Ian

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.

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….