Little tidbits of “wisdom” provided by ever so helpful males I have met via my foray into online dating. And who am I not to share these magnanimous pearls? After y’all have been so very kind and supportive through my journey to get to the point where dating even seemed a remote possibility again after my divorce.
But first, a caveat. I have met some really neat people. Truly. Great guys. And I am smiling quite a bit lately. But that bit I need to keep to myself for now.
You lucky ducks, instead, get the humorous, the inane, the crazy. The ones that I could not throw back into the water fast enough. I’m sure they were thinking the same of me.
The first pearl I have to offer you is a parable of sorts. One that was shared with me by—well, let’s call him Petros.
When I met Petros for a drink, the very first words out of his mouth were: “Why did you cut your hair?”
Charmed, right? So was I. I mean, who would not be with such an effusive greeting? And, poor thing, no wonder he was so shocked. I had a whole half inch cut off. I mean, really. What a scare for him.
As I mentally calculated how quickly I could throw back a glass of champagne and politely take my leave (I mean, one of us should still be polite, no?), the barrage of questions began.
“So, what is your heritage?” Petros asked.
“Well, my mother was . . .” I began.
“No, no,no,” he said vehemently. “The male seed is the only one that matters. What was your father?”
Oh, people. I have evolved. Boy, have I ever. Ten or 20 years ago, this statement would have had me seething and giving this man a piece of my mind. But, with age comes wisdom. I have learned that you don’t fight ignorance with intelligence when it will only fall on deaf ears. I am not a one-woman army out to change the world. And Petros was not my pet project.
As he puffed out his chest, he continued. In unbelievable fashion, he began to talk of Italian tomato seeds. That a tomato seed brought to Chicago from Italy, and planted in Chicago dirt, will still grow to be an Italian tomato.
As he continued, I realized something. But to be sure, I ventured: “Just so I’m clear. I’m the dirt in this scenario? Women are the dirt?” His answer was an unequivocal “yes.”
Which was when a friend texted me and I had a sudden emergency. An absolutely made-up, not at all urgent emergency.
My dinner with this friend was lovely—the perfect antidote to my “happy” hour drink.
I mean, us dirt particles have to stick together.