Being “set up” with someone has unnerved me since my dating
life began. I’ve never been open to matchmaking and probably never will.
Perhaps it shows a real closed-mindedness on my behalf. More likely, I just
find it to be a waste of time.
Why? Undoubtedly (and I mean 100% undoubtedly), I will not
be attracted to this “ideal match.” Then I end up being insulted and hurt that
my friends think so little of me as to set me up with someone so woefully
unfit.
Take Clint, for instance. Last week, he dropped by with some “good news” for me. He just met with his home insurance rep and guess what? He thinks I’d really hit it off with him! His name is Wayne Krassman.
My fists softly tightened (because again, I really, really hate someone trying to set me up on a date. Have I established that?) But I tried not to show it.
“So,” I asked breezily, “Why is he such a great match for me?”
Take Clint, for instance. Last week, he dropped by with some “good news” for me. He just met with his home insurance rep and guess what? He thinks I’d really hit it off with him! His name is Wayne Krassman.
My fists softly tightened (because again, I really, really hate someone trying to set me up on a date. Have I established that?) But I tried not to show it.
“So,” I asked breezily, “Why is he such a great match for me?”
Clint thought for a second then responded (and these are his exact words, people):
“Well, he’s available, he’s your age…and he has a full head of hair.”
“How about his limbs? Does he have all his limbs?”
“Uh…yeah.”
“Well, then Lordie, calls the preacher! I gots to get me a dress!”
Clint looked exasperated.
“Clint, if you’re going to hook me up with someone, don’t you think he should have some traits a little nearer and dearer to my heart, like say, a good sense of humor or creativity or hell, even a big cock.”
“You’re too much.”
“Okay, it doesn’t have to be that big. It’s more about the girth, anyway.”
He left in a huff. And I sat there wondering whether this issue of mine was getting in the way of me meeting someone special.
So I found Wayne online and explained that I needed flood insurance for my home. My brother and I are finally moving forward on a buyout so I can move out and buy my own home. We need the flood insurance in order to secure a mortgage loan.
Krassman seemed full of helpful information but it was a stressful call. He warned me of the myriad of ways we could be denied this loan. If I didn’t know better, he was gleaning satisfaction by relaying to me every worst-case scenario possible. There are always people out there like that - the ones happy to tell you bad news.
“But Wayne, this house has been paid off for decades. We’re applying for a loan that’s a quarter of its worth. If for some strange reason he defaulted, they’d still benefit!”
“Well, banks aren't in the home-selling business. Especially now. Do your homework. You could be in real trouble.”
Dick.
My future suddenly seemed quite scary. I imagined being stuck in this house forever, spiders setting up camp in my hair, losing teeth and naming squirrels. Many thoughts raced through my mind but not for one second did I want to “hook up” with this guy. Put a hook through a cheek muscle? Yes. But I forced myself to be nice. Choking back worried tears, I muttered:
“Wayne, thanks for taking the time to explain this to me. This is all new territory.”
Then the "man of my dreams" says, apropos of nothing:
“I’m always happy to help a woman as attractive as yourself. I really liked some of those sexy shots of you on Facebook.”
I could smell the indignation broiling in my brain. Smoke slowly leaked from my nose.
“Hey Wayne. I’m actually concerned about my welfare, not some stupid pictures I posted on Facebook.”
“So who took them?”
Wow. Brass ones - dangling and clanking. Not only does he hear a potential client’s immense disapproval of his sexist comments but continues down this road, proudly and blithely.
How I wish I could tell you I stung him with some pithy one-line response. And how I hung up the phone and lit up a cigarette, blowing the smoke out like an indignant Lauren Bacall.
But I did none of that. Because I was desperate for information that may help my future. So I swallowed my pride like a load of warm cum and continued to ask the heartless and clueless cretin about flood insurance.
Humiliating? Most definitely. I lost some dwindling self-respect for the sake of flood insurance.
When I was done with our "first date", I reached for a Zombie Pill (what I affectionately call my anti-anxiety meds). I grabbed a glass of wine to enhance the mind-melt effect. (As my late great friend Krissie used to say "When the bottle tells you not to mix with alcohol, they're just trying to deny you a good high.")
I sat very still on the worn living room couch, staring out the window, waiting for the pill to kick in.
Clint stopped by a little later. In a dream-like state, I told him that I conversed with Wayne.
“Well, what do you think?”
My mind had already started its liquification. My financial worries became warm jelly and the sunset seemed particularly sunsetty, what with all its oranges and purples and red wine.
“I think I'm in love.”
"I knew you guys would get along!"
