I have dated for fifteen years and have had some awesome adventures with some really great gentlemen but I have become tired of the dating scene. 

I heard about a thing called “Meet Up” through a neighborhood Bible study. Well, this sounded like something I should check out. 

I searched the list of events and found one that was close to my house.

The group met at Bronson Rock, which is a cool outdoorsy bar.  It is always packed with people and there has been more than one time when I have driven by wishing I had an excuse to stop. 

When I walked in I cased the place, realizing I didn’t know a soul that was a part of the group. I asked a few tables if they were part of the group and fouled out on each swing. 

Finally, I spotted one man who looked familiar from his photo on the computer and asked that group if they were a “Meet Up” group.

Bingo! I found them. 

The first few minutes I was berating myself for having come. What was I doing there? I didn’t know anyone. Plus this was a loud bar and meaningful conversation was nonexistent. 

Well, I decided to order something to eat. I had been so busy all day I had failed to eat a meal. I left my glasses in the car.  (More self blame for leaving glasses in the car) The sweet waitress had to tell me what was on the menu. 

I chowed down my hamburger and made small talk with two lovely ladies across the table. We talked about the broken bones that we had. (Oh, God, have I really reached that stage? When the topic of conversation is my latest broken bone story?) 

Then suddenly I noticed a man was slipping in and sitting down beside me.

He asked me what I had eaten.

I told him I had just finished a hamburger.

He asked if it was good.

I said, “It wasn’t the best I had ever had but it wasn’t bad either.”

He said he ate before he came because he didn’t think that the place would have a clean kitchen.

I thought, “Oh great, I am probably in for my first bout of food poisoning ever.”

I changed the subject so that I wouldn’t be tempted to puke. “What do you do?”

He looked me square in the face and said,  “I am an ass model.” 

I busted out in giggles. “Really? I thought you would be a hair model.” I said, looking at his bald head glistening in the lights from the bar. 

The conversation just disintegrated into more laughter and further jesting about what fictitious roles we could assume when meeting strangers. 

I finally came up with one that was a winner to use if a married man approached me with less than pure intention. (If you take a look at my archives you will realize that is not a smart move to play with me)

I would say, “I am a jock strap model.” 

I would wait for the man’s jaw to drop and his eyes to enlarge into saucers, then say, without skipping a beat, “And no, I am not transgender.” 

While he was still trying to grasp that concept I would get up from the stool and take a few steps, then stop, put my leg out and readjust my fictitious “jock strap.” 

I bet a hundred bucks that man makes wild passionate love to his wife when he goes home. 

late note – it has been almost twenty-four hours and no food poisoning symptoms have surfaced. Bronson Rock obviously has a clean kitchen.