to learn shoes could come in color. This probably had mothers going crazy trying to convince their little girls it was all a camera trick. Somehow, colored shoes had become a symbol of loose women. It is amazing how people think little girls can be so weak. Their entire life shaped by multi-chromatic fabric or accessories. Granted vibrant colors can perk up your attitude and add pizzazz to dull days but to blame social missteps on red leather stilettos is really stretching the imagination. Court cases would need jurors who could not only discover the truth from various angles of testimony but also be fashionistas who would know the effect paisley has on the psyche.

Picture a silent courtroom in the middle of a murder trial with the assailant on the stand trying to defend her actions.

“Please tell the court Ms. Jones what transpired on the day in question,” the defense attorney asked the young woman at center stage.

“I was getting dressed for work that morning. I normally wear dark colored suits with matching pumps.”

“What was different about the morning in question?” the attorney asked.

“My husband had bought me a yellow suit for my birthday. He had been asking me why I had not worn it yet so I decided to wear it to make him happy,” the defendant explained emitting a slight sob. Glancing at the jury, she wipes a tear from her cheek hoping to pull at some heartstrings.

“Go on,” the attorney gently prods.

“I did not have any shoes to go with the outfit and I was running late so I just picked a pair of orange pumps I had in the back of the closet.”

“What was wrong with your regular black shoes?” demanded the attorney as he moved closer to his client. “They were good enough for your regular outfits, correct?”

“Yes,” she said twisting the damp handkerchief in her hands.

“Why then did you wear the other pair? Were you suddenly too good to be ordinary?” pressed her attorney. The questioning seemed harsh but the jury needed to see the emotional impact mixing colors has on a woman’s mind.

“I wanted to be pretty. I have seen women in magazines wear colored shoes and I thought I could too. No one ever talks about the power these shoes have over you especially when you mix colors. The yellow and orange mixed together made me woozy. My eyes could not focus; I began to feel clammy. My legs seemed to have a mind of their own. I must have blacked out because the next thing I remember standing over my husband’s body with a smoking gun in my hand.” The tears where visibly streaming down her face dripping onto her lap. The tearstains spread across the fabric slowly dissipating into nothingness.

“Do you regret buying the shoes? Would you ever own another pair of colored shoes after knowing what they could do to you?” gently asked the attorney trying to pull sympathy for the woman out of the jury.

“Never, ever again” the woman quietly sobs. The defense attorney turns toward the jury with a sad shake of his head as he returns to the defense table.

“Let me understand this,” said the prosecutor as he approached the stand. “You are saying the orange shoes paired with the yellow suit forced your body to find a gun and shoot your husband?”

“Yes,” she cried.

“You want the court to believe it had nothing to do with your husband having a girlfriend?”

“No, it didn’t. We had an open marriage. Those damn shoes forced me to shoot him. I never should have brought them into the house.” Turning to the jury with all the emotion she could muster she cried, “You must believe me. I loved my husband. It was those shoes. Colored shoes are evil. Our bodies are not strong enough to fight off the urges they instill in us.” With that, Ms. Jones collapsed in a sobbing heap on the witness stand.

Shaking that image out of my head, I finish my coffee waiting to pay the check. Looking around I try to find the waitress but she is nowhere in sight. She must not need tips to survive; with the poor service I have gotten today, she would be starving on the street if she were expecting tips.

“Excuse me, what happened to my waitress?” I ask the hostess as she saunters by seating another couple.

“Do you know who that was?” she asks with an overly friendly smile pasted on her face.

“No, I didn’t catch her name but you have the seating chart which should tell you who it was. How about if you find out for me so I can pay my check and leave.” Oh, look her smile turned into a frown for a split second. It’s a good thing I’ve already eaten. After that look, I might think twice about ordering anything.

“I’d be happy to find out and send her right over.” Liar liar pants on fire. I saw that look, she is not happy about helping me at all right now. It’s not long before the waitress appears at my table with her ordering pad. Snapping her gum almost in defiance, she tosses the bill on the table. The look on her face is daring me to say something. I so enjoy a good dare. Standing in front of her, I look her straight in the eye. Without losing her gaze my hand picks up the check.

“I would like to speak to the manager,” I say. Uncomfortably she moves backward two steps to put distance between us. You can see the defiance drain from her face as she tries to diffuse the situation.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asks hoping I will change my mind.

“No, you’ve done enough. I’d like to speak to management now.” Slowly she turns around and heads back to the kitchen. I hope his office is in the back because otherwise she may be trying to hide out hoping I’ll leave. Unfortunately, for her I have all day to wait. A few minutes later the hostess approaches me; the waitress is nowhere in sight.

“Can I help you?” she asks. I appreciate people who can pretend they have never met you a few minutes after they give you the stink eye. It is a special type of denial not everyone possesses. If you tick me off once, there is a good chance if I see you a few minutes later I won't be over it and my displeasure will show.

“Remember when I asked you to find my waitress so I could pay my check? Well you must have fired her up because she practically threw the bill at me without so much as a kiss my ass. Her actions were unnecessary but clearly, you lack the social skills needed to instill manners in your workforce so you cannot help me. I would like to speak to your boss.” She didn’t like that answer at all. I’ve never seen a smile disappear that fast on anyone. I wonder how many swear words just passed through her mind. I bet at least ten in the last few seconds before she turned around and headed toward the back.

A few minutes later, she returns alone.

“I’m sorry but he has stepped out for the day. The restaurant can cover your bill today. Lunch will be on us.” I wonder if she has a toggle switch imbedded in her back that can be switched on and off like a light switch. On the other hand, maybe they have a happy juice dispenser in the back. Every time somebody goes in the back angry, he or she comes out with that sickly sweet smile on his or her face.

“Actually, I have no problem paying for my lunch but I do have a problem leaving here without reporting the waitress’s attitude. How many more people is she going to be allowed to disrespect before someone decides to correct the situation?”

“Look, she’s had a bad couple of days. I’m sure she’ll do better. How about cutting her some slack.”

“How about doing your job,” I reply as I hand her the money for my bill. I can see this is a losing battle. The manager will never know about her attitude and I can’t waste any more energy trying to get this woman to see what is going on. Picking up my package, I head towards the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the waitress peeking out of the kitchen door. Maybe she realizes her attitude sucks but I doubt it. I will guarantee the hostess is already in the backroom telling the waitress to forget about it. That’s sad since manners are free and available to everyone. Clearing my head, I focus on the next part of my mission. I did see a couple shoe stores to the left in the mall, heading in that direction I start my latest quest.

2:00 PM

Making my way through the mall, I glance at the hundreds of feet passing by me. I totally disregard the sneakers. No one in their right mind would wear sneakers out on a dinner date. You might for a leisurely picnic lunch in the park but not at a fancy restaurant. Even then, I would choose a snappy pair of sandals so I would be able to shed them at a moment’s notice. It’s hard to talk someone into a sexy foot massage when your feet are wrapped up in sweat stained fabric. No matter how clean they are, feet always seem to smell after wearing that type of shoe. With sandals, the fresh air naturally deodorizes your feet. There is no doubt I will be going to a fancy restaurant especially after all this work. Rick is a fine looking man who I’m sure will be totally worth all the time and money I’m spending to look beautiful but looks are only going to take him so far. He needs to pony up the bucks for a nice meal, which will include dessert. I’m not one of those young things that don’t believe in eating in front of a date. They order salad picking at the greens for an hour before sending it back half eaten. Dessert is most likely going to be one plate and two forks with most of it going to the man, but not on this date. I’m expecting a three-course meal salad, steak, and a calorie rich dessert. If things go as well as expected we will both need a lot of energy.

It is true younger girls should not jump into bed with everyone, especially on the first date. Waiting not only adds excitement, it also gives everyone time to get to know the other person. Some people look yummy all dressed up. Add the dim lighting of the restaurant and waiting may be the last thing on a young girls mind. Anticipation gets your blood boiling along with sending that tingling feeling all over your body. Before you know it, kissing has turned to petting which is half way to intercourse. You may be tempted to get a room when the pheromones start pumping out in overtime. Now not only are you giving in to temptation you’re not seeing your date’s inner self. Going to his place will give you the opportunity to discover if he takes care of his basic hygienic needs on a daily basis. He doesn’t have to be a neat freak but you also don’t want to find mushrooms growing out of his living room carpet.

On a similar note, he would not want to find out the woman he just spent hours lusting over does not really exist. With chicken cutlets filling out bras, support

hose holding in the thighs and cinching bands creating a smaller waist you may end up being more in some areas and less in others than he bargained for.

Waiting until you get to know someone before jumping into bed will limit the surprises. Besides, what if the sex is not what you were expecting. Newness will add excitement but it will also add nervousness that can wreak havoc on the nervous system. The last thing anyone wants on a date is performance issues. These are all good reasons youngsters should wait and get to know each other before becoming intimate.

People my age on the other hand don’t have the same pressure or expectations. We have had our encounters with wild romantic love and all the passionate gestures that go with it. We appreciate beauty but know a sense of humor along with good manners is extremely sexy. Hard bodies are impressive but soft supple skin soothes the psyche. It is comforting to be able to snuggle up to your lover’s chest feeling your cheek sink ever so slightly into his skin. While it is not always prudent to jump into bed with someone you just met, the expectations are lower than when you are younger. Instead of fantasy mixed with lifelong devotion, we realize intimacy is possibly a onetime thing based on a need for human contact. It is not that we want to be tossed aside like an unneeded toy; we just know sleeping with someone does not mean they are forever ours. This is another reason to make sure I get a complete meal out of this date. If I’m going to expose myself to possible rejection, I’m going to make sure I get my money’s worth so to speak up front. I’m hoping to win the trifecta; a good meal, a good night of company and a long-term relationship.

Tick tock goes the clock in my head. I’m wasting time digressing about what could happen Saturday night instead of focusing on the task. If I don’t find any shoes to go with my outfit there won’t be a date. All the public eating-places insist on shirts and shoes if you want to have service. Funny how the sign never says anything about wearing pants. Wouldn’t it be fun to show up at a restaurant with just a shirt and shoes, no skirt, no pants, or leggings of any kind? Imagine the look on people’s faces when you arrive with your hair and nails impeccably done, shoes with a spit polished shine and matching handbag. Waiting by the entrance for the hostess to seat you, their eyes grow wider by the minute. Hopefully, the air conditioning wouldn’t be on too high because there would be a breeze cooling your backside. A brave person would wear a midriff hugging sweater along with fantastic heels to make a splashy entrance. Men would be drooling in their soup as she sashayed to her table. Their wives would be glaring out of steely eyes just waiting for their husband to swivel their heads in the wrong direction. Parents would toss hands and napkins over the children’s eyes so as not to scar them. In reality, it would be so adults would not have to answer anatomy questions during dinner. The next question would be whom would management call first, the cops or the psych ward. Is it indecent exposure or craziness to risk spilling hot food on your happy place? Being a closet conformist, I would have to wear a shirt that fell just above the knees that belted at the waist in a dress like style. I definitely would enjoy watching the ensuing ruckus, though. Put that idea on the list of things to do when you get too old to care.

Focus on shoes I tell myself as I continue to scan the mall for inspiration. Black shoes with buttons or straps or flowers seem to be the favorite accessory this fall. I jump to conclusions too fast; there is a display of brown shoes with the same decorations. How boring! I spent all morning looking for the perfect dress and all the mall has to offer for shoes are boring black or brown pieces of leather. I’m sure they are not even made of leather. Probably some sort of plastic. The only shoes with color I see are the shoes on display at the mandatory teenybopper boutique. Let’s see, here is a pair of lime green sandals with straps that wrap around your leg as high as your knee then end in a big bow. Too bad I’m not wearing a clown outfit to dinner. Then these would be perfect. There would be no need to do my hair or nails. Make up would be a breeze, just cover up with white face powder and red lipstick. Put on the big oversized dress and off we go. Placing the shoe back on the display, I sigh slowly letting the air out of my cheeks. I continue to scan the storefronts in desperation searching for that perfect pair of pumps.

Finally, my eyes rest on a pair of pumps sitting on display in the window of a nearby shoe store. I walk toward the window taking in the beauty of the shoes. With nose pressed against the glass, I stare like a child looking at a long wished for toy. The sparkles mesmerize me making my legs weak. The heels are just the right height, high enough to enhance the backside but not high enough to merit a safety net. The color is perfect. A vibrant gold that will go with anything I decide to wear. I may never have to repeat this torturous adventure again. No one notices if you wear the same pair of shoes with each outfit. How perfect is that? Off in the distance I hear the faint cry of a baby starting to rebel against its stroller. The noise breaks through my daydream bringing me back to reality. Quickly I race inside to make sure they have the shoes in my size. Fifteen minutes later, I leave the mall clutching my purchases close to my body like prizes won at the fair.

“Hello,” I speak into my phone. It’s great how sisters seem to have ESP. Marsha must have sensed my excitement over finding the perfect dress with shoes to match.

