Heart Murmurs

Just when I thought I had heard everything, an email appeared in my cyber dating inbox that nearly took my breath away.

You better look for a Cardiologist because my heart stopped when I saw you, it began. Not sure whether the guy meant that in a good way or whether he had been so horrified by my picture he had suffered a coronary, I read on. I better call FedEx now, because you are the total Package. As you can imagine, my cold little heart started to do a few flutter kicks of its own when I read that bit.

Naturally, I didn't respond (though I did bask in the glow of the bullshit for a few hours), but the latest email got me to wondering why nobody pleases me. I mean, if the perfectly nice looking gentleman who tells me I'm "the total package" can't rock my boat, who the heck is ever going to be able to help me set sail? I should think it don't get any better than calls to a cardiologist and FedEx, all in the same paragraph.

My old widowed friend (we'll just call him Mr. G) gave me some insight into men last week when we went out to dinner. Mr. G has been around awhile, long enough to know that men are creatures who cannot generally be trusted but also long enough to retain a certain politeness and gallantry that younger men (and by that I mean the under-eighty set) do not possess.

There are only two kinds of men who leave their wives, he explained. First, there are the ones who are secure in the knowledge that some specific other woman is out there waiting for them to untie the marriage knot, willing to catch her philanderer in her loving arms so that his life never has to fall to pieces. Then, there are the others, the losers who didn't cheat, who wanted to stay, but got kicked out anyway. That is, the ones on the dating sites, in the bars, desperately on the prowl for someone who is herself so desperate she will fall for the most incredible lines.

Slim pickins, I should think, when you look at it that way. In all fairness, Mr. G was being a bit simplistic. There are plenty of middle aged men who have never been married, never even attempted to be beholden to anyone but themselves, and plenty of widows in their seventies and eighties who have not yet hooked up with their wives' best friends. The pool may be a cesspool, but it's certainly larger than Mr. G would suggest.

Oh, Mr. G. If only I were a few years older, I'd be putty in your hands. But I wouldn't want to give anyone a heart attack. Especially you.