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In the early part of the last decade, not quite a novice to online dating, but yet to achieve a Master’s Degree in finding love on the Internet, I met Champagne Lady ‘58.
Champagne Lady ‘58, a very beautiful woman, with high cheekbones, and an air of sophistication felt even through the limited quality of the dating site’s webpage. Once I found her profile, I started the next phase of the now familiar routine—I sent her an email.
After she replied, we progressed to phone conversations. I told her that I was also born in nineteen fifty-eight, so we were the same age (forty-four at that time). ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I’m sure we have a great many things in common.’
She owned a Bed-and-Breakfast, in a small ski resort town just over the border, in New York State. We decided to drive up the next weekend, have dinner, and get acquainted. Currently the off-season, there were plenty of rooms to choose from.
That Saturday, at her Bed-and-Breakfast, I came face-to-face with Champagne Lady ‘58, whom I will call here Elaine (I’ll call her Elaine because, honestly, I don’t remember her real name).
Elaine was a very attractive woman, with an elegance revealed as she showed me around her establishment. Her cheekbones more prominent in person, and round, full brown eyes, and long, slender neck. We settled in her living room; she selected a bottle of red wine from a well-stocked rack which ran the length of the back wall. With wine poured, she retrieved an assortment of appetizers and placed them on the table before us. Such a wonderful host. After we settled on the couch, she turned to me.
“I have something to confess,” she said. (Oh, God, she’s a man).
“I’m not forty-four—I’m forty-six.”
I laughed it off (if she only knew what I thought she was going to say) and told her everyone tends to fudge the numbers on these dating sites, so think nothing of it.
With wine finished, we walked down the road to an Italian Restaurant owned by a friend. As we walked, she waved or said hello to just about everyone we passed—the beauty of living in a small town.
We reached the restaurant, greeted by the owner. He apologized, said he would need a few more minutes before our table would be ready. We moved over to the bar and ordered two more glasses of wine.
“I have not been completely honest with you,” she said. (Oh my God, she IS a man)
“What is it?”
“I’m not forty-six,” she said, “I’m fifty.”
If this trend continued, she would die in my arms before dessert arrived.
I told her it made no difference just as the owner came over and guided us to our table.
Once seated, she explained to me why she lied about her age.
“I feel that I am an attractive woman, with much to offer, and I find men are quickly put off by my age.”
She then went on to tell the number of dates she had, that year alone—all with much younger men.
“Age is just a number,” she said.
Apparently, her age rolled over faster than the National Debt Clock.
“And, to be totally honest,” she said (you know where this is going) “I wasn’t born in nineteen fifty-eight—I am fifty-eight.”
I knew she was right—in front of me sat a very attractive woman, with a very nice way about her; age is no reason this date couldn’t work out.
What happened next was the reason it didn’t.
She picked up her menu and opened it. She squinted for a second, reached into her pocketbook, and pulled out a pair of glasses. She put them on and then, with the index finger of her right hand, she slid them down the bridge of her nose and tilted her head back slightly to better read the menu. That was it; any thought of furthering this relationship was over. I looked at Elaine, and in that one gesture she transformed, and I knew it was over.
Why?
With that one move, Elaine now looked like a younger version of my Aunt Gloria.
Don’t misunderstand, my Aunt Gloria is an attractive woman but, come on, she’s my aunt.
Effectively, this date was over. After that, I thanked my testicles for playing our game, told them they would not be needed this evening, so they packed their bags and went home.
Cordial after that, almost answering ‘Yes, Ma’am’ when asked a question. Walked back to her Bed-and-Breakfast, finished one more glass of wine, found an empty bedroom, and went to bed. I left early the next day.
Champagne Lady ‘58, I’m sure, went on to have many other dates, and that I am probably not even a memory to her. But for me, holiday dinners with my aunt would never be the same.
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This post was originally published on HuffingtonPost.com and is republished with the author’s permission.
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