“Hey sis, how’s the shopping going?”

“Fantastic, I found a dress and shoes all at the same mall. I must have looked at over fifty dresses before finding it.”

“What color?”

“Cranberry and the shoes are gold. The colors are somewhat Christmassy. If I need to hide I can blend in with one of the decorated trees.”

“You could climb to the top and be the angel. Just be careful not to sit on the wrong stick,” she laughs. If nothing else, Marsha shares the family sense of humor. We have a tendency to laugh at inappropriate things.

“The only stick I plan to sit on better be inflatable and have a pulse.” Quickly I look around to see if anyone is within earshot. I forgot I was still out in public.

“Well, good luck with that. Call me Sunday after he leaves; I want to hear all about it.”

“Okie doke,” I say before hanging up. It will be nice to have a man sleep over.

4:00 PM

Finally, I make it home sweet home. Pushing the door open, I step over the cat lounging on the floor and deposit my packages on the nearest easy chair. Phritz rolls around on the floor curling in a semicircle with belly showing. Each purr seems to say “pet me, here’s my belly, reach down and scratch me, come on don’t be scared.” I fell for it once, which explains the scar on my forearm. It’s just a ruse so she can sink her claws into your skin. She does the same thing when you pet her after she jumps into your lap. You think she wants you to pet her but she really is a vampire cat who needs to feed on human blood. She’s not as smart as she thinks though; her habits are carved in stone. I discovered years ago that she would let you pet her three times before she pounces. Don’t try for four or you will have teeth marks on your flesh. Phritz doesn’t usually break the skin but you can’t count on her always being that kind. Through trial and much error, I have discovered it is much better for your complexion to savor the three strokes and move on. Since I don’t need an open wound two days before my big date, I gingerly move away from the cat.

Not one to give up easily she follows me into the kitchen perching on the center island as I warm up a cup of coffee. Stirring cream into the now steaming cup my mind starts to wander. I wonder what Rick is doing to get ready for this date. Is it as important to him as it is to me? Does he know how desperate I’m to have a good time and possibly forge a new partnership? Feminists everywhere would be appalled at that statement but it is true. I’m a self-sufficient woman, who is not afraid of being alone but that does not mean I don’t need manly companionship. I wish I could be a fly on the wall as he decides what to wear. Men who care about their appearance must go through the same things as we women do when we try to impress a date. I imagine it goes something like this.

“Dress slacks or a good pair of jeans?” Rick ponders as he sits on the edge of his bed. “Slacks would be classier but the jeans would show off my package. Hardy har har” he chuckles shaking his head at the thought of getting any type of sexual attention. “I don’t even know if she is interested in any packages let alone mine. I can only hope at this point.” Sighing he stands in front of the mirror and takes a long hard look at his body. “Not bad for sixty five years old,” he says stroking his chest hair. “Just enough gray poking out among the curly black hairs to say distinguished not old fart.” Looking lower down his torso, a small smile breaks out as he notices no gray hairs there. “Your age is well hidden old man. If you get so lucky as to see daylight Sunday you’d better rise to the occasion.” Another perk to living alone is being able to talk to individual body parts without judgment. Every man knows pep talks are an important part of getting ready for a date. We may look rough and tough but we do have feelings. Rejection is no fun for anyone. Men cry in private. “Think positive,” Rick tells his reflection. “Your body is in good shape for a man your age. The right outfit at the right restaurant will surely make enough of a good impression to ensure at least a kiss or two before the night is out. Maybe some hand holding at dinner. I need to find a restaurant that has dinner and dancing. She must like to dance. That way I can at least feel her hand in mine, the small of her back and the smell of her hair without seeming like a perverted old man trying to cop a feel.” Turning decisively toward the closet Rick picks out his outfit feeling confident he will make the best impression.

Opening my eyes, I see coffee spilled all over the counter. The image of Rick naked sends a tremor throughout my body and I don’t even know if my imagination is right. Right now, I don’t care if he has an extra arm growing out of his stomach; I just need some manly company. Actually, an extra set of fingers might come in handy if the date goes as well as I hope. While one hand stroked my hair, another one could be stroking my thigh. The third hand cupping my breast makes the moment perfect. Just the thought of physical contact sends a shiver down my spine. I had better clean up this mess and get something to eat. I don’t want to fade away before Saturday night.

6:30 PM

Sitting on the couch picking through a salad, I try to remember what foods science considers aphrodisiac. Other than oysters, nothing comes to mind. Stabbing the fork into a piece of chicken covered with blue cheese, I use the meat the push around the spinach leaves. I hope salad is not one of them. My body would go into convulsions if I over ate vegetables. One salad a week is all it is used to which is why I pack it with a wide variety of vegetables just to make sure I hit each vitamin. Eating this one now will cover me for the rest of the week. I can jump right into the carbs for dinner to make sure I have the stamina for later on. How lame would it be if I passed out during the after dinner delight from lack of energy? I wonder if he would believe I was so overcome by passion it rendered me unconscious. He probably won't unless sex has eluded him for a while too. If that’s the case, he just may be so grateful he wouldn’t care as long as I was breathing. I wish I knew a delicate way to call and ask him.

“Hey, Rick, my man, how long has it been since you’ve seen a naked lady?” I could disguise my voice by putting a napkin over the mouthpiece or get someone else to ask. On the other hand, I could grow up and learn how to read subtle signs of loneliness. It is so much easier to be an adult when you live alone. There is no one to correct you or point out your shortcomings. However, there is also no one to hold your hand, laugh at your jokes no matter how unfunny they are or commiserate with you when your day falls apart. If I’m lucky, I may be on the road to a real relationship this weekend.

Putting the dish aside, I notice my computer lying on the footstool in front of the easy chair. You know I could look up aphrodisiac on the internet to get an idea what kind of restaurant we should go to. It would not hurt to be prepared with a list I could compare to the menu. Overcome with curiosity, I turn on the laptop pulling up a search engine. Typing in the letters quickly I hit the search button and wait for a reply. Asparagus, arugula, almonds, bananas, avocado; who made up this list? Just what I was afraid of; fruits and vegetables. According to the article, one reason a food is an aphrodisiac is its resemblance to genitalia. Bananas make sense but what man wants to be compared to a spear of asparagus? Why not hot dogs or sausages instead? They look just as much like a man’s penis as a banana does. Meatballs would be a great addition to the list. Looking farther down the list, I see carrots, honey and chocolate. This part of the list I can work with. Steamed carrots with a touch of honey alongside a couple of meatballs sounds like the perfect entree to get the hormones flowing. Top that off with a banana split covered in chocolate sauce with almonds sprinkled on top for dessert and we may be renting a room close to the restaurant. Based on this food list, as far as I can tell the perfect restaurant is the local family owned diner. Had I done a little more research, I would not have had to spend all day at the mall looking for the perfect outfit. Jeans, a nice blouse and any pair of sneakers or boots I have upstairs would have made the perfect outfit.

With all the effort I put in today, we will be going to a more up-scale dining establishment. Even if we can’t afford to order anything, I will be seen in high society with this outfit. I will sit at the table sipping free water all night long looking fantastic. My stomach won’t growl so loud that we can’t talk over the noise. I can put a granola bar in my purse to be safe. I can always excuse myself, stand in the coatroom, and nibble on it to calm the rumbling. Hell, I have money even if he doesn’t. I will be eating a complete meal in my fancy duds even if I have to pay, and he may still get laid. He may not get a second date but he may get lucky on his one and only shot at this body.

Closing the laptop, I notice the time has flown faster than I expected. How did it get to be nine o’clock already? Heading upstairs to the bedroom, I gather my prizes from the day’s excursion to put away for safekeeping. Taking the dress out of its protective bag, I take one more look at it before placing it in the closet. Holding the dress against my chest, I lightly dance around the room. The fabric twirls around my legs falling softly across my skin. Tossing my head back, I pretend to laugh at the silly joke Rick has just told me. I still like the color and cut of the fabric. It was a great choice that I can wear again if this dating thing becomes a habit. Placing the shoebox on the top shelf for safekeeping, I close the closet door releasing a sigh of relief. Phase 1 is done. Tomorrow is a new day with a new challenge. After work, I have to get my hair done. I need a good night’s sleep before I can tackle that issue. A professional has not attended to this hair in years. Sinking into bed, I pull the covers up over my head to signal the end of the day.

Friday November 24

The breeze feels fantastic as it gently flows over my face. Without opening my eyes, I can tell the sun is out. The strong rays beat down on my body bathing it in warmth. Lying on the beach was a wonderful idea. I can sense Rick’s body close by. I can hear his gentle, rhythmic breathing within inches of my ear. In the trees, blue birds sing the glories of this beautiful day. In the distance, I can hear the water as it washes up against the shore dragging sand back into the ocean. Slowly I begin to feel warm breath on my cheek. Cracking a slight smile, I turn my head toward the warmth expecting to bid good morning to my hunky beach buddy.

“Good morning Phritz,” I purr ruffling her fur. I can always count on Phritz to greet me in the morning. She really does like me; the bites are an occupational hazard. She reminds me of my grandmother who didn’t know how to show affection so she covered up her shortcomings with criticism. Had I known then what I know now I would have hugged her every time she found fault. To make up for the lost hugs I give them to Phritz whether she likes them or not. I’m positive Grandma is watching and can make the connection. Just then, the alarm goes off reminding me I have a job to do.

Sometimes I wish I were the type who called in sick without feeling guilty. I could use the entire day to scope out a salon. However, I would not enjoy the journey knowing I was shirking my duties at work. Besides, I could use the distraction of dealing with the public to stop worrying about the impending dinner date. Now that I think about it, Rick delivers today. He had better not try to back out after all I went through yesterday. I don’t think cranberry is his color. Since the dress will end up tightly wrapped around his neck, the color should not clash with his usual dark blue outfit. His big problem would be walking with the gold high heel stuck up his behind. There is no sense worrying about something that has not happened. I will be extra cheerful today when he makes his delivery to insure he does not back out.

Grabbing my purse, I head out the door searching for the closest coffee shop. A large coffee with a coffee cake muffin is the perfect way to start the day. As I head down the road, I hit the scan button on the radio searching for music. The stations change after five seconds of song so I’m not stuck listening to a boring song. If I want to listen to a particular song, I just hit the button on the steering wheel and the scanning stops on that station. Once the song is over, I hit the scan button to start the process all over again. I wonder if that would be considered a symptom of A.D.D. I can focus just fine on my driving I just can’t focus on one particular station. Maybe it’s because of all the yakking on the radio. Most DJs are not funny; some are downright disgusting so why waste my ears on their drivel. Just give me music that will soothe the savage breast. Good music can make me ignore the driving habits many of these people have.

Take for instance the red light. Apparently stopping at a red light is only mandatory between the hours of 1 am and 1:14 am. I have seen up to ten drivers run the light out of a feeling of entitlement I guess. If the police would set up at just this intersection each day, they would have their ticket quota for the month in a couple of days. The state’s budget deficit could be history in no time. Just think of the surplus of money the state would have to put toward education, health care and elder care. I bet no one would have to pay taxes again with all the money earned from these tickets. If the fine is low enough so the drivers don’t feel the sting, they will become repeat offenders giving more money for the state’s coffers. I think I’ll email the idea to the governor and see what he thinks.

Coffee and muffin in hand I reach the office unseen by any employees. This gives me a few minutes to gather my thoughts and make a game plan for the day. I can also look around to see what they did or did not accomplish yesterday before the excuses start. Just as I start to sip the hot coffee, I feel a vibration at my side. Who could be calling so early in the day? As I flip open, the phone I

see it’s Rick. I hope he is not backing out on tomorrow.

“Hello” I answer hopefully in an encouraging tone.

“Good morning” huskily emits from the earpiece. “How’s your day going so far?”

A grin spreads across my lips as I realize this is not a breakup call but a good morning I miss you call. Leaning back in the chair I answer trying not to stutter. “So far so good thanks for asking. I just got in and settled so there hasn’t been much time for things to go wrong.”

“I just thought I’d check in to make sure we’re still on for tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to seeing you.” My heart starts to beat faster as my ears process what he just said. A gorgeous man is waiting to spend time with me. My feet cannot stop dancing. I’m so excited I almost miss his next sentence. “Have you decided which restaurant you’d like to go to?”

“I was thinking about the steakhouse down the street. I hear it has good food along with a nice cozy atmosphere.”

“That sounds great, how about I bring you some coffee when I deliver today?” He is so considerate. I think bringing me coffee is one of those subtle signs I’m supposed to be looking for.

“I would love a good cup of coffee. Thanks a lot. See you soon?” hopefully the tone of my voice did not sounding too needy.

“I should be there in about 3 hours. I’ll talk to you later.” With that, the phone goes dead. I hold the cold metal in my palm replaying the conversation over again. I can’t believe he is really looking forward to spending time with me. I should believe it since he asked me out but until the date actually happens one can never be too sure. I still have this fear he will drop dead or some other tragedy will happen to ruin my big night out. Pushing those thoughts out of my head, I leave the office walking in the direction of Rebecca’s voice. I refuse to ruin a perfectly good day on morbid thoughts that surely won’t come true. With that thought, my hand reaches out and knocks on the wooden desk as I pass by.

