Ready. Or Not.

My daughter and I watched a commercial yesterday that promised to remove ten years from your face. She assured me she had no desire to look like she was four; I told her I wouldn't mind looking forty. She didn't find that to be too unreasonable, but she did point out that, at some point, who cares.

Whatever the case, I did make a note of the product. I'm pretty sure I am the poster child for what they would call the "target audience," and promising to lop off ten years' worth of wrinkles certainly got my attention. But I still need to go back and study the sales technique manual provided to me by my new employer last week. I'm not sure if the instructions apply to phone solicitations, but I'm pretty sure the pest from the "exclusive dating service" who somehow has my cell phone number is breaking some rules.

Somebody from his, um, firm, had contacted me a year ago; either they have moles on the computer dating sites or they are somehow privy to updates in neighborhood gossip. Too polite to hang up, I feigned interest in the woman's sales pitch. It took me two phone calls to get rid of her; I was apologetic about not being quite ready to jump into a relationship with some dreamy guy who has even managed to pass their criminal background check. As I recall, I told her I wouldn't be ready for at least a year.

Well, I suppose it's been a year, because the nice, understanding lady's much pushier colleague -- we'll call him Ken, since that's what he called himself -- contacted me last week to see if I was ready yet. Again, I was too polite to hang up, but didn't bother feigning interest, and thought I was done. He asked if I'd give it some thought, and I said "sure," and he promised to call again in a few days. I gave it no thought, and assumed I'd be smart enough to not answer the phone when the number appeared on my screen.

Unfortunately, the "giving it no thought" part came very naturally to me, so naturally that I thought nothing of it when I answered the call last night from the same vaguely familiar number. Idiot. Now that I'm a retail professional, I recognized all the trappings of a training manual. Non-stop talking, constant tossing in of factoids about me or reminders of what I said last time, declarations about all the wonderful relationships awaiting me if I'd only agree to one cup of coffee with one of their pimps. I mean representatives.

The call was so unpleasant it almost made me yearn for another stab at phone sex. When Ken took a breath, I apologized and said I'm still not ready. Well, Ken had been in the throes of something, and my response was clearly a buzz kill. His voice became downright shrill. "I'm catching you in your fifties. How do you think I'm ever going to 'match' you if you wait?" WTF?

I burst out laughing, told him I'd take my chances, and hung up. Too bad you can't slam down a cell phone. My mother turns eighty today. My daughter pointed out that the miracle wrinkle serum would have reached the point of diminishing returns with somebody grandma's age. She may be right. But my mother looks damn good for eighty, and I doubt Ken would be able to 'match' her, but only because she'd have had the brains to hang up on him long before I did.

Happy birthday mom!