When I returned home from my recent date, I was filled with questions and had a fine case of the What Ifs. The What Ifs are a non-communicable disease that attack widows without warning. They kinda go like this…What If I like him, but my kids hate him? What If he wants more than holding my hand or What If I want more than holding his hand? What If I can’t think of anything clever or interesting to say? Or worse, What If he thinks I’m a rich widow and wants to abscond with my Social Security check? Or the worst, What If he starts reading my blogs only to find out they are about him?
The first date was fun, but I came away a little confused. He explained that he liked to ask women three questions, and I nodded, foolishly assuming he would ask about my family, my late husband, and what I enjoy doing for fun. I could easily answer this trifecta, but I quickly realized it was a silly thought, and became puzzled with his questions and my What If insecurities kicked in.
Question number one caught me off guard: “Do you know how to swim?” Holy guacamole, what was he thinking? Marines must be able to swim, and it is one of my favorite activities, or used to be when I could still wear a bathing suit without covering it up with a muumuu. I had no idea what was on his mind, so I combined it with a What If. What if, rather than being an axe murderer, he was a murder-by-drowning person?
“Do you have a passport?” came next. Of course, I have a passport, and I keep it snuggled up to my credit card in case I must leave the country in a hurry, but why would I need a passport to go on a date? What If he planned to take me out of the country and throw me off the stern of his row boat or yacht and drown me in the Bermuda Triangle or feed me to the piranha in the Amazon River? Or, worst of all, What If he was sadistic and keel hauled me into submission?
His third question struck me as strange, “Do you want to go to Paris?” Paris? I’ve been to a lot of beautiful cities, but never Paris. On the one hand, I’m thinking, romantic walks on the Seine, sidewalk cafes, you know the Bogart-Bergman picture Casa Blanca. That could be marvelous. But before I could answer, the What Ifs kicked in. What if he was thinking of Paris, Texas? I wouldn’t need a passport or need to be able to swim because as far as I remember, Paris, Texas was filled with tanks, also known as ponds, and sometimes called buffalo wallows. I’m not into buffalo wallowing, but What If he was? But What if he meant Paris, France, which was considered the most romantic city on Earth? That would be something.
The What Ifs can be sometimes helpful, but now I’m waiting for a phone call. What If he calls me again? What If he doesn’t? Oh heck, I’m trying to think of my own questions…and I’m open to suggestions!
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