Luckily, the store is a busy place today. I have no time to worry anymore about tomorrow night. Customers enter the store in droves looking for a variety of items. I find myself studying each female customer’s hairstyle looking for guidance. I still have to have mine done tonight and I have no idea how I want the finished style to look like. I bet I have seen twenty-five different styles already today. Everything from beehives to bobs, nothing strikes a chord. Take this woman waiting in line. Her hair is shorter on one side than it is on the other. That shade of red is not natural either. I can’t believe she paid someone to do that to her head. The woman next to her is not any better. Her gray roots are showing even though her piled high hair has enough starch to support a high rise. There must be an entire can of hair spray layered on her head. The next woman is no inspiration; her hair hangs limply on either side of her face. I need something with body and pizzazz.

Looking toward the door my heart stops beating for just a moment. Rick with the biggest cup of coffee I have ever seen just walked through the door. He is so good looking I could come right now with very little effort. Better get moving before someone sees the sweat beading on my palms.

Nodding toward the back of the building, I lead the way to the delivery dock. “Hey, how are you?” I try to make pleasantries to hide my excitement at seeing his dark brown eyes. I wonder if he can see me trembling inside.

“Great,” he murmurs as he hands me the coffee. “I wasn’t sure how thirsty you were so I brought you enough coffee to last the day. Hope you don’t mind.” I felt an electric shock as our hands touched. Searching his face, I try to see if he felt it too. A slight smile passes over his lips as I take a sip. I knew it; he did feel it. I wonder how many times I can accidentally touch his hand before it becomes obvious.

“You want the big pieces first or last?” I scan his body from top to bottom while waiting for an answer.

“I’ll put the little pieces on top first, and then the big ones will fit on the bottom.”

“Here you go. I’ll bring these to the door for you.” Our fingers touch again as I hand over the box to him. I’m not sure I can take too much more of this. I may have to barricade him in the bathroom and molest him. I’ve never felt this way about someone before. Every time our skin touches, the pulse between my thighs gets stronger.

Finally, all the merchandise is loaded on the truck. I’m surprised to see my pants don’t have a big wet stain in the crotch. Taking the paperwork from my hands, Rick steps forward and pecks me on the cheek. The heat from his soft lips sears my skin. Before I can react, he darts out the door like a ten year old that just experienced his first kiss. Dazed my hand reaches up to touch the cheek hoping to rub the kiss into my skin. Tomorrow is going to be a great day.

With Rick gone I can get back to deciding what to do with my hair. A drastic cut is out of the question. So is coloring it. I like my ash blond hair. Still don’t have any grey hairs, which is a blessing. A perm would be feasible but the smell would still be clinging to the hair since the date is in less than thirty-six hours. I need my hair to smell intoxicating whenever his nose is within smelling distance. I would hate to pay someone to put rollers in my hair; that is something I can do at home free. The appointment is in a couple hours; maybe I will get some inspiration before then. In the meantime, I have paperwork to shuffle before I can leave. Hugging the jumbo coffee cup to my breast like a love torn teenager I head off to my office.

“Hey sis, any ideas what I can do with my hair? I’ve got a big date Saturday night and need some advise.” This time I call my other sister, Lisa. It wouldn’t hurt to have a third opinion. Work is quiet and I know she is home.

“Marsha called me last night. She said you finally trapped a man into paying for dinner and you were freaking out over what to wear.” She didn’t even hide the laughter in her voice.

“I’m not freaking out. I’m having a big moment and thought I’d involve my sisters. Don’t worry it won’t happen again.” I wonder if it is too late to give them up for adoption.

“Is your hair still baby fine and not much of it?”

“Yeah, thanks for rubbing that in. Do you have any ideas or not?”

“Have you given any thought to wearing a wig?”

“If you don’t want to help me just say so. You know I’m not going to buy a wig. I don’t have enough hair to hold one on. I’d be better off shaving my head and painting my scalp.”

“There you go, problem solved. You didn’t need my help after all.”

“You have a nice day; I’ve got to get back to work.” Flipping the phone shut a sigh of exasperation escapes my lips. Little sisters can be such a pain sometimes.

With paper and pencil, I begin to doodle hairstyles on a stick figure head. Long hair would be great but it would involve extensions. With my luck, one would fall off in the soup during dinner. I don’t plan to carry a purse big enough to hide hair in. besides I understand it takes hours to have them glued to your head and I don’t have that much time. I need something quick and easy to care for. Drawing another head, I give this one copious curls. Curls start out beautiful but turn limp when confronted by humidity or stress. I don’t want a cut I have to monitor throughout the evening. Too many trips to the ladies’ room may make me seem either incontinent or vain.

Maybe I a wig isn’t such a bad idea. How do you take it off though without causing disappointment? Rick could get all excited thinking how he is going to run his fingers through my hair while enjoying after dinner kisses. I want to feel his fingers as they caress my hair. My scalp is very sensitive which makes the caressing more exciting. If I wore a wig, I would not feel anything. Rick might think his efforts were unappreciated and stop. Worse, he could get his fingers caught in a snarl and pull the wig off my head. How awkward would that be? Since I love having my hair stroked, wearing a wig is definitely out. I want to feel everything that happens before, during and definitely after dinner.

5:00 PM

Finally, the last customer strolls out the door, which I firmly lock behind them. As the others get the money ready for the safe, I check all the doors to make sure the locks are secure. With the last door checked, we are ready to start the weekend. Waving good-bye to the building, I unlock my car and head to the mall. Traffic is heavy this time of day so it takes about twenty minutes to make the two-mile trip down the road to the mall. Easing into a parking spot, I head into the nearest door eager to see what a stylist can do for my hair.

The salon is packed. The entire mall is packed. With all the cars on the road and all the people in the mall, who could possibly be home? I can’t believe there are this many people living in this city. It makes me want to get on the loud speaker and ask everyone why they are not home having dinner with their families instead of here getting in my way. That may come across as rude but so is being a walk in customer at the salon when I need this appointment. My appointment is more important, at least to me. Now I have to wait. According to the receptionist, it could be up to an hour. Great, hurry up and wait, the all-American way. The whole concept of appointments is to prevent this from happening. You call a business, designate a time frame to use their service, show up at the start of the time frame and partake of the service. It is that simple. But no. To generate more revenue when there are not enough appointments companies like this salon take walk in customers. I understand wanting to make a buck, but now I’m being inconvenienced. I cannot even complain about the wait. Fear of what the beautician may do to my hair in retaliation stops me. She could offer a slight tint to add highlights but forget to mention the color she is using is green. Then again, the perm that is only supposed to give body could become the biggest afro the world has seen in decades. On the other hand, the sabotage could be more subtle. A lock of hair in the back could come up missing giving me a permanent part in the back of my head. Just this once I believe I will hold my tongue and wait my turn. I can work with the hair I have if the appointment falls through. I cannot grow replacement hair overnight.

At first, I spend time leafing through magazines looking for the perfect hairstyle. I have already decided a nice cut would be the best way to go. A cut that shapes the hair adding some body is something I have not done in years. I pretty much have relied on the straight look except when I need a shampoo then the perfect do is a ponytail. As I flip the pages, I imagine my face surrounded by the haircut featured on the magazine’s page. I picture wavy bands of hair wrapped around my head like a bandana. It makes me look like I’m twelve. The next page is not any better. An afro is not my style either. However, it would come in handy if you really could hide things in the huge ball of hair. Pens and pencils would fit of course. Wouldn’t it be great if you could put your car keys or cell phone in there? Imagine the look on peoples’ faces when your head started ringing as you walked by. The trick would be getting the phone out without dislodging everything else hiding up there. One wrong move and it would be raining keys, writing utensils, change and possibly gumdrops. I don’t have enough hair for an afro anyways. Mine would be so tight I would look like a monkey with the frizzes. Time to turn the page and see what else is available. Pigtails, there you go. Just the hairstyle I need to emit maturity. I can have one high above each ear. What was I thinking? All I really need is a cheer leading outfit from the local costume store, a couple of pom poms and my hair in pigtails. How could any man resist that look? I could have relaxed all day yesterday instead of stressing out shopping. Isn't that every man’s fantasy to date a cheerleader? With enough makeup along with a very dim restaurant, I could pass as a college cheerleader. Maybe not one you'd see in the first row but a cheerleader nonetheless. Damn my proper upbringing, I guess this is the price I pay for having a sense of shame. Next, page please. Short hair, shorter hair, and almost no hair cuts are all that follow. That was a waste of time. Leafing through all the magazine covers I notice they all offer the same styles ranging from wild to boring. Not one of them suits me. According to the clock on the wall thirty minutes have passed. I had better check with the receptionist again to see when my turn is coming.

Thirty more minutes says the perky little thing behind the counter. I wonder if she has ever heard of a mirror. I find it hard to believe she put her make up on this morning in the day light in front of one. She will regret using so much eyeliner when the bags under her eyes become more pronounced. She already looks like she has gone a couple rounds in a boxing ring. Whoever convinced women using a darker colored lip liner than their lipstick must have done it on a dare. It must have started as a joke that went horribly wrong. Enough people bought into it so when the sales of lip liner skyrocketed corporate would not let whoever was to blame admit it was all a prank. Now we have millions of women sporting the clown look out in public believing they are beautiful. I hope that there is a special place in hell for whoever started this look. For all eternity, their black outlined lips will only have shades of pale pink lipsticks available to cover them. No matter how hard they try, they won’t be able to remove or cover up the black liner. Mirrors will be everywhere so they won’t be able to miss what everyone else sees. Blinking my eyelids to dispel that image I turn to leave the salon. I have thirty minutes to get some coffee. If I stay here, I will lose my temper and probably my turn in line. Walking down to the food court gives me more time to scope out hair dos anyways.

Grabbing a cup of coffee, I sit on the nearest bench to people watch. Realistically the mall is one big people zoo. Instead of monkeys, lions and bears you get to watch teenagers, mall walkers, and families moving about in a captive environment. It is amazing what you see as the population strolls by unaware that they are the center of attention. Couples holding hands, sneaking a pinch or a stroke when they think no one is watching. Children walking behind their parents often tussle with their sibling. The hits don’t count if Mom and Dad don’t see them. I wonder how far down the mall the parents will get before they discover little Johnny and Jenny have swiped a furry creature from the bin outside the local toy store. I wish I could tag along to see if they bring it back, take it home or just leave it lying somewhere.

My goodness look who’s coming through the mall now. I realize it is a cliché to ask these teenagers if they know Halloween is over but it is so tempting. Individuality is a god given right, purple Mohawks with nose rings are an assault against the senses. The hair is very unbecoming but changeable in a very short time. A simple shaver will take the artificially colored tower off in minutes leaving a clean slate to start again. The nose rings I fear are another story. Large metal rings protruding from your nostril cannot be comfortable. They must get in the way if you have the sniffles. What happens when people pull on the rings? Babies love to pull on earrings; I bet nose rings are another thing they can’t resist grabbing. The pain must be unbearable because babies don’t just grab and release. They pull until you figure out how to dislodge their little fingers. If you spend any time with babies, you know they do these things with a smile on their face. Angry or frustrated babies flail their arms and legs randomly in the air just to release their tension. Babies don’t develop the art of intentionally hurting people until they are around two. In addition, if this is a fad how will the scars heal when you decide to forgo the rings? How will it look if the holes don’t close? Would you have a leaky nose? The girls can try to cover up the scars with makeup but the boys will have to wear them like battle scars from now on. I would love to talk to these kids about their racial opinions. National Geographic shows pictures of supposed savages in Africa with the same facial piercings dancing around a fire. With the same wild hair and markings does that make these teens savages or the people in Africa cultured but misunderstood? I think that idea would make a great sociological thesis.

Here we go, the mall walking elderly. We should be talking to these people. The years of experience marching to stay fit hold the keys to solving life’s little problems. The stories they could tell about living before televisions, cell phones, computers, even fast food restaurants would be fascinating. Stories about family dinners where conversation actually takes place without the interference of telephones or televisions are quickly becoming tales of folk lore. With each elder person, we lose to the great beyond a little piece of history disappears. I realize not everything was peaches and cream in the supposed good old days but sometimes simplicity is a better way of life. Once someone reaches the age of sixty-five, the courts should recruit them to be part of a permanent jury pool. Try convincing people who worked for ten cents an hour how you had to shoot someone for his $100 sneakers so you could look cool. The jury’s deliberations would be short and to the point. The defendant’s family should be worried they would also be named in the court case since their lack of parenting probably helped shape the illegal behavior. I have watched enough Law and Order to know Jack McCoy would somehow get them all convicted.

