An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

Don’t I wish!

I admit it. I was excited to go out with a doctor. He was obviously intelligent. He had a good job. Hell, he had A job. (Don’t even get me started about the unemployed garbage collector a friend set me up with. OK, fine. I’ll tell you later.)

He appeared attractive from his picture, albeit stoic, because he wasn’t smiling. It struck me as odd that you would use a picture of yourself where you looked so serious. Oh dear. Maybe he has no sense of humor. I hate people with no sense of humor. How do they survive in this mad, mad world without humor? But, I digress.

He wasn’t too much older than me (a few years). From talking to him, I knew that he liked to cook, had children from a previous relationship who didn’t live with him and had some of the same interests that I did.

I was sticking with my rules this time. Meet in a (crowded) public place and don’t exchange anything more than first names until you feel comfortable.

We agreed to meet at a coffee shop. I didn’t recognize him when he first walked up because his hair was almost entirely gray. It was black in the picture that he sent me. Reminded me of the C&C Music Factory song, “Things that make you go hmmmmm.” I was almost positive at this point that he had lied about his age (40), but it would be rude to ask.

In these situations, I always try to get to a meeting location first so that I can scope out the location and choose the best place to sit. This also allows me to get my beverage of choice and get settled. I have no problem with a man buying me a cup of coffee, but until I am reasonably sure there will be a second date, I think that I should pay my own way.

When he greets me, he smiles. Now I understand why his picture is stoic. His two front teeth are broken. Badly broken. Surely he must have dental insurance as a doctor. Why wouldn’t he get his teeth fixed? I choose to ignore this for the moment.

The first thing he tells me is that he appreciates my honesty in my profile. “You look just like your picture.” Well, I should hope so. It was only taken a few months ago. “So many women put up pictures of themselves that are like 10-years old or 50 pounds ago.” Hello? Pot? It’s the kettle calling to tell you... Still, cursed good manners prevents me from saying, “And your actual age is ...?”

He also told me that he appreciated my “honesty about my figure.” I put curvy. This is a hard question for me. I’m not slender. I am average in that I wear a size 12 and the average American woman wears a size 12-14. However, I’m 5’10 and the average American woman is 5’5. “A few extra pounds,” my male friends tell me, translates to HUGE and I’m not huge. So, I went with curvy.

In this phase of my Dating Farce, I still told people that I performed with a professional belly dance troupe as a hobby. I learned through painful experience that this is often the wrong thing to do. Though belly dance, in my mind, is no different from any other form of performance dance in that it involves a costume and certain movements, it is perceived in a very different way. Many men that found out I was a belly dancer seemed to think that I was either A) a stripper, B) easy or C) both.

He was “kind” enough to mention how “hot” he found belly dancing and how I had the perfect body for it. He was so into belly dancers, in fact, that his buddies hired one for his 50^th birthday a few years ago. Hello? Did you or did you not put 40 on your online profile? It would be ill-mannered to point out this little fallacy, but WOW it was tempting to tell Pinocchio’s that his nose was growing.

Ok. So he lied about his age. I wonder what else he lied about? I started fishing for more details. “How many children do you have?” Two, he tells me. One that just graduated from college and another who’s 29 and has children (!!!?). No WONDER his children don’t live with him. They’re too old to live with him. And a grandfather? You want me to go out with a grandfather? I’m still hoping to have children of my own some day and I’m not that much older than his elder child.

In the middle of our conversation, he interrupts me and says, “Did I tell you that big boobs make me horny? And, you’ve got a great set.”

Oh! Would you look at the time? I have GOT to go floss the cat.

“So, where do you see this going?” he asks me. Seriously? Seriously? Did you even READ my profile or did you get stuck on my “assets”? In my description, I specifically said that I really like children and I’m hoping to settle down and have some of my own one day. Hey! Truth in advertising. If you’re looking for a fling, I’m not your gal . . . I mean, unless you look like John Cusack or Oded Fehr. Then, all bets are off and I’ll have to introduce you to my “throw-down” list.

My Guardian Etiquette Maven won’t allow me to utter the words screaming through my brain (which start something like, “Listen you repulsive little troll. Though you only seem to have a nodding acquaintance with the truth ....”). Instead, I say, “I’m sorry. I just don’t see this going anywhere. We’re just at different stages in our lives. You’ve had your children and are just looking for a companion to have fun with and I’m looking for a serious relationship that will eventually lead to marriage and children.” 

“So,” he says, “we can’t just have some fun together?”

“I’m sorry,” I reply, “I’m not into flings.”

“Oh, I’m not into flings either,” he tells me with a straight face. “I just thought that we could, you know, hang out, have some dinner, release our mutual sexual tensions.” RIGHT. OK. Apparently he’s a bit slow on the uptake AND illiterate. I would tell him where to look UP the definition of fling, but I fear he wouldn’t be able to read it. Neanderthal! Is he really a doctor? I’m beginning to wonder.

Mercifully, I had told him up front that I was meeting my family at a certain time. This left me the perfect excuse to leave. I feared the Dreadful Cop-A-Feel Goodbye, but at least this horrible date was almost over. A patient of his gave me the ideal out, however. Bless Betty and Little Johnny. (Maybe he really was a doctor?) As I was standing up to leave, she came over to him. “Dr. ___________, I just had to tell you the Johnny is doing so much better . . . “ And away I ran.

He e-mailed me after the date and told me that he was disappointed that I ran off and he didn’t get to “tell me goodbye properly” but maybe we could get together and . . . . Yeah, OK. That’s not going to happen. I just e-mailed him back and told him that it was a pleasure meeting him and wished him luck in his search. (And I referred to him as a liar? I actually told him that it was “a pleasure” meeting him. Now whose nose is growing? I'd better watch my fibbing. Because, trust me, my nose does NOT need to be any bigger.)

Epilogue: He contacted me a few months later via e-mail and asked me if I had changed my position on casual relationships. Not so much. I again wished him luck on his continued search.