September 27, 2011
Last week at my writer's group Rita passed around a magazine which included an article about a well-known, successful writer living here in Arizona. About to read yet another story about someone who has made it as a writer, envy envy, I happened to come across this photo taken of bikers back in the 1960s. Rather than reading the article about the writer, I started trying to figure out which was the cutest guy of this bunch of wild men. (Today, of course, these same men all are either dead or on Medicare) Still, I used to want to date this type of man, one who wore black leather, rode a Harley, partied all night long, and rebelled against society. But then I also wanted the man with style and flash who could dance and talk intelligently about current events. When tired with that, I wanted a man who could read me poetry and go for walks holding hands. Which brings me to the game I used to play when I was a little girl called Mystery Date, the game which was the start of all my yearnings. A game which I blame on my chronic discontent in life while searching for that perfect man.
When the construction worker was too tired from slinging a hammer to take me out dancing, I'd just spin the dial, open the door, and find a man with elegance, taste, and money. Yes. Money. Something the biker most likely didn't have. The James Bond executive type. A most interesting man.
Then I wanted the writer. The one who could impress me with his words. The one who would look at me with understanding. The one would might actually listen when I talk. He wouldn't say why do you have to analyze everything? He would say let's talk this out and come to understand each other better. Of course, I've met plenty of male writers and none of them fit this bill as they usually just like to hear themselves talk but, anyway, I had a dream.
Finally, in the original Mystery Date game there was a bowler. Yes a bowler. He had a bowling bag and a button down shirt. This one never appealed to me much. What could a guy who bowls do beside bowl. He probably didn't have a Harley, or write poetry, or a helicopter to jet me to exciting locations, and he probably couldn't build a shed. And he couldn't be smart. Until I saw this photo and thought maybe I shouldn't have passed by so quickly on the guy who bowls. Maybe more girls should go bowling. Hey, who knows, maybe if I bowled I would have met a guy with a Harley, who writes poetry, dances and can fix kitchen cabinets. And who also knows a thing or two about politics.