Just don’t have the elderly sitting on the jury of fashion court. Between the red hats, sloppy jogging suits and checkered golf shorts with Hawaiian shirts they are almost in the same fashion category as the teenagers with the purple hair. In the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee I have seen the connection between teenagers who believe they are being rebellious and the elderly who have reached the age of not caring what society thinks. I would like to get the teenagers, show them the elderly mall walkers, and get their reaction to seeing their future. That would be an interesting conversation but alas, time is up. I have five minutes to get back to the salon for my appointment.

Striding quickly through the mall, I weave among the people who all seem to be going in the opposite direction. Unless they are all from England these people should know, the rules of the highway also pertain to the mall. Everyone keeps to the right as they walk the corridors. Just like when you climb stairs. You always stay to the right. Instead, these people are all over the place holding up the flow of bodies trying to reach their destination. To hinder everyone’s movement further are the people coming out of the stores merging into the traffic. Apparently, these shoppers feel they have the right of way. Without even looking, they throw their bodies into the mix expecting everyone to move out of their way. Just for the fun of it, I chose not to move over. The looks on their face when they run into me is priceless. If I had more time, I would fake an injury.

“Help, help, I think my ankle is broken,” I cry after falling on the floor. “You ran into me on purpose.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, I didn’t see you,” the frantic shopper would say. “What can I do to help? Please somebody get some help.” A crowd starts to form around us, the people whisper among themselves. Fingers start to point at the man who ran into the woman flailing on the floor. Someone in the crowd suggests security be called. Cell phones start taking pictures as potential witnesses corroborate their stories.

“If only someone would teach people how to merge into the mall hallway my dancing career would not be over.” Crocodile tears roll down my face for a dramatic effect. This should teach them to be more careful. A spasm jerks my foot violently. I see an Oscar nomination coming.

“I’ll be more careful, I promise.” The look of fear on his face is priceless.

“Would you put that in writing?”

“Sure, I can do that,” Frantically he runs into the next shop searching for paper and pen. “Somebody please get me a pen and paper. Hurry someone is hurt in the mall and they need a pen and paper.” Running back to where I am lying on the floor he hands me the pen and paper.

“My hands are too shaky, I think shock is setting in, you right the words.”

“What should I write?”

“Write that you will not barge into oncoming traffic again.” I can barely contain the laughter rising up in my throat.

“How’s this, I John Smith, will not barge into oncoming mall traffic again.” He hands me the paper for inspection.

“Could you sign it right here,” I ask pointing to the bottom of the writing.

“Sure, sure whatever you need.”

“Ok then,” I say picking myself up off the floor. “Have a nice day.” With that, I wave good-bye as I stroll down the walkway. The look on Mr. Smith’s face is priceless. Maybe next time he will be more careful before he barges into the flow of traffic.

Pushing forward I see the salon. The salon is empty which should mean it is finally my turn in the chair. Holding my breath, I head for the receptionists desk.

For some unknown reason I hear a voice very similar to mine say, “Excuse me. What do you mean I missed my appointment?”

The little girl with the raccoon eyes behind the desk has the nerve to say since I was an hour late for my appointment they gave the space to someone else. Catching my breath in disbelief, my fingers tightly grip the edge of the desk.

“How could I have missed my appointment when you told me there was an hour delay when I first checked in?” My finger starts poking at her appointment calendar where my name is written in. “See right here. I arrived; you marked me as here and then told me the wait would be an hour. Are you kidding me now with this?” I keep my voice steady, trying not to raise it above a dull roar. “Do you understand I need my hair done which is why I made the appointment in the first place?”

Raccoon girl continues to stare before finally opening her mouth. “We could fit you in tomorrow if you want to reschedule.”

Covering my face with my hands, I look to the sky for guidance. Slowly dragging my fingers down my face while exhaling I attempt to regain control. It is not that I need my hair done tonight, I have all day tomorrow to get it styled. I’m amazed at the incompetence of the people who are put in charge of making sure a company’s customers stay long enough to leave money in the till. Not only don’t I have my haircut I’m late for dinner which is a very bad thing. Once my blood sugar drops people need to get out of my way. That means no talking to me, no standing in my way and certainly no blatant stupidity.

“Where’s the manager? I want to talk to the manager.” Silently I tell myself I would be amazed if anyone is available. Usually, the manager is out or there is not one or some other excuse to stall complaints. Lucky for raccoon girl I’m not surprised when I hear “I’m sorry, she is not here today.” You would have had to call an ambulance to pick me up off the floor if anyone had taken responsibility for my unhappiness. I’m surprised the local store managers have not gotten together to explore that option of keeping me quiet. The first manager to come out to handle the problems caused by their incompetent employees would give me a stroke. I would be clutching my chest praying to heaven to let me in. It is not as if I’m a chronic complainer, I just cannot stand stupidity when I’m trying to pay for service. That is the one concept that escapes these people. I’m trying to give them money. The stores are trying to sell a product or service for money. I have money. It sounds like a win-win situation. I swear some of these people are being paid not to take in money. Gripping the half-empty coffee cup hard enough to leave fingerprints I spin on my heels to leave. I need some ice cream.

7:00 PM

What an unbelievable waste of time and energy. Wrenching open the freezer door I search for the one thing that will soothe my soul; chocolate peanut butter ice cream. The ice cream must be chocolate flavored with ribbons of peanut butter folded throughout the container. None of those impostors that mix small peanut butter candies with vanilla ice cream. People satisfied with the imitators really don’t know their ice cream. I imagine they also eat their ice cream in front of the television shoveling the icy coolness into their mouth without giving it another thought. There ought to be a law against such a violation of good taste. You should savor ice cream. A true connoisseur knows that first you need to find the perfect bowl to hold the frozen nectar. Decorations should adorn the vessel signaling enjoying ice cream is a festive event. The bowl should be deep enough to leave room for the ice cream to breathe. Since each spoonful is an individual taste sensation, there must be room for the spoon to navigate around each ingredient. The spoon too must be high quality nothing cheap must touch the ice cream. Your fingers should caress the handle, gripping it ever so lightly similar to how the Chinese caress their chopsticks. Ice cream has magical powers if you pay attention. Slowly spooning the icy goodness into your mouth is just the start. To feel the magic of it all each mouthful should linger on your tongue melting ever so slowly before swallowing. Feeling the cool liquid slide down your throat starts the release of the day’s tension. Ice cream is not eaten it is an event, an event to help ease the stress of the day. Some people choose to exercise their demons away; I choose the creamy essence of frozen milk.

After putting the carton carefully back in the freezer so as not to disturb the delicate delight inside I make my way to the living room searching for my favorite chair. I have to pick up the cat before I can sit down but Kahlua does not mind. He is happy to curl up on my lap as I enjoy the frozen treat. Finally, I’m in a position to let go of the frustrations of the day. I need three things to relax ice cream, a recliner, and a heating pad. These three comforts used simultaneously can create world peace if given the chance. For now, I will use them to calm my psyche so I can make a game plan for tomorrow. Thanks to raccoon girl, I now have to find another salon to get my hair done tomorrow.

Saturday November 25th

Rick’s hand rests gently in the small of my back. His other hand slowly wraps around mine as we sway to the music softly playing in the background. We stare into each other’s eyes silently sharing a private, seductive thought. I duck my head shyly acknowledging just how handsome this man is. Our bodies being this close fans the small fire that started in my loins as soon as I set eyes on his stunning face. The glimmer in his eyes along with the small smile spreading over his full lips tells me he feels the same fire. Slowly, I turn my head so that our lips come within centimeters of each other. His hot breath makes my pulse quicken. The anticipation is unbearable. Suddenly, I feel moisture on my cheek along with the roughest tongue imaginable. Brown, black and orange fur floats before my eyes. Blinking to clear my vision, I realize who my Romeo is. Reaching up I scratch Phritz’s head between her ears. Nudging my cheek with her forehead, she proceeds to walk over my chest to the edge of the bed. It is amazing how an eight-pound cat can weigh so much when she steps on your breasts. I swear it feels like a small child just bounced over my delicate tissue.

“Hey, be careful,” I say as my hand reaches up to hurry her body along. “I need the girls tonight for my big date. Without them my new dress won’t be so impressive.” Phritz gives me that look cats are famous for, flicks her tail, and jumps off the bed. Lazily, I stretch before snuggling back down into the soft bedding. I can’t recapture the dream but I can vividly picture the last image of Rick in my mind. I hope all my imaginings of what tonight is going to be comes true. I’m so ready for an adult relationship with a man who is not afraid to have an independent thought. Actually, by adult relationship I really mean sex. Talking is important along with sharing similar interests and one of those interests needs to be sex. The goal tonight is making sure Rick feels the same way. Flipping over so I can see the clock, it tells me I should get up since I still have to figure out what to do with my hair.

Pulling on a pair of jeans, I find a knit top warm enough so I won’t need a coat while shopping for the perfect cut. Slipping on white sneakers, I tweak Phritz one more time before heading out the door. The important task today is finding the right hair cut then getting back here so I have plenty of time to get ready. First, though, I have to find some coffee.

Standing in line at the local coffee shop is always an adventure. People come in, order coffee and then stand there seemingly forgetting they have to pay. While we wait to order, they fumble in their pockets searching for money. I usually go in with my credit card in hand ready to swipe as soon as the total comes up on the register. Then there are the people who don’t know what they want until they stare at the menu for a few minutes. If this is your first visit then I can see paying special attention to the menu. The regulars should already know what they want when they drive into the parking lot. I usually know what I want right after I make the decision to go to the coffee shop. There should be two lines open at the counter at all times. One line for people who know what they want to order, the other is for people who can’t make a decision in ten seconds or less. A hostess could stand at the door directing people to the correct line.

“Welcome to Coffee Café, do you know what you are ordering today?” she would ask each person as they entered the shop. She would time their response and any hesitation would immediately lead you to the undecided line. If at some point you did make a firm decision, you could then move to the fast lane. On some days, the undecided line would stretch way out into the parking lot. People could just stay in their cars until they picked what to order so the parking lot did not become a road hazard.

“What can I get you,” rings in my ears shaking me out of my fog. The young man behind the counter has the biggest smile ever seen especially this early in the morning.

“A large mocha ice coffee, no sugar please.” Let’s see if he is as bright as his smile. Quite often, I have to repeat my order at least twice before I get my coffee. Two minutes later a large cup of chocolate brown coffee is set in front of me.

“Anything else ma’am?” I am impressed. The coffee is perfect and he is still smiling. Handing the young man three dollars I tell him to keep the change. He has started my day off on the right foot now let’s see who is going to ruin it.

10:30 am

Coffee cup in hand I pull the car into a parking spot at the mall to try again to find the perfect haircut. I hope that it is too early for the mall to be crammed with people. Saturdays aren’t the best days to be here. For some strange reason mothers decide on Saturday everyone wants to experience their children. The strollers are everywhere blocking the aisles. Screaming children are running in and out of the racks. Sometimes the mall feels like one big romper room. I like kids; I have three of my own. Mine did not run the mall screaming like a bunch of banshees. If the boys accompanied me shopping, they kept their hands to themselves with a minimum of jumping around. They are boys so physicality is inevitable but it does not have to lead to rampant disobedience.

The first objective is to get in the part of the mall not occupied by strollers. I applaud malls that ban teenagers from crossing their thresholds after school unless accompanied by a parent or guardian. The same sort of program is feasible for babies. Obviously, they can’t come to the mall without their parents; however, there could be a black out time that restricts babies from the mall. As cute as they are, babies don’t have money to spend so the mall wouldn’t lose revenue. People like me who have money probably would spend more time in the mall. More time in the mall is more time to drain our bank accounts. I wonder if the mall has a suggestion box.

Scanning the parking lot, I see three strollers off in the distance. Damn, I wonder what direction they are going in. I wait just inside the mall entrance until the women enter and make a directional decision. The entourage goes right so I head left. With any luck, there is a salon on this side of the mall. There definitely is food on this side. The smell of cinnamon drifts through the air like a bullet to my nostril. What a wonderful comforting smell. I find myself drifting in the direction of that delicious aroma. Five minutes later, I’m sitting at a table ready to devour the biggest coffee cake muffin I have ever seen. My mouth waters from just looking at the baked goodness. Breaking a piece off the top, I pop the buttery, crispy, crust into my mouth. Savoring the explosion of flavors, I sigh with contentment. Gobbling up the rest of the muffin, I lick the last moist pieces sticking to my fingers. I feel much better now that not even the two year old throwing his breakfast on the floor is bothering me. However, I have become distracted from my mission. I have been at the mall thirty minutes and still no salon. I had better get moving before all the appointments are booked.

Pushing myself away from the table, I clean up the crumbs and dump them into the trash. Continuing down the aisle, I see the neon sign of a salon ahead. I hope that I can get in and out with too much hassle. Reaching the receptionist desk, I shake my head in disbelief. Raccoon girl must have a sister. Maybe wearing awful makeup is a class these girls have to take in receptionists’ school. I bet the teachers spend an entire day teaching the makeup naïve girls how to turn themselves into forest creatures. Some girls have doe eyes, which are sexy; raccoon eyes on the other hand are creepy. I hope these girls make lots of money because I’m positive all that liner must be expensive. One good sign however is the lack of customers at the

salon. I should be able to get in and out without too much trouble.

