It’s been well over two years since the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor boogied into the night and I’m still not entirely accustomed to single life. Though I’ll admit most days I’m grateful I no longer have to answer to a higher power (wife) and that my time is my own to spend as I please, unfettered from the frequent reminders that the hedge needs trimming and the faucet is leaking.
All I need worry about these days is that the bicycle needs riding and the beer needs drinking. You’d be amazed how quickly a man’s priorities can change when he is allowed to decide for himself what they are, exactly.
I’m trying to make the most of it because I know in my heart that I will, eventually, be married again. It’s human nature; my nature, at any rate. In fact, I’m a little surprised I’m still unattached after all this time. Maybe it’s because I spend all my free time riding bikes and drinking beer, rather than hanging out in singles bars; I don’t know.
But the other night I was in a single’s bar, for the first time in years. I was there with a friend from out of town who, unlike me, is very into the “singles scene,” whatever that is. He dates a lot and spends most of his waking hours devising new and ever more devious ways to meet girls.
The bar was his idea. To his credit, the place was filled with women and not just the nubile, 20-somethings that always make me feel like I should be filling out paperwork at the sex offender registry. There were actually women present close to my age (106), which was a welcome change of pace.
My friend—I’ll call him Bob—pointed out a nearby table around which sat four attractive women, all done up nicely and looking pretty, happy and successful; not my type at all if past experience means anything. Bob, who makes more money than I do and can afford to be stupid, sent over a round of drinks.
When they were delivered, the girls smiled, waved and said thanks. Bob moseyed over in an attempt to close the deal. I remained at the table watching the band. I’m not good at this sort of thing. I’m not shy; I just don’t enjoy the whole “hunt” thing. If I meet a girl, I do. If I don’t, well, that’s fine too.
After a bit Bob, who was apparently making headway, waved me over. One of the girls offered me a seat, which I accepted. We began making small talk and—miracle of miracles!—the girl was not only pretty, but interesting; not the sort I’d expect to meet in a singles bar.
We talked for over two hours and I was enthralled the entire time. She read Kurt Vonnegut, she preferred beer to wine, she was an avid bicyclist; she was witty, charming and intelligent. After only two hours I was ready to propose.
Then she mentioned what I later thought should have been the first thing out her mouth, rather than the last: she’s a nun.
When I attended St. Isadore Elementary School, nuns were dark engines of terror that stalked the hallways, rosary beads slapping one massive thigh, yardstick slapping the other. They dressed in long, black robes and there was no possibility that anyone, ever, could mistake one for a real woman.
To say I felt conflicted that the woman who now held me in a deep and abiding infatuation was of the same breed as Sister Sulpischa, the nun who in 1965 put more fear into my soul than The Wolfman, The Mummy or The Book of Revelation combined is an understatement.
My friend Bob left the bar alone that night. So did I, but at least I had a good excuse.
Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available from Barnes & Noble, Borders, Amazon.com, and other online booksellers. Email Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.
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