The Legend of a Modern-Day Cowboy

People tell you all you need to know about them within the first twenty-four hours. On our first date, an ex-boyfriend told me that he was a pathological liar. It was the only time he ever told me the truth.
With the weekend fast approaching, I accept a “safe” date from an older man whose online photos look acceptable, but not outstanding. During our first phone call, he admits that he is merely looking for an occasional date, nothing serious or sexual. I don’t expect anything more than a quick dinner and superficial conversation on a Saturday night. His name brings up images of an old-time gunslinger and I can’t imagine ever screaming it out loud in the heat of passion, so I feel safe.
His moves are slow and deliberate as he makes his entrance into the restaurant, like a reticent cowboy pushing his way through the wooden doors of a Wild West saloon in a spaghetti western. I’m expecting George Burns, but as oxymoronic as it might sound, at sixty-two this guy is a hottie. He’s attractive, engaging, and has a delightfully dry sense of humor. He tells me that he’s not very deep and that he doesn’t care much about the truth. I giggle like a hormonally charged teenager. I assume he’s teasing. He’s not.
Call it journalistic curiosity or romantic masochism, but I want to know more. As a child I used to stick bobby pins in electrical outlets and swallow jacks if this helps my case. He admits to four marriages, cheating, being in recovery, and walking out on a diabetic date as she was giving herself an insulin shot in the restroom. I’m still there and the thought of backpedaling out the back door hasn’t entered my mind. This guy might not be boyfriend material, but he’s quite an interesting character. And how can I drown in such shallow waters?
He seems fascinated by the fact that I’m a writer and can hold a conversation. He slowly leans across the table, hanging on my every word. All the time I’m wondering if he might be surgically enhanced, maybe nipped and tucked or tucked and rolled at his age. Regardless, this salt-and-peppered, baby-blue-eyed stranger has my attention. He excuses himself for a restroom break and I notice the physique, 44-inch chest (so he says) with the rest fully packed. I’m starting to feel a little weak in the knees.
The evening ends with a long, passionate kiss. He seems smitten and asks to see me again. I tell him to give me a call. This is my sorry attempt at being coy. We meet for coffee the next day. Later that week, he arrives at my door with three yellow roses and an umbrella that he has designed, a Star Wars version with a shaft that lights. He looks like he stepped out of the AARP edition of GQ magazine. I’m enjoying the attention and slowly forgetting the twenty-four-hour rule, along with my name. My toe is in the water now, but I have no idea how strong the riptides are.
By the end of the week, he is hinting about intimacy, although his profile is still online and he admits to his addiction to looking at women. He asks me to meet his son, an adorable seven-year-old who writes music and counsels his dad on the inappropriate use of profanity. I’m starting to think that I might have more in common with the seven-year-old and start backpedaling. He feels me slipping away, reluctantly closes his online profiles, professes his feelings, and asks for an exclusive relationship. The knees go out from under me.
The following week is glorious. Although he is a busy and quite elusive fellow with a very full plate, I’m uncharacteristically content to be the appetizer. He tells me how he prefers sleeping and vacationing alone and for some reason I ignore the inherent warnings and distancing techniques. In order to earn my trust (his words), he admits to covert behavior, undercover work, under the covers work, and dishonest business dealings. By this time, I’m starting to have Mafia nightmares and worry that my friends might be seeing my picture on the back of a milk carton. Like any normal, red-blooded (and wants to keep it) woman would do, I start to ask a few questions after some unexplained disappearances and obvious omissions.
“I don’t answer to anyone,” he says coldly and dismissively. (Exit stage left.)
Someone recently asked me why I would start a relationship that I knew would end. All of them end sometime, I thought. Ok, so I’m guilty. But something tells me that I am not alone. I’ve read all the self-help books and find myself confused. Is it about Getting the Love You Want, Keeping the Love You Find, or Mind, Find (or Hard-to-Find) and Bind? I’m out of my mind.
Sometimes I am like the bull with the matador. I run toward the red flags instead of away from them. I’ve side-stepped psychological landmines, been attracted to bad boys, seen my flaws mirrored in my partner, and noticed the similarities between my dates and my Dad. I could always find the bent needle in the haystack. But with the years passing and the pool of available men quickly evaporating, where does one draw the line?
At this age, it is obvious that I need to make better choices and ones that aren’t motivated by the fear of being alone on a Saturday night. This sixty-two-year-old cowboy should have kept his gun in his holster. I should have stuck to my guns and remembered the twenty-four-hour rule. Or, like that little girl years ago with a fascination for electrical outlets, who walked away with a pouty lip and blackened fingers, I might end up with bruised feelings and a broken heart.
Copyright 2008 Robyn Justo
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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.