“Hello,” I say to raccoon girl two. “I would like a shampoo and cut please.” No response from her, jeeze color me surprised. “Excuse me, I would like an appointment for a shampoo and cut.” Still no response and now I see why. Those dastardly ear buds. RCG2 is smarter than most. She has the wires hanging down her back making the ear buds less noticeable. Here I thought she was just ignoring me, instead of being incompetent. That makes all the difference in my attitude. Reaching toward the calendar sitting on the desk I slap my hand down in front of her making RCG2 jump out of her seat. During the jump one ear bud falls from her ear so she can clearly hear me ask again “if you don’t mind I would like a shampoo and cut please.”

Scanning the ledger in front of her, she finds an empty space, follows the column upward to the time, and announces there is an opening in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes she says. There is no one in any of the chairs, the stylists are chatting over coffee, yet I have to wait fifteen minutes before a chair becomes available. No sense dragging this out any longer than I have too so I agree to the time frame before taking a seat. I enjoy a good power struggle but I want today to be as peaceful as possible. The sense of calm and relaxation started by the nice young man at the coffee shop is still upon me. I will do my best to keep those feelings alive.

I want the perfect cut so my hair matches my dress tonight. I need the entire package to look stunning so this is not a first and last date. Twenty minutes later, the stylist leads the way to the shampoo chair. I truly believe there is a law on the books that states no one can legally have an appointment that starts on time. I had one doctor who never made you wait. If your appointment was at ten o’clock, you would be ushered into the exam room at ten o’clock. The doctor would enter a few minutes later. The stress level was non-existent yet the quality of care was exceptional. Somehow, word of his competence got around and upset the rest of the appointment takers because it was not long before he retired to another state. Coincidence, I think not.

Lounging in the chair, the warm water flows through my hair drenching each strand. If I were wealthy, I would have a personal hairdresser on call 24/7. Having someone wash your hair is one of the most decadent experiences you can have for less than twenty bucks. A good shampooer not only cleans your hair but also gives your scalp a great massage. All you should feel are the fingertips not the nails. You should be able to feel the fleshy pads move your scalp in a circular motion gently manipulating the scalp. Couple that with the soapy warm water and you have instant stress relief. I don’t think shampooers get enough credit for what they contribute to the building of peace in society. We could create an entire division of peacemakers based on giving shampoos. Who could argue for starting a war after having their scalp massaged? I know it is sexist but just to make sure peace wins let's have beautiful people giving the shampoos. At least, the women should have large breasts as an added diversion. No man would be able to resist signing a peace agreement under those circumstances. Of course, if there are women diplomats involved there must be male shampooers that resemble Greek gods. They all should have accents too. Accents are very sexy and would be the third prong of the peace attack. I should submit that idea to Washington. Who knows, the President might see the merit in the plan.

In the distance, I hear the water shut off which snaps my mind back to reality. My hair is clean, now I have to decide what to do with it. Walking over to the salon chair, I still have no clue what I want done. I hope that the stylist will have some good suggestions. Looking into the mirror as she approaches doubts start to creep into my mind. Your haircut should represent your sense of style especially if you are paid to make other people feel good about themselves. Stylist really should not have what I consider wacked out hair dos. Reading her name tag gives a clue to why she styled her hair that way. I can only assume Jellio is her stage name. I cannot imagine looking down at a newborn and deciding she looks like a Jellio. What does a Jellio look like anyways? My mind thinks of translucent multi colored skin that wiggles every time it moves. Imagine holding a baby with skin like that. She could easily slip out of your hands anytime she moved. You would need spring loaded floors with lots of padding to ensure she did not get hurt when she landed. Let’s pretend her name is Martha, which does not have enough pizzazz for this job, and she changed it to Jellio to make a statement. Someone named Martha would never tease her hair in that configuration on purpose. When I see a woman with her hair spiked in all directions, I hesitate to follow her fashion direction. There must be enough hair spray in there to hold up a building. Her hair is so stiff it would stop a bullet. That is definitely a hairdo fitting a super hero but not for a Saturday night date. I wonder if it is too late to request someone else.

“Good morning, what are we going to do with you today?” Jellio asks between gum snaps. Between the weird haircut and chewing gum, I would not be surprised if she had two left thumbs. I’m not feeling confident in Jellio’s ability. Hoping to get out of this chair with most of my hair intact, I decide to take control of this situation right from the start.

“I need a nice easy to take care of haircut. The cut has to be low maintenance. Wash, dry, and go is all I have time for. What do you have in mind?”

“Well, I can take a little off the top here, move this over here, back this up here and you will be all set. See, you can do this yourself in only twenty minutes.” Looking in the mirror it takes all I have not to burst out laughing. The right side of my hair is swept up into a wave over my ear. The other side knotted just behind the left ear. Bangs hanging in my eyes along with a strip of loose hair hanging down my back complete the look. While I do admire Jellio’s ability to use styling products creatively, I cannot imagine paying someone to make me look like a clown. I give her credit for keeping a straight face. Instead of styling hair, she should be a politician. Anyone who can make someone look this bad yet convince him or her otherwise can probably be president someday.

Lucky for me today is not that day. Shaking my head from side to side emphatically I tell her “no this won’t work at all. Again, I need something simple that will take less than five minutes to set. The only styling tools I use are a brush and hair dryer nothing else. Please try again and keep it simple.”

Rolling her eyes Jellio unknots the hair before using her water bottle to rewet the snarled locks. If she rolls them any farther back she really will have eyes in the back of her head. At this point, I will be the first in line to smack her hard enough to move them back into their sockets. She would be wise to have earplugs in so any remaining marbles would not roll out onto the floor. It would be my luck I would slip on one of the marbles, break my ass and find out the salon was uninsured. Wouldn’t that make for a fantastic date? I might look stunning in my new outfit but I would have to walk to the restaurant and eat standing up. I’m sure you can’t sit down with a broken ass. Sex would surely be out of the question making for a miserable evening. Closing my eyes, I slowly slip my hands underneath my upper thighs to hold them steady in case the urge to lash out overcomes me.

“So what’s the special occasion,” she asks trying to strike up a conversation.

“I’m going on a first date tonight,” I really don’t want to chitchat but I will to keep the peacefulness of this day flowing.

“Have you two been out before?” Great she either isn’t listening or can’t comprehend simple English.

“No, this is our first date.”

“Where did you go when you went out the first time?” Wow, she really isn’t getting this conversation.

“We went to Disneyland on the space shuttle,” I reply with a straight face. “We had dinner on a pirate ship and watched fireworks in Alaska.”

“Oh that sounds nice. I dated a guy who had a boat. I’ve never been to Alaska though. Is that part of the United States?” It was as if she had a stroke and just spewed words out of her mouth. I hope she pays more attention to my hair than she is to this conversation.

“Yeah, we had strawberry pizza with green pea ice cream. The sun stayed out all night so we could ride all the rides before jetting home.” If she doesn’t know that I’m kidding this time, I will be very afraid.

“I’ve never heard of green pea ice cream, what’s it taste like? I only eat vanilla. Actually, I only eat white food. My Guru says it keeps your aura clean.” I peak at her face out of one eye to see if she has any hint of a smirk on her lips. She must be yanking my chain.

“It tastes like chicken which could be considered white food, so you should try it.”

“Thanks for the tip, I think I will.” Now I’m really starting to regret sitting in this chair. I’d better keep a close eye on my hair. This girl is not all here.

I feel the warm rod close to my scalp as a lock of hair wraps tightly around its shaft. I see curls. I may be too old for curls but let’s give her a chance my mind says. One curl here and there would not look too bad. A few minutes go by as Jellio’s fingers move swiftly rolling and unrolling several locks of hair. Finally done she turns the chair around to face the mirror with a resounding “TA DA. What do you think?” The grin on her facing stretches from cheek to cheek. Her arms reach toward the heavens as if she expects gold to start raining down in appreciation of her artwork. I wonder if she has ever seen Shirley Temple’s movies. Impressively each curl bounces with body. Turning from side to side, the ringlets spring around my head. Too bad, I’m not two. Ringlets belong on little girls preferably under the age of nine not fifty-year-old women.

Meeting her eyes in the mirror my mouth softly says “no.” Damn I don’t know what the problem is with this woman. I cannot say it any planer than I already have. I need a hairstyle that is quick and easy to take care of. Glancing at the clock, I’m amazed at how much time has gone by. I need to end this quickly so I can get back home. I’m going to need a nap after this experience.

The sound of scissors cutting through the air brings me back to reality. What is she thinking now? Panicking I start to get up from the chair for fear the scissors are coming towards me. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the client in the next station getting a fantastic haircut. Her hair is the same length as mine, falling just past her shoulders. The front falls at an angle sleekly framing her face. Wispy bangs complete the sophisticated look. “I want that” my mind screams. Quickly sitting back down I run the back of my hand over my lips checking to make sure I’m not drooling over that perfect cut.

Reaching up I grab Jellio’s sleeve pulling her face close to mine. “I want that haircut. If you cannot do it, I will move to her chair but I want that cut. Wash my hair again to remove all the crap you used then give me that cut, understand?” Jellio’s head bobs up and down quickly as she assures me she understands completely. Quickly we move to the washing station to undo everything and start fresh. This time there is no gentle massage, which is all right with me. I have spent too much time here already being her personal styling doll. Back in the salon chair, Jellio quickly gets down to business cutting hair. Her fingers fly at a steady pace as small pieces of hair fall in my lap. In no time, she is done with the scissors and reaching for the mousse. After spreading the whipped white foam through the damp hair, the blow dryer starts pushing the moisture out of my hair. Tendrils fly through the air as the cut takes shape. I hear a clicking sound as the dryer shuts off; my eyes stare in amazement. The cut is perfect. Each hair hangs at just the right angle framing my face perfectly. Smiling I stand up pulling off the smock so I can get a full mirror view. Absolutely perfect. I place a ten-dollar bill in Jellio’s tip cut, thank her and head for the door. Looking back from the receptionist’s desk I see Jellio slumped in her chair, head in hands. I have that affect on people. It would be no surprise if she goes home early. Anyone else might be upset by that picture but not me. It is not as if the hairstyle was free. If I’m paying for a service, I expect to get what I want. She will be fine. A little quiet time alone, some good ice cream, maybe a rant or two and she will be ready for tomorrow. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a support group for people who wait on me.

Thanking raccoon girl two I head out of the salon looking for something to quench my thirst. A growling stomach tells me the muffin has worn off; it is time for some real food. I know it is silly but I cannot stop looking at my hair in the store windows as I pass by. It looks sleek, sophisticated, and definitely sexy. Stopping in front of one shop, I imagine myself running into Rick. My hair swings seductively as my head tilts to show my interest. Words form on my lips silently escaping into thin air. Out of the corner of one eye, I catch a woman watching my interaction with the window mannequin. Her brows knit together as she tries to figure out if I’m a psycho or not. The heat of embarrassment rises adding a red tinge to my cheeks. I had better move along before she decides to call someone. I don’t have time to waste explaining a simple fantasy to mall security.

Reaching the car, I remember I was supposed to stop by the food court for some lunch. It is a good thing my stomach knows enough to remind me I need to eat or I would die of starvation. One day the authorities could break into the house to find me sitting in my recliner nothing but skin and bones. There would be no sign of forced entry no blood on the floor, no weapons in sight. Starvation would be the first thought the police officers would come up with but once they looked in the cupboards and saw the unopened boxes of food the case would seem more complicated than it was. The refrigerator would have an ample supply of ham, cheese and of course, ice cream making my death a mystery to them. I of course would be watching from the spirit world trying to give them directions. “Nobody killed me,” I would shout into the mist. I just forgot to move my lazy behind and get some food.” The death certificate should list short-term memory loss as cause of death starvation as a by-product of not being able to remember anything.

Sitting at the light at the mall exit, I notice a fast food restaurant across the road. I have not had a good hamburger in a long time. There is a good chance I’m not going to have one now but it would be good enough so that I don’t have to fix something when I get home. Besides, going through the drive through would be easier than going home and making something to eat. I still have to take a nap to make sure I’m wide-awake for the big date. It’s going to take some energy to get myself all dressed up so that I make a great impression tonight. The light changes and I ease the car across the road following the arrows for the drive through. Checking the menu, I see a double cheeseburger and a diet coke looks like it will hit the spot. The burger will be just enough food to keep me going but not enough to weigh me down. My dress is roomy but I don’t want to overdo the food now so that I have to oil myself down in order to get into the dress tonight. Any oil involved in tonight’s escapades will occur after the dress is off.

