Male Order

Patience is the ability to count down before you blast off.

~Author Unknown

I remember the first time I thought about ordering a man. Until recently, I had thought there must be something seriously wrong with someone who would resort to the Internet to locate love. But things had changed. I had been single for two years and as far as I could tell, the supply of men was non-existent. It was time to take more extreme measures.

Outside of work, my daily haunts included La Petite Academy and Walmart. Even though the selection of bachelors at La Petite was enormous, most of the boys were still being bottle-fed. So Walmart would have to do. I hung out in the produce section for a while, but there were no men on display there so I wandered over to the automotive department. Who could resist a clueless female needing advice on which oil grade to select? The first guy I approached had fantastic hair, fabulous shoes and most importantly—no ring. How was I supposed to know he was married and his wife was looking at light bulbs in the next row? Her cart came squealing around the corner so fast she nearly knocked over the end cap display of wood-grained toilet seats. There had to be an easier way to meet men.

It was about this time that I noticed Julie at work. This perky little thing had a lunch date nearly every day. Of course it probably had a lot to do with the fact that she was young, blond, and perfect.

“Julie, where are you meeting all these guys?”

“I joined a Christian dating service,” she gushed. “You should try it. It’s very affordable and they even have men your age, too.”

How thoughtful.

Turned out, Julie’s definition of affordable amounted to $159 for a monthly membership fee.

“Try The Gazette,” whispered my eavesdropping co-worker. “You can place an ad for only $29.95.”

“What have I got to lose?” I thought as I dialed the number.

“I’m sure you will be very happy with the results,” the rep assured me. “Most professionals today are too busy to meet other singles.”

It was probably just a canned speech designed to help me justify my departure from normal dating venues, but she did have a point.

I couldn’t wait until The Gazette came out.

I didn’t get one call. Meanwhile, the men waiting in line for Julie had to take a number. That’s when I heard a radio commercial advertising the Twister Love Line. They say it’s darkest before the dawn.

By selecting one, two, or three on my telephone keypad, I could indicate my preference for a variety of features. This was a regular Build-a-Date workshop. I ordered a Christian low-fat combo and super-sized the bank account.

I couldn’t get home fast enough the next day. I dialed the Twister Love Line and entered my pin number. The cheery voice announced that I had “two new dates.”

Halleluiah, it was raining men!

After I listened to each potential date give his personal sales pitch in a prerecorded voice introduction, I was advised that if I was interested, I could leave a call-back number. Unfortunately, the bios sounded more enticing than the intros. A month went by and still no catch of the day. I was growing weary and was just about to delete the entire campaign when finally I got a bite. He was 6’2” with blond hair and blue eyes. My only reservation was that his favorite hobby was ice-skating.

Was I expected to participate? Sure, waltzing on the ice sounded romantic, but for someone with about as much grace as a hippo on a high wire, anything involving balance on a razor thin blade could be nothing short of humiliating. At this point, however, all remaining logic had evaporated and I left a message. “John” called a few days later. Naturally, he insisted that we meet at Iceland for an afternoon skating session.

As I entered the rink on Saturday, I thought I must have completely lost it. The place was packed with teens and loud music played over the speakers.

What had I gotten myself into? It seemed so high school. Was I really meeting a guy at the rink? Was this the only place I can find a date?

I felt more awkward than a cat in a swimming pool, but I scanned the crowd trying to appear like I belonged.

Hmm, was that him over there?

I gave a slight smile and nod in case it was John.

“And now it’s time for couple’s skate,” blasted the voice over the intercom.

The mystery man started his approach. As he drew closer, I froze. Oh my gosh. Please, no!

His exuberant smile flashed a missing front tooth and his unbuttoned coat revealed a never-ending sea of denim. The loose fitting jeans were actually paint-splattered overalls.

John had described himself as being “semi-fashion conscious” and he certainly didn’t say anything about being dentally challenged. By now I was scolding myself. You knew better than to trust a guy’s description of himself. They always exaggerate! What were you thinking? How did he get matched with me?

All of a sudden, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Relieved at the opportunity to avoid the dapper denim dude, I whirled around.

Towering before me was a chisel-cheeked, blue-eyed wonder.

“Is your name Christy?” he asked.

“Yes . . .” I stammered, trying to conceal my delight. “Are you John?”

His eyes twinkled as he nodded and extended his hand to shake mine.

Bingo. My male order delivery had finally arrived. Maybe there is a FedEx in heaven after all. And hopefully they packed the bubble wrap. I was going to need some padding for my behind if my new hobby was ice-skating.

~Christy Johnson

http://www.chickensoup.com/