The Wonderous Dating Game

by J. M. Mason

  “Mom, weren’t you listening? I told you what he did to me, embarrassing me, making me walk around with torn stockings, and lifting my dress to see my panties. I think he liked it!

  “Isn’t that enough? I think he needed to tell me where we were going. I asked him, and he said he wanted to surprise me.”

  Mom giggled, and her eyes crinkled, making it look like her eyes were sparkling. To control herself, she put her hand over her mouth. She managed not to laugh, but she certainly snickered plenty.

  “Honey, this is normal behavior for the male species. They never grow up. You’ll get used to it.”

  She lied. I never got used to this behavior. They can at least share where we’re going so that we won’t be overdressed or underdressed. I would also be nice if they would tell us if we were going to be alone or he was going to drag his friends along.

  Oh heck, was she talking about the enjoyment of seeing my underwear and watching me squeezing my breasts to get the bra to pop out? Who knows? I was focused on the location of the date and the proper dress for the occasion, not on the sexual innuendos, a subject that completely went over my head.

  I made this my first rule of dating. Know where he’s taking me, and if he wants me to decide where we’ll go, I’ll be specific.

  This was a great rule until I picked a place that cost too much for my gentleman friend. Whew! Dating is hard.

  It wasn’t until I grew to adulthood that I realized that my first date was like my mother having her first date over again. My anger and frustration took her joy away because, like me, she was a romantic, who believed that one day, a prince charming would ride up on a white steed and sweep her baby girl off her feet and carry her off to live happily ever after.

  Chapter Ten

  Now, do you see why I’m not so thrilled to be dating again and not accepting of the divorce that made me single, causing me to have to consider dating? I blame my ex-husband for making me go out to find someone to share my life. All these thoughts were causing my disposition to be on the cranky side.

  People kept telling me that the Nile was a river in Egypt, and I needed to face the fact things were over for my marriage. To me, it didn’t matter that he remarried and wasn’t coming back to me, no matter how many times I wished his new wife would be covered in stinking, pus oozing boils, so he would hate her and come back to me. Our marriage was over.

  It’s incredible how one can go along thinking all is well when things are going to the dump without a truck. I was utterly blindsided about the divorce. I didn’t see a reason to call it quits; being happy evidently was one-sided in our relationship.

  It was excruciating to find I was old and had to be replaced. Didn’t he know his dangling male parts were headed south of his knees for the winter years of his life? His hair was turning gray, bunches of wiry hairs grew from his ears and nose. The bouquets of hairs were thicker than any rain forest.

  His six-pack had become a case of twenty-four with a ledge, denying him the sight of his feet and his favorite dangling down spongey parts. The lines on his face looked like a road map, making him look older than me and like a grandfather to his new wife.

  Days came and went before I knew it. It was two years since the divorce, I was alive and becoming grumpier by the day. Being single didn’t agree with me or anyone else in my orbit. I should’ve hung a sign around my neck saying, “Beware? May bite if poked and reminded she is single.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was Friday, and just over the horizon was the weekend. Dr. Johnson’s office closed early so that her staff could do personal business. Before we closed I decided it was a good time to do some research on the things that made me curious during the week, remembering that I wanted to know who invented the hated bras, I went online to find out the answer.

  To my surprise, I found the topic surprisingly humorous. It seems the bra wasn’t invented by a sadistic person after all. I don’t believe she intended to make it one of the most uncomfortable things in the world, however for her it was more comfortable than a corset she was forced to wear to be alluring.

  She would be upset to know that her invention hasn’t changed much since she made the first one, yet it remains a harmful yet necessary piece of clothing even though you can’t trust it to do what is proclaimed in the ads.

  The original invention met the need of one woman, named Mary Phelps Jacob, who wanted to go to a dance and not faint because of the stays in the corset. Corsets were designed to have a village involved to pull the ties tightly to fasten it to make the perfect hourglass figure, so the lady could have that nice tiny waist, perky boobs, and hips wide enough to carry the ribbons and bows on the waistline on the rear end of the gown.

