I had to take an eight-week holiday from my Senior Senor Senile dating because even God rested on that seventh day. But…like that scab you just can’t stop picking, I jumped back in feet first. I must be channeling my inner optimist to think things might improve with this new lot.

bad blind dates

Last week’s flavor was Rick, a fashion marketing genius whose career in NYC intersected with my modeling career.  He was cute, with adorable laughing eyes full of mischief. This was showing promise before the first glass of Pinot Noir.  Note this was your typical balmy evening in the tropics and I was wearing a silk sleeveless dress. He was wearing a tee shirt under a plaid button-down shirt, with a sleeveless sweater vest, topped off by a blazer. At least this one left the ascot at home. He easily looked 10-15 years older than his photos and refused to back down on that issue even when I called him on it. He was extremely proud of his 32″ waist, which was the same as in high school. I just wanted to take this poor gaunt critter who looked like he was just released from Auschwitz and feed him a yummy fattening meatloaf with lots of mashed potatoes. Those protruding bones of his looked like they could etch glass.

I’ve concluded that in the interest of we ain’t getting any younger, I will need to know a man’s net worth prior to agreeing to that wee meet and greet. Any figure OVER a certain dollar amount and he is OUTTA here. Every seriously wealthy man I’ve met since moving here (and they are thick as clotted cream) can’t stop preening over their bank accounts, houses and condos (usually in multiples of three), their yachts and/or sailboats. This particular Rick actually suggested that I pack up and spend the month of March in Vail with him. This despite snow, ice, cold, and skiing being four-letter words in my Webster’s. And those laughing eyes? This man was somber as a judge and didn’t crack a smile, nor did I. After 2 1/2 hours of torture and not a single funny bone being tickled, I made my escape, straight into the arms and wishful mind of one Bobby Barrettes.

In Bobby’s photo he looked like a dashing dark-eyed Yul Brynner. The reality…imagine a 65-year-old totally bald Jim Carrey, with his contorted rubber face in ceaseless motion. Add to this a soucon of a lisp caused, I fear, by a poorly fitting upper denture, which resulted in a projectile spittle spewing forth with every third spoken word. Note to self…pack a raincoat.

As he picked me up to drive me to my favorite beach, he was attentive enough to warn me that “I am a very aggressive driver, especially in parking lots”. This mere moments before narrowly avoiding plowing down my lovely neighbor and her three bichons. I can only imagine my discomfort at having to attend the quadruple funeral in front of my disapproving neighbors.

Then, glancing sideways at him, I saw……them. Errant 2″ long eyebrow hairs gamely attempting to leap off his face and into any future that didn’t involve life with HIM. Dudes, if you are over fifty, I beseech you to check your eyebrows; grooming tools are actually manufactured to help you escape the fate of brows of death. If you can braid them into dreadlocks we seriously need to chat.

And if the joy of his upper section wasn’t enough to make my heart race, what I saw looking South certainly completed the picture. There, at the intersection of Shinbone and Happy Feet, resided a pair of CROCS! Ladies, we all know that the presence of CROCS equals the total absence of SEX…. ever. The first time I laid eyes on CROCS, I was certain they were external birth control devices, meant to eliminate procreation for all eternity.

Then, reluctant eyes moving Northward, praying for no more surprises…were two legs covered in an angry red rash. Bobby never made mention of this oozing, festering concoction decorating said legs, so I was only left with my imagination. Measles, chicken pox, a curse placed by his angry ex-wife?

Apparently Bobby misread my signals when I decided to let him live instead of garroting him on the spot and became emboldened enough to attempt to put his arm around my shoulders and pull me towards him. Each time I leapt sideways to the left with the swiftness and agility of an amped up gazelle.

When he had the audacity to ask me to his house in order to “make me dinner” I sweetly declined, whilst reaching into my beach bag and handing him two Hello Kitty barrettes, the better to contain the antlers leaping from his forehead.

I grew up Catholic. Does anyone know what is required to enter a convent later in life? Cause that’s my increasingly enticing backup plan…

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