Ian
I had to double check that I hadn’t misread when browsing
his profile. Yes, there it was, the word
‘widowed’ in the Relationship Status box.
The sole widower on the entire site, and he lived in Shawnigan Lake! A kindred spirit! I felt instant connection with the man and
wrote a chirpy note, commenting on how delighted I was that he was also
widowed. He was equally cheered by my
reciprocal status and expressed some degree of scepticism about the divorced or
separated internet trawlers. We two stood unparalleled up there on the moral
higher ground, having persevered for the duration in our marriages, enduring
the buffeting tempests of terminal illness.
It seemed only fitting that we should meet to compare notes and whine
together about how our respective spouses had left us high and dry, swimming
solo against the current of couples, towards under-stocked spawning grounds in the
autumn of our lives.
Naturally I wore black for the occasion of our meeting.
As I drew up in my car and readied myself to climb out, my
hand hovered over my bag of knitting.
Surely it would be acceptable, even expected to knit a few rows as we
two bereaved ones chatted? He was also,
after all, a grandparent, as well as being a widower. Might it not impress him that I was
industrious? So very capable with my
multi-tasking? What is it they say about
the Devil appreciating Idle Hands? That they make light work or something? After some rumination, I reluctantly decided
against bringing my knitting. I was
aware our conversation topic would cover illness and death, and he may well (he
looks literary) find unavoidable associations with Mme Dufage of the guillotine
entertainment/ Tale of Two fame, as my needles click away with lively
determination before his eyes. Such a
morbid association may negate the positivity of the industrious/multi-tasking
impression. The urgency re the knitting
project was pressing. Progress to date
comprising but six rows of ribbing, while my second grandchild was readying himself
for his entrance into our world.
My deliberations brought to mind an occurrence many years
back, when our eldest, David, socially delinquent at fourteen, had wanted to
sneak his book into a wedding service, “In case it got boring.” We’d shouted him down in unison.
Such had been my elation at finding another widowed person
that I’d given his picture scant attention.
It was that cut-off-at-the-nipple view, much beloved by men of a certain
circumference. Yes, as he rose to meet
me, I saw there was much of him to appreciate.
Ah, well…. He did have a wonderful dustily bookish look about him, with
twinkly eyes and amusement playing on his lips.
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The first order of business was to compare photos of our
granddaughters. Sadly, I’d neglected to
bring my tablet with me and was obliged to scroll desperately through random
screens of blurry, substandard images on my cell phone to show him the gist of
what my beautiful granddaughter looked like.
He, on the other hand, being a professional photographer, had stunning
images of his cherubic granddaughter which were accessed with instant and
upstaging efficiency. Naturally we each
felt our own to be the more beautiful.
Our bragging urges satisfied, we moved on to compare notes
on our long journeys of care giving, grief and loss. Probably as we’ve both recounted our stories
many times, we were able to talk without rawness of emotion. I feel we each benefited from the sharing of
our common human frailties and struggles.
I find a compelling and instant connection with others who have
travelled a similar path to my own.
Conversation moved to the topic of internet dating, and I
was intrigued to learn more about some of the women on the site. As it happened, a few days prior, I’d been
curious about my ‘competition’ and had decided to trawl unseen through their
profiles. It was the work of a moment to
initiate a search for women aged 45 to 55.
The website, clearly misunderstanding my intention, gaily yielded a
colourful array of ‘Women looking for Women”.
Oh well, I concluded, I will remain ever ignorant about how my rivals
for male attention choose to present themselves. Now, happily, I was in the enviable position
to be enlightened by one in the know.
The first fact of interest I learn is that many women list
fishing, camping, boating and hockey amongst their interests. Seriously!
This makes me doubt I will ever be Truly Canadian, despite having held
the passport for almost thirty years. Perhaps my aspirations to appeal to a
Canadian Man are flawed to the core.
After all, I did put on my profile, “Not impressed by men cradling big
fish,” and more damningly, “Never watching hockey, not even Olympic.” I was able to enlighten Ian that many of the
men, startlingly, love cooking, home repairs, sunsets and walking on the beach. Seriously! There must have been some amongst
them with fingers itching on their keyboards to add the words ‘shopping’ and
‘laundry’ to the list, but felt that moderation in all things may yield better
results.
We progressed to talking about the images women posted and
it surprised me greatly to hear from Ian how over 90% of them are in extremely
low cut tops/push up bras or very short skirts and very high heels, or
combinations of these. It’s challenging to reconcile this with the fact that
these are the self-same women who purport a love of camping and fishing. I learn the formula for gallery layout
generally comprises an evening-gown shot, low-cut top shot, short skirt shot
and bikini shot. With tact he commented
that some of them would be better served never to wear such short skirts. And I had thought myself awfully risqué,
indeed provocative, showing that glimpse of knee and inch of pale thigh, high
on the viewpoint at St Cirque Lapopie. (see Window Dressing, March 19 for visual aid with thigh exposed)
Then, with a furtive
glance round the café, he leans forward conspirationally and says, almost in a
whisper, “You won’t believe what some of them do.”
“What?” My ears are
all agog. I lean toward him to ensure I
don’t miss a trick.
“They send nude photographs.”
“What, seriously? You
have to be kidding me!”
“Absolutely not.”
“Yuk. I can’t believe they do that!”
My mind reels at the
thought of it. What if a man attached
appendages to his emails? Messaged his
manhood to me? Turgid visions of horror
swell in my head. From now on I will
access my inbox with extreme caution, finger hovering in readiness over the
‘delete’ button. If my virginal computer monitor was ever contaminated in such
a way, it would need a thorough disinfecting and fumigation at our local
computer hospital. I will be ever grateful
to Ian for this information. Like a Girl
Guide, I will ‘Be Prepared.’
I am still waiting….
