Well, at least I tell the truth. That is his real name. My newspaper ad date's response frightened me a bit as he told me he was 66 and there I was, almost 70, hoping he wouldn't run when I opened the door. Run, he did, right to me, smiling, thrilled, totally surprised by what he saw. Evidently my face peel worked and I looked mighty good. Within 5 minutes Len must already have felt I was the one for him and so had to tell me his truth. He only said '66' on the phone because people think he looks it. 'I'm 73,' he proudly said. However, I knew at once that '66' was a figment of his imagination as was his belief that his hair piece wasn't easily recognized. Those things didn't really matter as his smile erased those flaws.
We talked, bubbled, were aware of many similarities in our lives, coincidences, interests. Even his hearing aid in each ear was acceptable. I had been forewarned that Lenny was very affectionate, was a toucher, so that his occasional pat on my crossed knee as he emphasized his stories was not offensive. Things seemed to be going well. A late pancake breakfast, sitting side by side, was the opener, the beginning of learning. The restaurant noise bothered him so he turned down his hearing aids causing me to eat rather than talk.
Back to my place, waiting for afternoon movie time, he was amazed to find I had a tape of 'Wrestling Ernest Hemingway' in which he had a minor part. That was fun finding him sitting right smack in front of the camera. His dancing friends were other diner customers.
Disenchantment set in. Len's main interest for 20 years was dancing, but not MY ordinary fun, ballroom kind of movement. Len does 'round' dancing and reels with ladies in their short, big ruffled skirts or long crinolined evening gowns. Everything is pre-arranged, all the patterns set, done to perfection, like automatons. He has traveled to many lands enjoying that avocation, has several lady partners and goes at it about 3 nights each week. That is not for me! Nor is his being a night person while I am a very strong morning one. As the hours passed his pot belly that I had not noticed seemed to become more prominent. More and more differences arose, rather than likenesses.
I like cruising, he doesn't. I love highly seasoned food, he likes bland. He likes to cook, I don't. His favorite food is Chinese, I detest it. I like to eat out, he hardly does. I avoid action, violent movies, he loves them. I like elevator music, he doesn't.
What REALLY began to bother me was my total lack of feeling when he held my hand in the movie, smoothed my arm, leaned over and gently kissed my cheek a few times. Was I made of stone I wondered. He was very sweet but
I knew he was not for me. Even when I am alone, I yell aloud and have fun answering 'Jeopardy' questions, yet he turned off his hearing aids, read a dull book on paperweights. For all intents and purposes, only Alex Trebek and I shared the 1/2 hour. A stab at Scrabble upset him enough to toss the tiles on the table and backgammon was barely a challenge for me.
Go to Taiwan with him? Take a few days vacation with him? Hell, No. I'm not too thrilled we will be playing golf together next week. Am I smarter than he, more aware of problems or is he abnormally hungry for companionship?
My hoped for Prince Charming seems to have left me in the dungeon, still trying to get out.
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