Unrealistic expectations just a natural part of dating scene

Got a letter from a reader the other day who – after reading my last “dating” column – decided to go online and give it a try herself. She was not happy with the results.

In her letter she said, “All the men want beautiful, young girls half their age. An average gal just doesn’t stand a chance.”

She went on to tell me a little more about herself and some of her experiences with online dating. She sounds very nice, and I’m sure she’ll find Mr. Right eventually, even if she does look no further than the grocery store, as she said she intends to do from now on.

In truth, I can’t blame her for giving the online thing a miss. I’ve been investigating the phenomena for a while now and can say she’s absolutely right; men in general have unrealistic expectations, especially those who are newly single after years of married life.

I’m no psychologist or sociologist, but I have a theory as to why frumpy, middle-aged men (not me) think they “deserve” a beautiful, young woman.

The problem, see, is that we men do not, in our own eyes, age. Ever. Every man thinks he’s still the same buff stud-muffin he was on the day of his wedding, even if that wedding was 30 years earlier and he wasn’t all that studly then, either. Moreover, the last time the newly-singled guy dated, “pretty young thangs” in their 20s were still on the menu.

In the newly-singled man’s mind, cute young girls remain his goal, because he honestly doesn’t realize he has changed.

This is frustrating not only for the “average” women out there, but also for the guy. He can’t understand why the 20-something cutie who lists skateboarding and body piercing as among her hobbies won’t answer his emails. She can’t understand why a guy two years older than her father is telling her how much he likes long walks on the beach.

Meanwhile, the perfectly nice 40-something woman looks on and wonders why men are fools. (This is something women have wondered for years, by the way, and is in no way exclusive to the dating scene. The Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor wondered the same thing about me hundreds of times during our years together. Probably still does.)

Fortunately, there is some good news; most guys eventually wise up and discover their true target audience. It’s not that the newly-singled man is “settling,” rather he’s coming to terms with his own, true self; the slightly-pudgy, slightly-balding, slightly-frumpy guy who looks back at him from the mirror each morning. And he’s realizing that, to a slightly more “seasoned” woman, he still looks pretty good.

Um, if it seems I’m writing about myself here, I’m not. Unlike those other guys, I actually do look exactly the same as I did 30 years ago; maybe better. I do, right? Right?

Now if I could only figure out why none of those 20-somethings are responding to my emails.

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

We’re off to see the wizard, and this time I plan to get photos

Had a tornado watch in my county a couple weeks back. As usual, I did the exact opposite of what the keyed up TV weather man was telling me to do – I grabbed my camera and headed out into the open countryside, hoping to grab at least one good “twister” shot. But as has been the case the last hundred or so times I’ve done this, no twister materialized and I came home empty-handed.

I’ve been trying to get a decent photo of a tornado for the past 35 years, but so far, nothin’. I’ve never even seen one, much less caught one on film.

I’ve mentioned here before that I’m a fan of “big weather,” and weather doesn’t get much bigger than a “Wizard of Oz”-sized twister. Over the years, I’ve developed what can only be called an obsession with them. Tornadoes are the white whale to my Captain Ahab.

To make matters worse, tornadoes have repeatedly taunted me with “near misses.”

The first I was too young to remember. I was only an infant and was cowering in the root cellar with my mother and grandmother when a tornado whisked away the house above us. Not a board was left, to hear my grandma tell it.

The next hit nine years later, on a Palm Sunday I’m sure a lot of West Michigan folks still remember. Tornadoes were touching down all around us, but I was a kid and my folks – who remembered all too well the root cellar incident – wouldn’t allow me to leave the basement.

But my most memorable close encounter of the windy kind occurred nearly ten years later, while I was hitch-hiking from Detroit to Missouri. I had been on the road a couple days and had made it only as far as Illinois.

My last ride had dropped me off in a tiny, rural town; a one-stoplight burg boasting a bar, two churches, a mom & pop diner, and three-dozen indifferently maintained homes perched along a two-lane blacktop. It was getting on toward dusk and the odds of finding a quick lift out of Mayberry were not good.

The sky was overcast, and rather than hitch after dark, I opted to make camp in a fallow field just south of town. I hiked back from the road and erected my little “bug” tent near some abandoned railroad tracks.

Snuggled into my sleeping bag, I nodded off two minutes after zipping in for the night. Some time later, I woke to the sound of heavy rain blatting against the tent’s Nylon exterior. There’s nothing cozier than sleeping through a thunderstorm in a good tent that doesn’t leak; I was asleep again in minutes.

Still later I was awakened by the sound of a train passing, a big one, from the sound of it. The tracks weren’t abandoned after all, it seemed. The walls of my tent bellowed violently in and out. The train passed and I again dozed.

