How I Would Date Right Now, "If" I Could
WRITER'S NOTE: this hub was was inspired by one of my new followers, susiebrown48, one of the most-talented writers to grace the coverage areas of HubPages. I promised her that if this hub were written, that she would receive the credit. So I am doing that. "Thank you, Susie." Kenneth)
This is whom I would feel like
Candlelight dinners are very important to me
BECAUSE IT GIVES ME THE PRECIOUS TIME
to listen to, hang onto, and savor each word my date says. And having a candlelight dinner also provides me with another important pleasure: getting to soak myself in the loveliness of my date's eyes. That is the greatest turn-on in the world to me, getting to look deep into her eyes as she talks about her interests, likes, dislikes, favorite flower and music.
Story begins underneath this photo.
I am not like most men. But then again, most men say that "they" are not like most men. At least "I" know myself better than these guys who just "say" they are unique to make precious points with the ladies. Not that I am boasting.
I dare to confess here, right now, in front of God and everyone, that "I" didn't what what society calls a "fiery track record," with the ladies when I was available. Nor did I have numerous notches carved on the headboard of my bed. That is not to say that I didn't have some of "those" dates that a man cherishes for life. Even though just in memory. I used to wish I had been born a Latino for these guys know how to "really" make a girl happy.
At my age now, 58, my dating is over. Finished. Put to bed. Ancient history. The bad part that consists of being called a "fool," "idiot," several times for just trying to talk to the pretty girls who had this addiction of embarrassing me in public. And things like, "what? Me date you?" "sorry, I thought you were another guy when I gave you my number after Math class today," I am thanking God that these wicked lines will never be heard by my ears on this earth again.
Story continued underneath photo below.
Yes, I am old fashioned. I love walks on the beach
ESPECIALLY AT SUNSET
I love holding the soft hand of my date as we listen to the breaking of the waves and take our time to get to know each other and share our most-intimate secrets.
I am married to a nice woman, Pam, who would chop my head off if she only knew that I am publishing her name in this story, but why not give credit (and medals for heroism), to people who do great things? She has managed, with the grace of Our Heavenly Father, and relying on the patience that her dad passed on to her, to "tolerate" me for 37 years. That is some kind of a record, folks.
I will not talk about all of our bad times because one-hundred percent of them were my fault. Not hers. So there. I have made it public. I guess that tomorrow I will feel better at knowing all of HubPages (staff included), will know all about my marriage. No phone calls, please.
Now going with a statement that susiebrown48 made to me today, August 14, I want to go "Saw" on you, like the horror movie where people are told, "let's play a game," by this jerky-looking marionette riding a tricycle.
Story continued underneath photo below.
Sitting close together on a park bench
IS A THING THAT I REALLY LOVE
And it really doesn't have to be a park bench. Maybe my date and I could sit close in a porch swing and just talk ever now and then, because just us "being together," enjoying the precence of each other's voices, laughter, is just fine by me.
The game is this. If my wife, say, were to go to Heaven, right now, and be by Jesus' side, that would of course, make me severely-depressed. More than I am now.
Yes, I would spend days, weeks, months and years trying to grasp my life without Pam. And now even as I am writing this, I shudder in my shoes. Simply put. I cannot live without my companion. Plain and simple. That's all there is to it.
Let's also pretend that I am now 59. Single again. Living alone. Financially-set. But doggone it, so lonely that I talk to the television even when it's off.
I phone up the telephone operators to ask the time and how is her day going? I even call the Crisis Line so much that they call me by name, not a "Joe," "Bill," or "Mack." I am that lonely.
Then one day, just by the will of God and His mercy, I am walking into my local post office to get my "old man" mail that consists of flyers with coupons on them telling how much I can save on "dry bowel" medicines along with new and improved funeral from a new age funeral business in Idaho called, "Drive-Thru Funerals," oh, sorry to see Kenneth go, and can I get a Coke with that statement of respect?
Into the trash can they all go.
Just as I head for the door, a woman looking at her cell phone bumps into me accidentally. I don't mind. This is the first contact I've had with a female since Pam went to talk with Jesus.
"so sorry. Forgive me. I am so clumsy," this very-pretty lady of, say, 32, says to me revealing her perfect teeth.
"wow, I mean, no sweat. I am not hurt that much," I reply and we both laugh.
"my name's "Sherry Tidwell." I am proud to meet you," "Sherry" says very gentile revealing her extra-long eyelashes.
"Kenneth Avery is my tag, and likewise. A pure pleasure to meet someone as pretty as you," I say with confidence and hey, why not? If she doesn't respond, fine. If she does. Fine. Either way, I'm still a widower.
Hi. Guess what? Story continued underneath photo below.
Why not serenade my date with guitar music?
AND SO WHAT IF I AM NOT THAT GOOD ON THE STRINGS?
