Flirting With Disaster

I haven’t dated a man in a lot of years. And it’s been even longer since I’ve come across a man that struck a..uh..nerve with me. You know, the fluttering thing. And I certainly wouldn’t know if a man liked me, even if he hit me over the head with a caveman club (that’s what they’re still doing these days, right?). To illustrate this point, just the other day, I could’ve sworn the Sears repairman dug me, because he asked a crazy amount of questions about my chess playing when he saw a set in my living room. But I was just the means to his end. As I signed the receipt, he had his hands all over my rooks. Turns out, he just wanted in my chess pants.

So, imagine my befuddlement when I moved into the condo (where I save money living now while paying for Spawn’s college) and ran across a cute boy that caused a slight double-take. There was waving at first, then polite greetings, then a little conversation, then joint walking of the dogs. I’m embarrassed to tell you what got me thinking in the dating direction. You experienced women will think it’s silly, but one morning, the dog and I came upon him and his dog. The dogs like each other, so I stopped to let them do their thing. Cute boy was on the phone, so I tried to be quick and quiet, so not to bother him. But do you know what he did? He got off the phone. A little politeness goes a long way for me, obviously.

Now, what does any respectable, middle-aged, born-again virgin do when she gets a crush? First, she awkwardly attempts to flirt. With the grace and dignity of a newborn colt trying to stand. And second, she googles.

Lots of information about this acceptably decent-looking, 48-year-old, dog-owning, polite man popped up. His hometown, his family, his education, a blurb about him in a 3-year-old church newsletter and oodles of news articles about the 1996 culmination of his three-year crime spree. Yes, crime spree.

Turns out he was in state prison for eight years. That’s like accidental murder years, isn’t it? Seems my man had been a fairly well-to-do prosecutor in another area of Indiana who just couldn’t keep his hands off of other people’s money. He’d settle cases with organizations like insurance companies and forget to tell the victims that their money had come through. The final tally was a little over a million dollars. That’s bad enough, right? Well, it seems that when the police were closing in on him, he parked his car in a field, doused it with gasoline and set himself on fire. He was rushed to the hospital but was released to police custody with no major damage. Too bad, I know, because here he is now, 15 years later, living five doors down from me and making me break my record of not foolishly diggin’ a man. THAT, my friends, is the true crime here.

Update: We still see each other outside (which I now affectionately refer to as "the yard") and have pleasant conversation. He still gets off the phone to talk to me. Our dogs still like each other. But, now, I’ve noticed, sometimes, he’s taken to running from me. The other day, for example, I was behind him for a few miles driving home. We pulled into our parking spaces, 5 spots away from each other, and, not only did he not wave, but he got out of his car and damn near power-walked into his house before I even had my door open. It was only a matter of time, I guess.

I try to find the lesson in things, but I haven’t pinpointed this one yet, Diary. Maybe it’s just proof that there IS a dormant woman deep down inside. And that, for now, it’s best that she get a little more rest.