Sunlight dappled the roof of my tent the next morning. I crawled loose of my sleeping bag and unzipped the tent. There, not three feet from the entrance, was a cow. A dead cow; on its back, with all four hooves pointing toward the flawless, blue sky.

It took a moment to process the scene. Extricating myself from the tent, I saw the field was littered with debris – branches, auto parts, torn and dirty clothing. The ground itself looked as if it had been ripped up in places, one of those places not ten feet from my tent.

Back in town, over a coffee at the mom & pop diner, I learned a tornado had swept through the night before. No one killed; thank Heaven, but lots of property damage.

A twister had missed me by ten feet, a flying cow by three. The next time that happens, I’m getting a picture.

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I’m looking forward to being the next Doctor Ruth

I think I’ve missed my calling. Being a writer is great, don’t get me wrong, but the big money is in being a phony “expert.” At least I’m hoping that’s where the big money is, since I seem to be headed in that direction, vocationally.

It all started a couple months ago, when I wrote my first column detailing my recent marital breakup with the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor, and my subsequent adventures as a newly-single guy.

The first reader letters were consolatory; folks who wanted to share their regret over the split. These I deeply appreciated. It took a couple weeks for the requests for advice to start coming in.

Some readers wanted to know what online dating service I was using. Others inquired after the name of my divorce attorney and wondered if he was any good. Still others were curious as to what sort of girls I had found online and if any were “keepers.”

But in the past couple weeks, the letters have turned increasingly personal and – in at least one case – bizarre.

In recent weeks, readers have written asking how long it took me to get completely over the split. Answer: I’ll let you know when it happens.

One letter writer was curious as to what sort of woman a newly-singled guy is interested in. Answer: One that will say “yes” when I ask her out.

Just yesterday I received an email from a guy who wanted “Bernice’s” phone number. Bernice, you may recall from a couple weeks back, was one of my first “dates.” She was also an amalgam, made up of three unhappy dates I went on a while back, by which I mean she was “based on a true story.” In short: there is no Bernice. And buddy, why you would want to go out with her if there was is beyond me.

The point is I’ve been getting all kinds of requests for advice on love and the single life. I’m not sure why, since most of the people asking for it have been single a lot longer than me and should therefore know more about it.

But since they’re asking, the least I can do is answer to the best of my ability and pray nobody sues me for malpractice. I don’t want to be a real therapist, of course; that takes schooling, wisdom, dedication, and a bunch of other stuff I have in only the most limited of supplies. Then there’s that pesky degree, which I also don’t have.

But I think I could be a television therapist, or maybe radio; anything where people call in with their problems and some quack gives them bad advice about how to conduct their lives. I’ve been thinking hard about this, and I think I’d be at least as good at it as Doctor Ruth (who, I’ve heard, isn’t a real doctor, either). In fact, if I have to, I could probably hobble together a fairly convincing German accent.

I’d don a pair of reading glasses, dress in a big, friendly sweater and dispense wisdom as if I actually knew what I was talking about. My book, “Doctor Mike’s Guide to Sex” would be a best seller, because it has the word “sex” in it.

I would be rich, and since girls dig rich guys, I would soon have my own romantic problems solved. It’s a win-win situation. Well, except for the people who buy my book. They would have more problems than ever.

Sorry folks, no plan is perfect.

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Studying the mating rituals of the urban single with Professor Mike

Continuing on the bizarre journey that is my new life as an unmarried man, last Sunday night I attended my first singles dance. It was a learning experience.

The first thing I learned is this: I’m not the only single person in the world. Hundreds of men and women, most dressed to the nines, were in attendance. Three DJs in three separate rooms provided a downbeat for the huddled masses crowding the dance floors.

The joint was hoppin’.

My date (yes, I took date to a singles dance, which makes no sense at all, but you have to remember I’m new at this) is a great dancer; ballroom, swing, “freestyle” – whatever that is – she can do it all as effortlessly as Janet Jackson, and without risking a “wardrobe malfunction.” I, on the other hand, dance like an epileptic chicken standing on a hotplate beneath a strobe light.

So most of the night I sat on the sidelines, watching those with both a right and left foot (as opposed to two left) glide effortlessly across the dance floor. I didn’t mind. I love to “people watch,” and with the possible exception of the county fair, the folks on display at the singles dance were the most interesting group I’ve seen in a long time.

From time to time, a woman would wander in my direction and ask me to dance, but I demurred. The slow dances I was saving for my date and the fast dances, well, see the epileptic chicken notation above.