Driving up to the microphone, I hear a crackling voice say “Welcome to Yummy Burgers. How may I help you?” Going through the drive-through is always an experience. In theory it seems like a great timesaving idea; in reality most of the time it is a pain in the ass. The speakers very rarely hear anything as clearly as being face-to-face not that face-to-face is always better. There have been times I have tried to order a sandwich while looking someone straight in the eye and it still takes three attempts to get them to hit the correct button. Ordering through a speaker adds an extra dimension of exasperation to the whole process. Just for the fun of it, I decide to place a side wager with myself. If they get the order right, the first time no sex tonight with Rick. If they don’t get it right the first time, which is what I’m hoping for, then it is straight to the bedroom right after dessert. Okay maybe not right after dessert. We can hang around at the restaurant for a little while talking over coffee. Maybe we could sightsee on the way home but definitely, there will be love tonight.

Crossing my fingers, I lean out the window towards the speaker “I would like a double cheeseburger and a diet Coke with no ice please.”

“That’s a double cheeseburger and a diet Coke with no ice correct?” I cannot believe what my ears just heard. The cheerful little voice on the other end of the speaker actually repeated the order back correctly, damn.

Slowly I bang my head against the padded part of my steering wheel before answering “yes ma’am.” This has to be the first time ever an order is correct and it has to be today. I guess it serves me right for trying to make a deal with the devil. Inching the car towards the pickup window I just cannot believe my luck. Apparently, I’m going to have to count on good looks and humor to get me into the sack tonight. I suppose it’s better this way. At least if we end up in bed together tonight I will know Rick really wanted to be the there and it was not because the fast food gods decided to do me a favor. Reaching the window, I grab my food, thank the cashier, and wheel out of the parking lot.

Driving home, I marvel at what a beautiful day it has turned out to be. The sun is shining brightly into the car with a soft breeze blowing through the windows. It is just warm enough so you don’t need a jacket or sweater but not too hot, that you will be sweating buckets of salty dew all over your skin. My hand reaches out to touch the button to open the sunroof and enjoy more of this glorious day when suddenly I stop. I almost blew my haircut away. If I had slid open the top of my car, the breeze would have come in and destroyed all the hard work Jellio put into my hair. Then the only thing I would have to show for today is a double cheeseburger wrapper and an empty cup. I really need to work on my impulse control. Stopping at the next red light I check in the mirror to see if my hair still looks the way it did at the salon. Close enough I say to myself. I probably should roll up the windows just to make sure my hair makes it home in one piece. Pulling up on the button the windows slowly raise until there is no longer a breeze flowing through the car. I turn on the air conditioner to blow some cool air into the vehicle so the rest of the ride home is comfortable.

Who would have thought I would need the air conditioner on in the end of November? This is a good omen. I found the perfect dress, the perfect haircut, and the perfect shoes to use on the perfect day. That must mean this will be a perfect date. I had better cross my fingers just to make sure the good mojo continues. Grabbing the lunch, I walk into the house for a few minutes of relaxation. As I close the door, I catch my hand reaching up to knock on the wood. Laughing to out loud, I rap three times because you just can’t take any chances.

Plopping down on the couch, I unwrap my sandwich as Phritz and Kahlúa decide to pay a visit. They sniff at the wrapper and then back off because they know eating human food is taboo. Especially my human food. I run my hands across the fur on their backs just for the relaxation. There is something about petting a cat that helps clear your mind. The automatic motion of your hand against fur lets your mind go blank allowing only the important thoughts to break through. I wonder if Rick’s hair feels this soft. I picture us sitting on the couch watching TV with my hand caressing the back of his head. My fingers twist his soft supple locks turning them into ringlets that fall enticingly across his shoulder. I can’t resist kissing his shoulder, drinking in the salty taste of his skin.

Long hair on a man can be so sexy if they take care of it and curls just add to the allure. I have found it’s one of the world’s great mysteries as to why some men have the most beautiful hair while most women have to pay to have the same look. Men are discouraged from appreciating their beautiful hair. Society won’t let them wear their hair long with curls hanging down or pinned up into a beautiful style. No, it is not manly. Society insists they shear their hair off so they all look alike. Granted some men should be clean-shaven just as some women should have short hair. The style suits their face, makes them more attractive, and seem more competent. Of course, there are those that should wear their hair under a bag or at least a hat to spare the rest of us the pain caused by the burning sensation in our eyes from looking at the tangled mess. Crew cuts should be mandatory for those that just can’t seem to run a comb through their hair on a regular basis. However, I digress.

Today is only supposed to be spent reflecting on the beautiful things in life so I will get back on track with my previous thoughts. Some men on the other hand, look fabulous with shoulder length hair. Whether straight or curly it gives them a manlier look that also exudes strength in sexuality. Look at Hercules. He had long hair, which supposedly brought him strength. Tell me honestly that you could look at him and not want to jump his bones. You can’t. You know you can’t. That is how I’m seeing Rick right now. I can tell by the way he wears his clothes that muscles thrive underneath the fabric. I can’t wait to get my hands inside the fabric so I can feel all the muscles of his lean luscious body. I have seen the curls in his hair so the rest of the package has to be as beautiful. Picturing his nude body sends me into orgasmic heaven. If just a picture in my mind of what I think he looks like makes me this hot, we are going to have trouble getting through the dinner part of tonight’s date. Given the right signals, I might just have a glass of water, announce that I’m full and need to go home. There is no way I’m going to be able to sit across a dinner table from this gorgeous man and keep my hands to myself let alone my thoughts clean.

Finishing my sandwich, I crumble up the wrapper, toss it in the bag and take it out in the kitchen to put it in the trash. I had better straighten up this kitchen just in case we decide to come back here tonight for dessert. I would not be opposed to going to a hotel, though. It has been a long time since I enjoyed room service along with a pre-made bed. If we do get a hotel room tonight, I want one with the huge bathtub and shower enclosure. If there is going to be lovemaking tonight, the foreplay will start at dinner and continue right on through until penetration. There is no better place for foreplay than in the shower. Not only will both bodies be squeaky clean it will give us a chance to explore each other looking for that sweet spot that will need more attention once we hit the sheets. Sharing kisses under the warm spray emitting from the shower can simulate a romantic rainy summer day. As I run warm soapy water in the sink to clean up the last few dishes on the counter, my mind starts to drift to that imaginary bathroom waiting for us tonight.

Instead of dirty dishes, I see a bathtub filling up with bubbles, warm soapy bubbles just waiting to be popped by my fingers, toes and other pointy body parts. I wonder how hard it is to pop bubbles with erect nipples and a rock hard penis. It could become a new water sport better than water polo. Instead of tossing a ball around trying to get it into a net, you would be tossing nipples around poking at bubbles. Okay maybe tossing is a bad word to use. That indicates your nipples have left your body, which would be very very wrong. Instead, think of it as bobbing for bubbles.

Depending on the size of your breasts, you may need a facemask and a snorkel tube to play the game but it would be fun to see how many bubbles you could pop in a minute. The bathtub would have to be big enough to accommodate the waves caused by your breasts bobbing up and down in the water. You should be able to pop twice as many bubbles as your partner since he will only have one penis and you will have two nipples in play. The only way he could possibly win would be to orgasm during the game and have his juices pop a whole mess of bubbles at once. That would be a waste of good energy. For some men that would be the end of the night. You might just as well at that point jump into bed and turn on the late night talk show.

You might still get some foreplay and if he is a good man, he will satisfy you but I would not expect any more penis action. I can see having fun trying to get the blood flowing through his veins. Just because his shaft isn’t rock hard doesn’t mean you can’t use a little tongue action to see if you can get something started. I’m betting that Rick is not a one trick pony. I’m betting that he has at least three good orgasms in him. I know I do. Who knows maybe there will be four? Okay no sense being greedy on the first date. There needs to be some surprises to discover later on in the relationship.

Suddenly, I’m brought back to the present as water starts to splash out of the sink onto the floor. Great one more mess I need to clean up before tonight. I really need to start paying attention the present instead of dreaming about the future. I would not have half as much work to do if I would just pay attention to what is going on and not keep living in my dreams. That is one reason I’m hoping tonight works out in my favor. I figure that if I have someone to keep me company periodically, I could then get out of my imagination and back into the real world. Not that imagination is a bad thing. I plan to incorporate a lot of imagination into the next few years if Rick and I turn out to be a match. The difference is he will be sharing the storylines with me making them a reality and not just scenes playing out in my head day after day to amuse only myself. It will feel good to have a partner for change.

I’ve waited a long time to have someone who could truly be a partner in a real adult relationship. Quite often, they want to be daddy figures or bosses and I have one of each. I don’t need another one. I need a man who’s strong enough to share opinions, have conversation, do the house work, do the shopping, make some money and truly share life and all the things that go along with it without being intimidated by a woman ready willing and able to do the same thing. In addition, he has to be cute with a drop dead gorgeous body. I’m ready to compromise but there’s a few things that I really need to make it worthwhile and muscles on a man are one of them. Call me sexist I don’t care. Luckily, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it does not take much for me to find somebody beautiful. Manners, muscles, good hygiene, and a sense of humor are all I need to find somebody attractive.

Grabbing a towel, I get down on my hands and knees and start mopping up the puddle of water pooled on the floor. Looking up I see my reflection in the glass of my oven door and noticed that my hair needs to be fixed. It has gone a little bit limp on the right-hand side so I had better allot extra time with the curling iron.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rick standing behind me with his curly locks flowing and a towel wrapped around his waist. Slowly he kneels down behind me and kisses the center of my back. A shiver runs up my spine as his lips touch my skin, parting ever so slightly so that I can feel his warm breath. I can feel his hand gently glide over my backside caressing my thigh and stopping at my foot. His strong fingers start to massage the bottom of my foot, which slowly relaxes my body and excites it at the same time. As my eyes start to close, I begin enjoying the long dormant feelings reawakening in my body.

Suddenly the familiar jingle of my phone breaks through. Damn it all to hell, my mind screams as I slowly get up to answer the phone. This had better be good. Reaching the phone, I recognize the number right away and my heart starts to go pitter-patter.

“Hello,” I say cheerily hoping to hear the same cheery voice on the other end of the line.

“I just had a few minutes and it wanted to catch you to tell you how much I’m looking forward to tonight,” Rick purrs into the phone. “I hope this doesn’t sound pathetic but it has been such a long time since I’ve had a dinner date with an attractive woman that I’m a little bit nervous about tonight. I know men are supposed to be strong but we also have feelings. I guess I’m just trying to find out if you’re looking forward to this date is much as I am.”

Dancing around the room trying to stifle a huge grin I compose myself to answer. I have to make sure he does not hear the little giggle welling up in my throat trying to escape. I know it’s from excitement but he might not take it that way and I really need to have this date.

“I’m so looking forward to having dinner with you. I truly believe we are going to have a good time. Any chance you want to move it up a couple hours?” Standing there with fingers crossed I wait for his answer.

“I can be there in an hour if that will give you enough time to get ready,” Rick answers quickly. I can hear the anticipation in his voice as he waits for my answer.

“I can be ready in an hour. If you are not real fussy about how I look I can be ready in thirty minutes. In fact, I can begin getting ready right now. That’s the beauty of cell phones. For all you know I’m in my bedroom changing right now.” Lord I hope I have not gone too far. I don’t want to scare the man off before I have had a chance to dazzle him.

“I will see you in an hour,” Rick responds very quickly. Standing there, I hug the phone to my chest ecstatic that we seem to be in harmony. On the outside, I look like a very happy middle-aged woman getting ready for the perfect date. On the inside, however I’m an excited fifteen year-old jumping up and down as fast as I can shouting my excitement to the skies. If you had told me a month ago I would get this excited over the attentions of a man, I would have asked you if you had bumped your head that morning. It’s not that I don’t like men, I love men. They can be fun, quirky, and lovable. I could not possibly picture a world without men. While I truly feel women are the superior sex, they can be quite bitchy especially when they have no one to help release their tensions. Therefore, unless everyone on earth is a lesbian we really need men if only for fun and entertainment. Since I don’t intend to become a lesbian, I need a man. I need this man.

Racing up the stairs, I make my way towards the bathroom to take a quick shower. Effortlessly, I toss my shirt on the floor, kick my pants out of the way and toss my bra on the bed. I grab a hairclip to pin my hair up so that I don’t have to completely blow dry the style again. Gingerly I step under the warm water, grab the sponge, and quickly lather up with liquid soap the consistency of heavy cream. The sponge glides over my skin covering every inch in rich lather. I have to clean all the places I expect Rick’s tongue to be tonight. All the soapy suds have to go down the drain to make sure he tastes me not the soap. Luckily, the soap is unscented so it won’t clash with the perfume I picked out for tonight. I have a special perfume saved for just this occasion. It is supposed to drive men wild. I would be happy if it just worked on one man tonight. After rinsing off, I jump out of the shower wrapping a towel around my breasts and head for the makeup table.

