Certain professions should require mandatory uniforms, I believe

She was one of the most striking women I’d ever seen. Undulating, ink-black hair trailing like dark rain over delicate shoulders, eyes greener than a St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin, a shape that might have prompted the Pope to look twice. Her voice was pure music, avian poetry, even when competing with the noise of the crowded bar.

I wasn’t in love, but I figured I would be within the next 20 minutes or so.

And here she was, sitting with some girlfriends at the club in which my little bar band was working. Every guy in the joint cast furtive glances her way – except for those who simply stared openly: hungry wolves contemplating a wounded lamb.

To her credit, she seemed unaware (and unimpressed) by the attention. My guess was she had grown used to it.

The band went on break and I said hi as I walked past her table; too smooth and cool to actually be hitting on anyone, y’know, just an employee of the bar being polite and all that. That’s the vibe I was going for, at least.

Maybe I hit my mark, maybe not, but one of the young ladies at the table stopped me and requested a song. It was her sister Mary’s favorite, she said. Mary, as in the raven-haired beauty of my dreams to whom I was currently not paying any special attention. There’s an art to this sort of thing and though I was at the time a clumsy practitioner, I at least knew which end of the brush to dip into the paint.

I turned to Mary, planning to say something charming and witty, but my voice got all tangled up around my heart somewhere. Seeing her up close made my knees go all funny. I struggled mightily to hide this, and failed.

“Um, yeah, we can do that tune,” I said. Everyone can do that tune. But nobody wants to. Not even Van Morrison, who wrote it and has probably made millions off the thing. It’s one of the most hated – and most requested – songs in the bar band business. Not as hated as “Freebird,” but real close. But for Mary, I’d have happily beat the tune out on my skull with a rubber mallet.

“Oh, thank you so much,” Mary said, taking my hand in hers for the briefest of moments.

What I wanted to say was, “It’s my pleasure! I love you. Will you marry me?” What I actually said was, “No problem.”

I made to stumble away to the bar, where I hoped a small shot of whisky might serve to steady my knees. Mary had other ideas.

“Would you like to join us?” she said.

I felt it took me waaaay too long to process her words and respond, but it was probably only a few clumsy seconds.

“Uh, sure, thanks,” I stammered. I sent up a quick prayer of thanks, grateful I had chosen music over plumbing as a lifelong profession. Plumbers rarely get invited to join a table of beautiful women, although they make considerably more money than do guitar players.

Mary and I spent the next 20 minutes chatting, laughing. Her direct gaze was disconcerting, disorienting, but I soon fell into the rhythm of our conversation and even managed to scare up a little wit and charm after all.

I went so far as to break my long-established rule and buy a round for the table. That left me broke, but Mary was worth it. I even liked her friends, or family, as the case must have been. Two of them, after all, repeatedly referred to her as “sister.”

And I suppose you can see where this is going. Mary was a sister, all righty. A Catholic sister. A nun. I figured it out just before going back onstage for second set.

My memories of nuns, accumulated while attending St. Isadore school as a child, are not good ones. In my youth, nuns were dark engines of rosary-fueled destruction; black-and-white bastions of God’s wrath, ready to unleash torrents of righteous punishment on any wayward fourth grader. I had been wayward a lot.

To my recollection, those nuns never dressed in “civilian” clothes and none looked anything like Mary. If they had, I’m sure my current math skills would be better than they are.

This all happened nearly 30 years ago. But I learned my lesson well: never buy drinks for married women, especially those married to deities.

MTaylor325@gmail.com

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MTRealityCheck.blogspot.com

When it comes to dating, that’s just false advertising sister

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.