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Suddenly Single
By Dorothy Thompson
Okay, I admit it. I’m suddenly single. Such a harsh statement after seven years of engagement bliss, but it’s out there…staring at me like an empty roll of toilet paper. My fiancé and I have agreed to take separate paths and now I must learn how to do things for myself like taking the mice out of the mouse traps and the dogs out to pee when it rains. No matter how gross and irritating they may be, it’s all part of being suddenly single.
My good friend, Heide, said to take it slow and enjoy being single as I’m very much on the rebound. What she doesn’t know is slow is my middle name. I’m approaching my fifties and have no inclination to start another dead-end relationship. However, my good-meaning "adopted" daughter, Amanda, thinks the opposite. "You need to get out," she ordered. "You have to stop sulking…he’s not coming back and you need to pursue other interests."
I don’t have a problem pursuing other interests as long as they involve the computer.
But, that’s not what she had in mind. She meant GOING OUT IN PUBLIC WHERE THE MEN ARE.
Now, generally, I love men. They have all sorts of purposes in which have resulted in two children that I truly love and adore. However, I have a saying about men and computers. Computers are like aspirin for men-aches, only less stomach irritating. They don’t yell at you and you can turn them off whenever you want.
However, life isn’t all writing and computers, so I took my dear Amanda up on her offer to go to a karaoke bar to gulp down a Margarita to drown my men-hating spirits. I’m a stay-at-home computer junkie that would rather write than hang out at the local bar, but being as I couldn’t hide from the world any longer, I turned the computer off and headed to my clothes closet to look for appropriate ‘going out’ clothes.
What I failed to remember was, I didn’t have any.
‘Going out’ clothes involves cleavage-showing blouses and up-to-your-arse mini skirts, both of which I don’t possess. So, I opted for my favorite Grammy 2004 T-shirt, my best pair of jeans (that I could get into) and a pair of black sequined flip-flops. While they may not catch the attention of the opposite sex, I was comfortable anyway.
Chain-smoking the whole way, we pulled into the karaoke bar and slinked inside. All eyes on us, we chose a table far in the back. The young waitress bopped over to our table and asked us what we would like.
"Do you have Margaritas?" I asked.
"Um…I think so…let me ask," she said, bopping back to the bar, her cute little ponytail swaying with each bop.
She came back and said they could make one and which flavor would I like.
"Anything but watermelon, bananas and strawberries," I told her.
"Hold on…I’ll be right back," she replied, and bopped back to the bar.
How hard was it to get a Margarita in here?
I cased the joint trying to find an ash tray as there were none placed on the tables. Beer-belly men and over-the-hill women stared at us as if we were space aliens. Country music blared from the speakers as Hank Williams-wannabes crooned the latest hits.
Now, I can’t say I hate country music, not all of it anyway, but as I have a hankering for a good rock tune when I’m trying to get lit, I felt a little out of place. I kept looking at Amanda who was sitting there grinning, knowing how nervous I was.
"Just watch," I told her, "I bet some old guy is going to come over here and ask us to dance."
I know I’m psychic, but not THAT psychic, ‘cause sure enough, two seconds later, a bib-overalled old geezer walked over to our table. "Would you like to dance with an old fart?" he asked.
All I could think about was where was my waitress, where was my drink, and when was I leaving.
My only response I could come up with was, "Uh...sorry...I’m smoking right now," and pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. I didn’t care at this point whether I had an ash tray or not.
Finally, the waitress arrived and told us she can make one with peach schnapps. First of all…what is schnapps? It really didn’t sound appetizing, but at this point I didn’t care as long as peaches were involved, so I ordered two and reminded her I needed an ash tray.
"Be right back," she said.
I cased the joint again looking over the prospects. The old geezer had found another woman…story of my life…and the only available men it looked to me were the ones with guts hanging over their belts. It made the old geezer look even more attractive.
The waitress bopped over to the table with our Margarita Peach Schnapps and turned to leave.
"Um..the ash tray?"
She giggled, mentioned something about not being able to do two things at one time and disappeared again. Thank goodness she didn’t step on my butts on the way back.
We slirped down our drinks, eyeing the old geyser who was still eyeing us and made the best of things. I finally had gotten a taste of what it was like to be suddenly single and learned a few things in the meantime.
1.) I’ve got to learn how to make my ponytail bop.
2.) Stay away from old geysers.
3.) Carry an ash tray with me at all times.
4.) No matter how old I get, country music is still going to sound the same.
5.) Computers are my best friends.
© Dorothy Thompson
BIO:
Dorothy Thompson is a freelance writer, author, editor and journalist from the Eastern Shore of Virginia. She writes for many publications including The Eastern Shore News, Daily Times and USA Today. Her works have been included in many anthologies including her Romancing the Soul series (www.thewriterslife.net/romancingthesoul.html) published by Zumaya Publications. She is also the editor of one of Writer’s Digest Top 101 Websites, The Writer’s Life (www.thewriterslife.net). You can email her at thewriterslife@yahoo.com