With hair pinned up, I quickly apply makeup. Just a touch of foundation along with a little rouge will highlight my high cheekbones. Next, I reach for the eye shadow. Since the dress is cranberry, a nice dusty rose will highlight my blue eyes. Next, I grab the mascara brush; this stuff is supposed to give me long luscious eyelashes and it had better work. One of the tricks I have learned is to apply it only on the upper lash. Repeated blinking transfers the mascara to the lower lash lowering your chances of smearing it on your freshly painted cheeks. It also saves time since it takes twice as long to clean up the smear on your cheek as it does to just do the upper lashes and let it go. Releasing the hair clip my hair falls gently to my shoulders needing only a slight tousle with my fingers to make it look sexy and smooth. I lightly run a brush through it twisting the curls before pulling out the big guns a.k.a. hairspray. Extra hold hairspray lightly spritzed in the air above my head will keep each hair in place but still touchable. The whole idea of the hairstyle is to make Rick want to run his fingers through my hair. How awkward would it be for him to put his fingers in my hair and then have them stuck there because of the hairspray?

Imagine calling the paramedics to the restaurant because his hand was stuck to my head. I wonder if they would bring a fire truck or just a little ambulance. Firefighters in their suits would crash through the restaurant door looking for the damsel in distress. They wouldn’t have to look very hard because she would be under a table hiding her head trying not to be any more embarrassed than she already was. They could just look for the man sitting in a chair with his hand underneath the table still attached to the woman's hair. It would be a simple rescue, just cut the hair to release his hand. The hard part would be crawling out from underneath the table and facing the rest of the customers still dining at the restaurant. After all the commotion created by the sirens and firefighters walking through the restaurant was over it would be difficult to fade away into the moonlight. I’m sure after that we would be finding a different restaurant to eat at next time. I would rather have my curls go limp during the meal than risk ruining any part of foreplay tonight. Rick will definitely need both hands with all ten fingers working properly tonight.

Next, is lotion for my legs. Since I’m not wearing pantyhose, tonight they need to be extra silky smooth. Reaching for the bottle of lotion, I squirt a little bit in my hand and start rubbing it down my calves kneading the skin with my fingers to make sure the lotion reaches deep inside the pores. Once again, I find myself relying on somebody else’s product to make this night be perfect. The bottle says the lotion leaves your skin silky smooth, touchably soft and it had better happen that way. I would hate to have to wake up tomorrow and start my list of complaint letters to these companies whose product could not stand up to their claims. I would have to make a form letter and just fill in the blanks for each different company since all the complaints would be the same.

“Dear Sirs,” I would write. “I must inform you that your product did not enhancement my sex life, increase my beauty, or make every man stop in their tracks just to notice me. Since I was only trying to get the attention of one man and your product did not work on just one man, I feel you owe me not only an apology but also a refund. It would be different if I was trying to attract the whole world but we are only talking about one man. He is not even a difficult man to attract. Over the last few years, he has had plenty of attention from females so it should not have been too difficult for me to get his attention especially if aided by your product. Therefore, it is my duty to inform you your product has failed miserably and you need to take it off the shelf for further study.”

I probably would be the only woman to write one of these letters showing my disappointment but I promise I will if tonight does not go as planned. Now I understand I have something to do with pulling Rick into my web but I’m not shouting to the world on TV that I can do it with just a little bit of lotion or maybe this type of makeup as these advertisers are. Therefore, I actually own very little responsibility to tonight’s success. All I have to do is speak intelligently and not spill food down my cleavage and I will have fulfilled my potential. Realistically, if we end up in bed tonight that success will be up to Rick. I hate to feed into a stereotype but he has the bigger burden since he has to rise to the occasion. I on the other hand just have to be loving and supportive during our lovemaking. Kisses here, caresses there along with a well-placed moan will show my eagerness to participate. The one problem with this theory is I have never been able to fake anything. If the juices are not flowing then there won’t be any moaning. Luckily, I don’t see that as a problem since for the last week I have not been able to get that man out of my head. I don’t see how he cannot rock my world tonight.

Finally, it’s time for the fingernails. Opening the box of fake nails I pull out eight, one for each finger, the thumbnails are on their own. I don’t know how some women maneuver with three inch nails on all ten fingers and I’m not about to find out tonight. Keeping my thumbnails a natural length ensures I’ll be able to unbutton Rick’s shirt without any problems. Slowly placing a drop of glue on the nail to hold it in place, I squeeze the piece of plastic onto my fingernail. After a minute, I let go pleased the fake nail stays in place. Picking the next one up, I promptly drop the nail on the floor. Slowly my toes probe the area where I think the nail fell hoping to quickly find it. I’m not getting on hands and knees tonight for a fake fingernail. Reaching into the vanity drawer, I pull another nail out of the box and continue gluing. One good thing about fake nails is they dry instantly so I can polish them immediately. I have the best nail polish ever made. It really covers in one coat and dries within seconds. Who cares if the polish chips tomorrow as long as it looks fabulous tonight.

Glancing at the clock, I see I only have twenty minutes before he arrives. I need to get a moving and finish dressing quickly so I have time to relax before he knocks on the door. I want to greet him at the door very refreshed and relaxed not winded from having to rush to get ready. Showing a little bit of excitement for the date tonight is great. Acting like a love struck schoolgirl would probably send him screaming towards his car. The last thing I need is to spend a whole week getting ready for the perfect date and then stand at the door watching his tires peel out as he tries to get away from me as fast as possible.

Realistically, I don’t think it would ever happen since he is a gentleman. I’m sure he would just go ahead with the date, suffer through it and shake my hand as he left me at the door at the end of the night. The impractical side of me though cannot stop thinking about the worst happening, which would be his total disappointment as I opened the door. After all this work, if I don’t see a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye I believe I’ll just shut the door grab my quart of ice cream and head back to the recliner. Pushing that thought out of my head, I remind myself to think positively. I will have plenty of time once he gets here to ruin the date without planting seeds of destruction in my psyche ahead of time.

Sliding the dress over my head, I gently ease the fabric down over my hips pulling snugly to make sure the fabric caresses everything the way it should. I adjust the girls to make sure they sit in just the right position so the appropriate amount of cleavage is exposed. Slipping on the shimmering heels, I take a final glance in the mirror and can’t help smiling to myself. If he isn't knocked out by what he sees, I’m handing in my membership card for the Association of womanhood. Men wonder whether there is a secret society women belong to since we all seem to have similar traits. Whenever the topic comes up, we always play dumb and blame the similarities on genetics. Since all women have the same basic chromosome, it must be something to do with the similar DNA. In reality there is a secret society that women can join with a book holding all the strategies designed to drive men insane.

Hundreds of years ago, one thoughtless woman gave up our power in the world to men. A society based on hunting and gathering gave women all the power. We decided where we would settle down and we decided what we would eat since we gathered the food. The men took care of the campgrounds. Somewhere along the line, some woman decided she liked the scenery at the latest campground and decided the group should stay put. She thought it would be a good idea to plant a garden, grow your own food, raise a couple animals, and not travel so much. That is when we lost control. As soon as the men figured out is they didn’t have to breakdown the camp, move all the belongings, and erect it every few weeks but instead were free to roam the countryside our power over them was gone. They were free to get their own food when and where they felt like it. It’s not that we couldn’t take the camp down and move it when we wanted to but we hadn’t had to for so long we were sure the men were going to come back and do it for us. Well the joke was on us. The men banded together refusing to move the camp ever again.

According to the book, you could feel the break in the time space continuum as power shifted over to the men. That was when the secret society of womanhood was born. Through the years as society has changed we have added more strategies to the book to make sure all the women involved have all the power that they need to counter act the control of men. Successful women have an outward appearance of coexisting successfully with men when in reality they have total control of the relationship. You can spot the women that either don’t believe in the society or were uninformed of the society because of the way they are living their lives. I’m not suggesting that every woman that belongs to the society is successful and happy in everything she does but when she does fail, it is a complete and total surprise.

Grabbing a perfume bottle, I add the last piece of insurance to the ensemble. Holding my finger over the top of the bottle, I tip it upside down allowing the sweet smelling liquid to flow slowly onto my skin. Gently I spread the aromatic liquid in just the right places. A dab on each ankle, one on behind each knee, a long line right between my breasts and lastly a tad behind each ear will leave enough scent to drive him crazy. Rick will have every opportunity to appreciate the perfume I bought just to impress him. If he does not get close to one of these body parts tonight, I will be devastated. One more pat of my hair and I’m ready to go. Gingerly, I walk down the stairs being careful with each step. I swear that if I fall down and break a leg, he is going to carry me to dinner tonight. Finally, ten minutes more and he will be here.

Looking around the room, I make sure I have everything I need to make this night spectacular. My purse is on the table, a throw is on the back of the chair. I shouldn’t need anything else tonight. Suddenly the bing bong of the doorbell reverberates in my ear. He’s here, he’s here my mind screams. Calm down, I tell myself, take a deep breath. Remember he is just a man and this is just a dinner date. I know how much I’m looking forward to this hopefully becoming the start of a great relationship but if I pass out from the excitement now it’s going to make for a very short date. Slowly I walk towards the door, reaching out to turn the knob without seeming overly anxious. Each twist of the knob seems to take forever before I hear the gentle click of the lock signaling what could be the beginning of the rest of my life. Taking one last deep calming breath, I swing the door open. My eyes twinkle as my lips spread open in a wide smile, for a moment. I rapidly blink a few times to clear my eyesight because standing in front of me is not the man of my dreams but an insurance agent.

"What the hell," I think. As he stands there talking I move my head to the right and to the left to try to see if Rick is hiding from me somewhere. This has to be a joke; he must be hiding in the bushes. I look back at the insurance agent whose lips are moving but all I hear is blah blah blah blah blah. I have to shake my head before his voice starts to register what he is saying. Who in their right mind tries to sell insurance at six o’clock on a Saturday night? He probably was the school geek who never went out on a Saturday night so working right now is not unusual. Well I didn’t date in high school either but I did learn how to stop working on the weekend. I also know enough not to bother people during the dinner hour.

“I’m sorry I’m not interested,” I say with apologetic look on my face as I guide him toward the open door. “Besides I’m late for an appointment and I really need to get going.” He keeps talking his sales pitch as I’m ushering him out the door. It is amazing the stamina these people have. I wonder if he is as persistent in bed. Well that is a thought for another day. I need to move him out of here before Rick shows up. It would be just my luck the two would hit it off and I would be sitting here all gussied up listening to insurance talk all night. The two of them would want coffee, possibly dessert, probably hospitality that I’m in short supply of. I would end up going upstairs to watch TV leaving the two men to let themselves out when they finish their conversation. I can picture myself standing at the window staring at those two sappy souls walking down the street together. Opening the window, I lean out into the cold dark night, my breasts barely contained inside the thin nightgown. My voice carries down the quiet street as I bid farewell to a lost opportunity, “Rick you could’ve had me tonight.” Hanging my head, I duck back inside and slowly close the window pulling the drapes shut. Luckily, I don’t see Rick slowly shrug his shoulders and continue down the street apparently oblivious to what he could have.

What are the odds I would get a stranger come to my door at the exact time I’m expecting company. No one ever comes to this door. I’ve not had a visitor in the three years I’ve lived here. I hope the universe is not playing games with me.

“Tonight is not the night for fun and games,” I scold the higher powers, at least ones based on the universe’s funny bone. Since Rick is already a few minutes late, I suppose I have time to make some coffee. Not only will it give me something to drink but also it will occupy my mind while I wait. I hate it when company is late. The longer I have to wait the more the feeling sinks in that maybe I had it wrong. Maybe they really don’t want to spend any time with me. Maybe I misunderstood the whole conversation and no one is going to show up. Maybe I have become the school geek who nobody wants to spend any time with. Maybe I should just end the night right now so as not to be any more disappointed. That quart of ice cream is looking better and better all the time. Stop it I tell myself. The man is only ten minutes late; there is no reason to panic. Actually, he’s not late he is just not as early as he had planned on being. Sitting at the table, I concentrate on the drip drip drip of the coffee as the brown liquid fills the pot. The ensuing aroma waifs through the air, fills my nose and calms my mind. Slowly my breathing returns to normal as the anxieties begin to dissipate. I’m sure he won’t be much longer. My prince will come, the date will be perfect, and we will kiss the night away.

“Would Mademoiselle like cream in her coffee?” the handsome French waiter asked ever so politely. Meeting for coffee at this quaint French bistro was a perfect idea. The outdoor tables with their cute umbrellas are the perfect setting on this warm summer day for quiet conversation with a handsome man. Softly I thank the waiter as he pours just a dollop of cream in my coffee smiling as he walks away. I can appreciate a sexy looking man. The gentle sway of the waiter’s hips as he glides through the tables makes my blood start to run warm. Feeling the blood come to my cheeks, I duck my head hiding a smirk underneath my hat. It is a good thing I have a date coming or I would be tempted to ask him for his number. I looked up just in time to see Rick approach my table. The wide smile spread across his lips shows me that he is just as happy to be there as I’m. Some men might see having coffee at an outdoor café as too girlie which is too bad since on a beautiful day like today, it’s the perfect way to get to know someone without feeling confined. If things don’t go well or you run out of things to talk about, there is the entire outdoors to draw inspiration. It is also easier to make a break for it and disappeared down the street. There’s no doors or solid walls to get in the way of your escape. Luckily, this won’t be the case today. Meeting at this bistro was actually Rick’s idea showing that he is not a conventional man. As he reaches the table, he lowers his head to kiss me gently on the cheek.

