Miranda was ready to proceed with the next step of her plan. With a stack of Crane Stationary announcement cards (ecru with an embossed Fleur-des-lis at the top) she began the arduous task of letting her potential suitors know that she’d like to see them. A tasteful handwritten note cancelled out the tackiness of inviting one’s self on a date– or at least that’s what she decided.
Her April calendar began to take shape, weekends filling up first, the rest of the days taken by older retired men and rich guys who didn’t have to work. First was an electrical engineer retired from General Electric with six patents pending. He prepared a wonderful dinner aboard his sailboat, using an invention that allowed him to bake homemade bread in his microwave. He was leaving Petoskey soon to sail around the world. Miranda liked him and was certain he would make it.
The next contestant was an independently wealthy young man, in some ways a dead ringer for Michelangelo’s statue of David, in other ways, not so much. He had just returned from climbing Mt. Everest and was in town visiting his mother. While he was planning to leave soon for his home in San Diego, Miranda was taken by his charm and hoped to see him again. He was a possible keeper.
A chiropractor from Harbor Springs was successful, funny, and handsome, but when he polished the silverware at a fancy restaurant overlooking the bay, she wondered if this hint of OCD meant another potential Harry, with his things neatly pressed and folded ad nauseum. A second date she would have to decline.
A stylish young dentist with a ruddy complexion and windblown hair seemed like a nice choice until he unveiled his sadistic side and sent Miranda running. She left the restaurant before dinner was served. Another disappointment was a man who owned a chain of Hallmark stores throughout northern Michigan. Unlike the psycho dentist, he was so thoughtful and sensitive that he couldn’t stop quoting Mia Angelou. A little goes a long way.
There was a judge in the Court of Common Pleas whose power to put people in jail seemed exciting. He also turned out to be married– no thank you. After that, she went out with a retired FBI agent who was assigned to Washington D.C. during the Nixon administration. He had the best stories to tell and wore a gun strapped to his ankle. A nice touch, Miranda made a note.
She had dinner with an NHL hockey player from Detroit. While he was missing most of his teeth, the aggressive nature of the game made him strangely attractive, and his status as a professional athlete scored extra points in overtime. Oddly, her next date was with a network affiliate sportscaster who hated hockey but always had extra tickets and very good seats.
Miranda went out with a cartoonist from the Detroit Free Press who was only funny on paper, an aerobics instructor who was gay but showed her a really nice time, and a bank president who wore a ratty sportcoat and took her to Bob Evans. Whether he was just cheap or broke, this would never do.
She dated the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker… went out with doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs, not to mention every Tom, Dick, and Harry. But nothing, so far, really struck her fancy.
On April 29 she was alerted of a scheduling problem. A veterinarian from Ann Arbor, the owner of three tiny pugs, called to say that he was about to perform an emergency C-section on a prize winning show horse and would be tied up the rest of the week. Miranda remembered him well, and probably liked him best out of all the contenders. But hey, the show must go on.
She dialed her phone. “Drew… it’s me. I know this is gonna sound crazy, but number 29 just cancelled… No, he had a legitimate excuse… Anyway, I was just wondering, and before you say no (she could see him rolling his eyes)… since we have never gone on an official first date, would you please take me to dinner tomorrow night? No alcohol, and I promise I’ll be good… Okay, 7:00, can’t wait.
To be Continued…
*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.