At first I was a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of people wandering around, scoping out the “talent,” working up their nerve, and making their move. It wasn’t long before I noticed a few familiar patterns.

For the most part, these patterns centered on guys asking girls to dance. Some of these guys, I realized, have been single a long time and have the process down to a science. From a strictly anthropological standpoint, it was fascinating. I felt like primatologist Jane Goodall, nestled in the crook of an acacia tree studying the mating habits of chimpanzees while making field notes in a journal.

The guys who are old hands at this begin by working the girls at the back of the room. That way, if they are turned down (many were) nobody in the front of the room witnesses the rejection. Slowly, the guys work their way to the front, asking each girl in turn until one says “yes.”

Following the dance, the guy then buys the girl a drink, brings it over to her table, pulls up a chair, and sits as close as propriety allows. The boldest actually make knee contact. If the girl pulls away, the guy acts like the knee touch is unintentional. If she doesn’t, he settles in and leaves those knees touching as long as possible.

As the evening progresses, the guys who have yet to touch knees with a girl become increasingly bold. Part of this may be explained by the three open bars.

Meanwhile, the girls who have not been asked to dance nor had their knees touched become progressively more exasperated, cranky and unapproachable. The desperate, slightly inebriated guys collide with the cranky, unapproachable women and nobody’s knees get touched. By 2 a.m., the lucky knee-touchers are long gone. Those remaining complain bitterly to each other that there were no nice/cute/friendly girls/guys here tonight.

My date returns from the dance floor, sits down next to me, and touches my knee. I note the behavior in my journal, wondering what will happen next.

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.  

Getting mideival on this mole's keister!

I have a mole. Not on my face, in the back yard. There may be more than one, but I prefer to think of him as a single critter; it makes it easier to hate the enemy.

And make no mistake, this mole is my enemy.

Unfortunately, I’m something of a pacifist. I’m not sure why but with the possible exceptions of flies and mosquitoes, I feel guilty killing anything. When I find a spider in the house, I catch it in a piece of tissue, and then release it outdoors. If it’s wintertime, I’ll turn it loose in the basement, where it immediately sets about the business of making more spiders. It’s a viscous circle, but I can’t bring myself to kill when other options exist.

The mole, though, is testing my patience.

He showed up late last fall, burrowing his way into my back yard from who knows where. I noticed the first small lump in the yard on a Monday; by Friday, the mole had erected a system of tunnels to rival New York’s subway system. I almost caught myself admiring the mole’s determination and Amish-like work ethic.

But unlike the Amish, the mole was doing his thing in my backyard.

It was autumn, though, and soon the first heavy snow fell. I figured I could defer the problem until spring.

It’s spring, and I have yet to “take care” of things. In the past week, the mole has gone about the business of turning my otherwise manicured lawn into a dystopian nightmare-scape of hills, valleys and ridges.

To misquote Bill Murray as Carl the greens keeper, “The mole knows no mercy, they never give up, they never stop, they’re like the Vietcong, the Varmintcong.” Since I’ve seen the movie “Caddyshack” about 600 times, I know not to use plastic explosives to rid myself of my uninvited guest.

That left water, poison and a variety of traps.  I tried the water first, funneling gallon after gallon into the mole’s elaborate tunnel system. The mole, apparently, has its own SCUBA gear. He was back the next morning, digging away unconcernedly.

I went to the store and checked out mole poisons. These are numerous and plentiful. Apparently, I’m not the only guy with an uninvited rodent living beneath his lawn.

But the poisons seemed too cruel to me somehow. I mean, honestly, killing anything with poison seems pitiless and brutal. It’s slow and painful. Nope. I couldn’t do it, not even to a mole.

That left traps. Now, since a mole lives most of its life underground, where people can’t see how creepy it looks (and they do look creepy!) most mole traps are designed to kill rather than capture.

The one I wound up getting is in principle like a mouse trap, in that moving it about triggers a mechanism that impales the mole on several sharp little spikes. Setting the trap is not for the weak of heart; the mechanism packs a punch and is apt to go off in the hands of the schmuck trying to set it. (I’ll be happy to email you photos of my new scars.)

Once set, though, the trap sits there quietly, just waiting for a mole to tunnel beneath it. When one does … ka-whap! Down come the spikes. Death for the mole comes quickly, or so I hope.

I set the trap yesterday. So far, the mole has managed to avoid it. But his days on this earth are numbered, of that I have no doubt. My bedroom window looks out over the backyard and I had a hard time falling asleep last night, waiting for the ka-whap sound that will signal the rodent’s demise.

The guilt may well haunt be forever, but soon I will again be able play croquet out back without mountain climbing gear. 

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.