It really doesn't matter that much to my date, because she knows that this gesture is from my heart and designed just for her. I have learned over my 58 years that women love for men to be "from the heart," especially with romantic things. That is why I would buy a good, used guitar and learn the chords and lyrics from "Only you," by the Platters to tell my date just how I feel.
"Sherry," blushes momentarily and replies, "aww, that's so sweet. Thank you."
"you're very welcome," I reply with my blush now fading away.
"well, I got some more errands to run. Be seeing you," "Sherry," says as she smiles "that" smile and gracefully walks toward the door which I, as an old-fashioned gentleman, open for her.
Again she smiles. And says, "thanks again, Kenneth. Have a nice day and I hope we run into each other again."
I stand motionless for a few minutes. And dwell on her last remark. Was that her way of "wanting" to see me again or just her being nice, I think over and over. Finally I give up. I am not a mind analyst that our beloved C.I.A. employs.
Days pass. Then two weeks pass. I am now more lonely than ever, but do not confess this fact to my daughter or grandchildren who are very worried about me. How do I know this? They call me at least five times a day asking the same question, "are you doing okay?" "Sure! Top of the world," I reply lying through my teeth, but why add my burden to their load?
On one certain Wednesday, I have to go back to the post office to mail a payment for something I bought, but can't remember what it was. But these "blood suckers" are threating me over the phone for their money, so I am going to do the right thing and send them five dollars. I am not a dead beat.
When I get out of my car with my five-dollar payment in my hand and proceed to the front door of the post office, there "she" is, "Sherry Tidwell," looking like she has just stepped off the front page of Vogue magazine.
She is dressed "to the nine's" with a nice summer dress, heels, and a pearl necklace that catches my attention. Part of me wants to stay back out of sight and let her get her business concluded, while another part of me is screaming, "get in there, doofus! You may not get this chance again."
The second voice won out. I walk into the post office and I can tell that "Sherry" is not far away, from the perfume she wears, "Diamonds, by Liz Taylor," one of my favorites. My "late" wife once wore this scent when we both were younger.
"Kenneth, how are you?" "Sherry" asks almost running up to me.
"uhh, great! Right now," I reply instinctively.
"Sherry," picks up on the meaning of my "right now," knowing I feel good at seeing her, and she blushes. I feel good knowing at my age that I can still cause a pretty lady to blush.
"what have you been up to? Haven't seen you around," she asks looking over her mail.
"ahhh, just the usual, living a day at the time, writing hubs for HubPages, and other things," I reply hoping to capture her interest.
"sounds nice . . .oh, what's HubPages?" she asks wide-eyed, and her eyes are very beautiful--deep, brown and very inviting.
"it's a website where people write stories and publish them with photos. It's a great website and it helps me to deal with the passing of my wife," I explain.
"Sherry" looks solemn now. "oh, Kenneth, I didn't know. I am so sorry," she says in a voice so soft that I get chills up my spine.
"that's fine, "Sherry." thank you. I am dealing with it," I reply stuttering more with my next question.
"uhhh, care to get a cup of coffee?" I ask with my heart racing like Dale Earnhardt's number 88 Spring Cup car.
"Sherry" glances at her watch. Then says, "sure, why not? I don't have to work today. Where do you want to go?" she asks.
We end up at this small "mom and pop" restaurant just outside of our hometown. The atmosphere is quiet, easy to think. Talking is easy.
"Sherry" and I sit and talk for two and a half hours mostly about her. I like that. For I have nothing really to offer a lady of her caliber. I am totally-amazed at how we have a lot in common. One being she also has lost her husband of 27 years and is doing her best to survive.
She smiles a lot during those two and a half hours. I manage to just focus on "her," although in the back of my mind, Pam is ever-present. I like that. I wouldn't want to do anything to dishonor the memory of my late wife.
The two and a half hours go by with the speed of a purebred greyhound. I feel sad, and guilty at having coffee with another woman. "Sherry" senses this and resassures me that "it's just two new friends having coffee," and I suddenly feel better.
In the days ahead, we see each other many times. And share more coffee at t he same "mom and pop" restaurant. But the last time, we share a late-evening dinner that I asked "Sherry," to share with me on my first "date" since my wife had passed. She is so relaxed and secure with our time together I feel as if I have been reborn.
We both are in no hurry to enter into a long-lasting relationship. Yet. That is fine by me. The dates are a lot of fun. And I am re-learning so much about how a woman likes to be treated. My late wife was like that. She liked the little things that I'd do for her. "Sherry" is like this too.
The single red rose I gave her on our first "date" for this dinner made tears come to her eyes.
I think to myself, Pam, I hope you approve of "Sherry." I remember on our second date when the only thing I could afford was one rose for you too.
I fall into slumber sensing that Pam is smiling.
(Susiebrown48, I hope I made you proud.)
Actually, "this" is more like me
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