Bing bong rings through the air as his lips lowered closer to my skin. A shiver of anticipation runs through my body at the same time a nagging thought appears wondering why I’m hearing a doorbell. I thought you were supposed to hear angelic bells when that one special person kissed you not doorbells. Bing bong reverberates through the air again disturbing my thoughts.

This time the noise brings me back to reality and I realize it’s the doorbell and I’ve been lost in another daydream. Jumping up from the table, I try not to race as fast as I can to the door in anticipation of Rick’s arrival. Instead I rein in my excitement and purposely put one foot in front of the other trying to look as calm as possible. Deliberately I reached for the handle while my brain screams, “this is it, this is it and the date is finally beginning.” As the door swings open, I plant the biggest smile I have across my lips and stare sexily at the figure in the doorway.

I’m sure the fourteen-year-old Boy Scout there to try to sell me light bulbs is going to take this story back to his friends as a badge of honor. I can hear it now “she came to the door with her boobs showing in a slinky dress smiling at me in a way that women do when they want you.” I’m sure he is going to have a sleazy grin on his face when he brags to his buddies how he could have had me if he wanted to. Too bad there wouldn’t be an adult there to tell him he would not have known what to do with me if he had the chance. If I actually asked him in, I’m sure he would have run screaming down the street crying for his mommy. I, on the other hand, tried not to look as disappointed as I was that it was not Rick again. This rollercoaster ride of first excitement and then let down is starting to weigh on my nerves. I’m going to be exhausted by the time the date actually starts. The sound of the Boy Scouts squeaky little voice starts breaking through my thoughts reminding me there is someone standing in front of me on my doorstep. I really should acknowledge that little speech he has just given me about his light bulbs since I’m sure he has stood in front of a mirror for hours practicing so as not to be nervous.

“How much did you say they were?” I ask the young man more to get him moving in a different direction than actually needing light bulbs. I really need him to move on to the next house so that I can compose myself before Rick gets here. Handing the young man a five-dollar bill I thank him for the package of light bulbs and quickly shut the door. I toss the package on the couch and head back toward the kitchen to finish my cup of coffee.

Holding the cup in both hands I pace back and forth in the kitchen patiently waiting for this night to begin. With all the adrenaline running through my veins I probably could play a full quarter of a football game without padding. The excess energy would keep me sprinting, dodging, and weaving better than a pro-quarterback. I’m sure nobody would be able to touch me. Unfortunately, I’m standing here in a form fitting dress and high heels with no avenue of release, so I guess I will just keep pacing. Unfortunately, the ticking of the wall clock is imbedding itself in my brain. My thoughts are drawn to the tick tock tick tock echoing in the back of my head. The next time I go shopping, I think I will look for a quiet clock. A clock that doesn’t mock me as I’m standing here all alone in a house with no activity. With each swing of the pendulum, it’s taunting me. It may sound like tick tock but in reality, it is saying, “you live alone. There is no one here to keep you company. You spend all your time talking to yourself how pathetic.” I get enough crap from the outside world I really don’t need my own clock making fun of me. Especially since, if I brought it up to anyone I would get a one-way ticket to the loony bin.

Bing bong bing bong the doorbell speaks yet again. This has to be Rick. What is that old saying the third time is the charm? Besides nobody ever comes to my house unless it’s one of my children. I know I have carefully created the reputation of being a loner, which is why I don’t understand all the traffic tonight. Even on Halloween, I only get a few trick-or-treaters and I want them to show up. I love seeing the little kids in their costumes at the door especially since they are only there for ten seconds. I give them a piece of candy; they go away. I don’t have to entertain them, I don’t have to listen to them, all I have to do is feed their sugar habit. It’s the perfect relationship.

Once more, I take the long walk from the kitchen to the door anticipating a huge hunk of a man on the other side. Once more, my hands gingerly reach out to open the door to a new beginning, a new relationship that has no boundaries, only those Rick and I decide to impose. Once more, I swing open the door just in time to stare at a well-pressed suit. The only problem is the man in the suit is not Rick. Once more, my ears are bombarded by a salesman’s speech. This time it turns out, he is selling satellite television. I don’t need any more channels that I don’t have time to watch. I have plenty of channels. Looking up to the sky, I ask the powers that be why are they doing this to me? Is this some sort of cosmic joke at my expense? All I wanted was to go out to dinner tonight with a beautiful man who finds me attractive enough to want to spend the night enjoying each other’s company. Instead, I keep getting unwanted attention from people I would not associate with ever. Apparently, my prayers have not been specific enough so let me clarify right now, I enlighten the heavens. I want to go to dinner with Rick, have a great time with Rick and then spend the night with Rick. It is a very simple request.

I thought I had it made when he asked me to go to dinner. That is half the battle. I already have his attention now I just have to figure out how to keep it. It should not be that hard a thing to do but for some reason, there is always a roadblock. Just once, I would like to be able to plan an occasion and have it go just the way I want it to. Deep breaths, take deep breaths before you open your mouth a voice echoes deep inside my head. I could not even tell you what company this guy works for. I’m surprised to see him in a suit though. Usually it’s a kid in a baseball hat hawking their wares.

“No thank you,” I say firmly making sure, he understands his time is over. I know they are just trying to make a living but today is not the day to intrude on my life. Shutting the door, I lean against it with my back trying to focus on my breathing. If I take enough deep breaths, my nerves will calm down and I will be back in control. I focus on my lungs expanding with air, holding it in for a second before expelling the air into the empty room. Suddenly, the house seems excessively quiet. Even the cats have deserted the room probably anticipating my nerves getting the best of me. Sometimes I think the pacing bothers them more than it calms me. They do seem to know when I need comfort though and I’m sure they would be ready and willing to sit on my lap offering their affection if I needed it.

Before I get too far away from the door, I hear a loud crash in the street. The satellite salesman has pulled out in front of a taxi cab right in front of the house. Perfect, one more obstacle blocking the doorway. Both drivers jump out of their cars cursing at the other’s poor driving skills.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” the salesman yells.

“Me, I had the right of way you idiot.” The taxi driver stood in the road shaking his fist at the salesman. “Look what you’ve done to my cab.”

“Hey, both you guys need to move your cars out from in front of my house.” I try not to feel insensitive but I need the driveway cleared before Rick gets here. “Has anyone called a tow truck yet?”

“And I called the police,” the cabbie yells. “You’re getting a ticket my friend.”

“So are you, you were speeding.”

“Prove it,” The cabbie is really upset now. Cuss words are flying a mile a minute.

“Guys calm down and get your cars out of the way.” No one is listening to the ranting woman in the cranberry dress. A siren in the distance draws closer as police arrive on the scene. The drivers are pulled aside by an officer to tell their side of the story. Ten minutes of talking resolves the situation enough to get both cars moved to the side of the road. At least the driveway is clear so Rick will have a place to park his car. Will this nonsense ever end? Nothing ever happens on this street but for some reason today the circus seems to be in town. I’d better get back inside before something happens to my dress.

After a few minutes, I head back towards the kitchen to finish my cup of coffee. If this date goes as well as I hope it does, I’m going to have to make a habit of getting out of the house and socializing. This really should not be such a big deal. A rap on the door shouldn’t unnerve me. Unnerved may be the wrong word; overly excited is a better word to describe the emotional turmoil swirling in my head. I need to concentrate on acting my age so that I don’t scare the man off before we have a chance to get to know each other. Once we really get to know each other if, he is not interested I’ll understand. On the other hand, I don’t want to act so cool that he thinks I’m not interested. Believe me, I’m interested. I guess this is the price you pay when you don’t mask your emotions with drugs or alcohol. Real feelings come to the surface and you are forced to deal with them. You can’t just put on a front reinforced with artificial bravery and hope for the best. While it would be much easier to imbibe in liquid strength before facing the unknown in the end, it would be counterproductive especially since the real you would not surface. I want Rick to experience the real me right down to skin level. I want to charm him with my wit, dazzle him with my intelligence, and excite him with my body.

If I just relax and let my mind wander, I can almost feel Rick standing in front of me one hand on either side of my shoulder. We stare longingly into each other’s eyes both of us expressing the hunger we feel inside. Slowly, his head moves closer to mine, our lips within inches of each other. I can feel his hot breath on my skin. I can almost taste his kiss on my lips. I turn my head up ever so slightly to close the gap as his lips descended on mine. I feel my breath quickened in anticipation of our skin finally meeting.

Once again, my thoughts are disturbed by a rapping noise at the door. This time I’m not going to be in such a hurry to get to the door. Slowly, I put my cup down on the table and saunter into the front room. It’s probably just another salesman here to disturb the evening. There must have been a notice sent out over the airwaves intercepted by anyone with the ability to get in my way tonight. I would not be surprised if Jellio didn’t post something at the hair salon out of frustration to pay me back for dissing her creativity. Oh, I can see it now. An 8 x 10 poster with my picture plastered in the center of it just like one of the wanted posters at the post office. She wouldn’t even have to say anything viscous on the poster just simple verbiage like “if you see this woman she is willing to buy whatever you have to sell.” My address posted in plain sight directing them to their next mark. I’m surprised there’s not flashing yellow arrows coming down the sidewalk leading right up to my door with a neon sign saying, “All salesmen enter here.” Just thinking about all of the intrusions tonight starts making my blood boil. Why of all nights do people pick tonight to barge into my life. I have lived here for years and have not seen as many salespeople as I have seen tonight. Reaching for the doorknob, I yank the door open.

“Whatever you’re selling I’m not interested in so just save the speech,” I spout, as the door violently swings open. Looking out onto the porch the color drains from my face. Standing in front of me decked out in his finest clothes is Rick looking completely edible with a bouquet of yellow roses in his hands. Great, I have just insulted a gorgeous man who is bringing me roses. No one has ever brought me a bouquet of roses before. I wonder if I can be any more of a jackass tonight.

“Okay then” he says. “That’s not quite the greeting I was expecting but if you’ve changed your mind I can go back home.”

“No please come in. I’m so sorry but I have had a string of salesmen here tonight, more than I have had in the past few years. Each time I came to the door thinking it was you; it was somebody trying to sell me something. Then there was an accident right out front between one of the salesman and a cabbie. I was afraid it wouldn’t be cleaned up in time so you could get in the driveway. I just assumed you were another salesman.” I tried not to stammer too much as the apology tumbles from my lips. I’ve already ruined my chance at a grand entrance I don’t want to ruin the rest of the evening. This is what I get for being rude to people. One day I may learn how to control my temper. Trying to hide my embarrassment, I offer him a cup of coffee.

“That would be great,” he says a smile spreading across his lips. At least, it seems he does have a sense a humor. Following me into the kitchen, I pull a chair out for him then reach for a coffee cup. Shakily I pour a cup of coffee for him, refill my cup and turn to place them on the table. Inhale exhale try to get back under control my mind shrieks. It is just a minor glitch. The whole evening doesn’t have to be ruined just because he saw you in bitchy mode. If this was a blind date, I would expect to see him run screaming down the road but we have known each other for quite a few months so he should be able to cut me a little slack. But, if he does run away then he is not worth the bother. Turning my attention back to him, I see he still has that grin on his face. That has to be a good omen. I grip the coffee cup with both hands trying to keep my emotions under control. That grin sends electric shock waves the entire length of my body curling my toes. I wonder if it would be bad taste to jump on a man during the first date. I suppose it would be before dinner. After dinner is another story.

“I hope these flowers are okay. The bright yellow reminds me of sunshine just like you. That didn’t sound too corny did it?”

“No not at all it sounds sweet. They’re beautiful, thank you very much. Let me find a vase and I’ll put them in water so they last. No one has brought me flowers in years, not since the boys grew up.” If I had eyes in the back of my head, I would have seen Rick’s eyes gently caress my backside as I reached in the cupboard for the vase. I’m pleasantly pleased at how natural our conversation flows.

“So how was your day?” I ask hoping to lead the conversation away from our embarrassing meeting just a few minutes ago. “Did anything interesting happen today?”

“Well I just received an enthusiastic greeting by a very beautiful woman,” he said staring me directly in the eye. The twinkle in his eye as he said that did not escape me. As a matter-of-fact, it put me at ease. At least I didn’t scare him off. Besides, he said I was beautiful which shows he has good taste. Reaching across the table, he takes my hand in his as we talk about the day’s events. This is really going to be the best date ever.

♥♥♥♥♥

Shelly’s journey continues in Blame it on Vegas coming soon to Smashwords.com

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http://eatingdinnernaked.blogspot.com

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Dinner Should be Enjoyed Naked