Being a spinster in the Poconos isn’t easy. Without the actual spinning to do, it would seem like a piece of cake – but there’s a lot more to it than that: There’s a specific sigh, a certain woebegone look…hey, if you wanna know, attend the meetings.
My lack of luck (I should be a whiz at cards) with the – what would they be called? The Unfair Sex? That’s for damn sure true, but somehow that doesn’t sound right. The Rugged Sex? Would for damn sure that that was true…whoops, digressing. Anyway, I’m a klutz with men. Always have been. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been patterned like a duckling by the flirting stylings of Jerry Lewis. Curse my parents and their wholesome family fair! They should have let me watch Fellini not Flubber.
It’s not as though I don’t have help: Handsome men in the Poconos (not scooped up by someone else) are thin on the ground. That’s a fact.
So imagine my surprise when my washing machine broke.
I called everyone I could think of; every repairperson in the phone book (yes, I still have phone books), asked all my friends, and could find no one willing to travel to the wilds of Blooming Grove to fix my washing machine. As the days went by, this became a problem so serious I started eye-balling my prom dresses as daytime couture.
And then he called: Forever hereinafter to be known as Handsome J. He had a very nice voice (which I know not to trust because I have a nice voice) and was willing – nay eager – to come out and fix my washer. Had I known when I answered the door that I would be staring at one of the handsomest men I’ve ever laid eyes on, I might have not chosen to rock the Wrath-of-God look, but that’s what I was sporting.
I took a deep breath, literally stumbled opening the door, and decided to fall back on my old standby: My sparkling personality. ‘Cause that’s always worked so well in the past. Since A) I’m not very attractive, and B) talk like I watch PBS on purpose, I should have known this wasn’t going to go well. But if all did go well, at least my flannels wouldn’t stink anymore. I’m a glass half-full kinda gal.
Long story shortish: He breezed into my house, dismantled my Whirlpool, and had me as enthralled as my dog is with her own butt. Then Cupid intervened and Handsome J announced that he didn’t have the right part to finish the job.
Oh, hallaluya! Stinky flannels be damned: He’d have to come back! I was gonna get a second shot at this! (Oh, and lest you think I’m some sort of random love thief, I did ascertain that Handsome J is, in fact, single. Like all those episodes of CSI Miami were for nothing!)
And come back, Little Sheba, he did. This time, I actually combed my hair, wore real pants and not just yogurt pants, and put on my best Pocono lipstick (ya know, Chapstik). I was ready. Focusing on anything but his lips (oh, those lips…) I managed to hold an actual conversation. A conversation that lasted well beyond my washing machine’s repair (washa who?)
We talked of all manner of things: Dogs, trucks, and then – and then! – he showed me a picture on his iPhone of his AK-47. Now, a man doesn’t do that with a woman he doesn’t want to sleep with, am I right? Am I right?
Turns out, I’m wrong.
With all the finesse of my mentor, Jerry, I asked him out to eat bar-b-que with me. His response: “I dunno.” So cute, so verbal. And having come so close to having a boyfriend that my brother would actually approve of (the gun thing), I pressed on, but to no avail. Handsome J simply took his check and sailed out of my life.
Having vast experience with failure of all forms, I’ve learned not to berate myself for acting the fool. Tomorrow is another day, Katie Scarlett. There are plenty of fish in the ocean (although, it’s not lost on me that I live very far from any major body of water).