  Miss Jacob hated being pulled into the garment and standing for several minutes to hours, so the dozens of buttons were buttoned up her back, and the lacing tied in place.

  The corset squeezed the air out of the poor lady, pressing the rib cage, preventing the diaphragm from expanding to fill the lungs with life-sustaining oxygen. All Miss Jacob wanted was to be the belle of the ball; being able to breathe shouldn’t have been an option instead of a necessity.

  I pictured her being desperate to be comfortable and arguing with her dear mother about how a lady was to act and look proper when out in public. So, the young lady ran to her room, slammed the door, and planned to make a better way to look stunning in her gown and hoping her mother didn’t find out about her changes to her undergarments until after the ball.

  In 1913 the garment was called a Brassiere. Mary Phelps Jacob made the first one out of handkerchiefs she cut in half diagonally and sewed together with ribbons around the edges and for straps. She didn’t have to wear the corset, which was torture and the reason why many women fainted at the drop of a hat, thus the creation of the swooning couches so they would have someplace to fall with all the hoops and maintain their dignity.

  Doctors believed women were having the vapors and fainting when they were deathly ill and chalk it up to the young lady being a hypochondriac. Sadly, the dear lady was having a massive heart attack. The doctors didn’t look beyond their noses, thinking the lady had a fainting spell, they never thought she was dying and all that was needed was to loosen the stays so they could breathe.

  Women of means went to Finishing Schools so they could learn how to faint with dignity and to say, “That’s nice,” with a flip of a hand or handkerchief to say, “F--- you.”

  Oh, for the good old days. I guess they knew when they were about to swoon. Frankly, they had more warning than I had when I fainted in public places when I was pregnant.

  The lowly bra has been a social and economic issue in history. It’s a social issue because the lady must keep her modesty intact, and a financial problem because a new business was created, that caused another company to decline when women stopped blacking out.

  Because Miss Jacob sewed ribbons to tie the garment around the back of the neck and where the modern garment has the back strap, to keep the clothing in place, nothing has changed much in the design. The only difference is we now fasten with some form of a hook and eye.

  I expect the straps of her prized invention came untied while she was dancing, she had to have a friend tie the ties throughout the night, thus creating a demand for the garment from the ladies who were envious of her comfort and her lack of swooning when she was winded from dancing.

  The cobbled-together garment also created a business for Miss Phelps, which was something she didn’t like. She sold her idea for $1,500 to Warner Brothers Corset Company in Bridgeport, Connecticut. The Warner Brothers Corset Company went on to make fifteen million dollars in the next thirty years on her idea. The apparel was patented on November 3, 1914, so the bra is an antique.

  In 1875 George Frost and George Phelps of Union Under Flannel made a no bone, no eyelet, and no pulleys corset and designed their version of the bra. Now we have the two-piece corset, a bra, and a girdle. (Don’t get me started on the girdle. Again, my mom was invol
ved. The girdle ended up in the girl’s bathroom trash can at my high school one dress-up day. I ended up in trouble.)

  This business opened the door for Marie Tucek to patent the “breast supporter” in 1893. I’m glad that the name didn’t become popular. Breast Supporter reminds me of Jock Straps, and to me, that is just too gross to be sexy yet left me wondering if a bra could become testicular holders for the senior male whose dangling things are going past his knees on their way to the ankles. Pack them in a bag, probably the mini-cup size, and go with them. The only problem I envision is what to do with the straps.

  The lowly bra has been touted as a health garment, making the breast a health problem. Those little suckers really cause women a lot of trouble.

  Finally, doctors determined that the cinching in the waist was too hard for breathing correctly; it took them a long time to come to this conclusion. Instead the creator of a new method for women to be beautiful was created, a bra and a girdle made of rubber was introduced to the public in 1889; both were tight and uncomfortable.

  During World War I, the bra became a political issue. Who knew the bra could run for office and maybe win? We could do worse. Oh wait, we have many times in the history of the United States done way worse.

  I’ve heard at least one president being called a douche bag. That is worse, in my opinion.

  When whale hunting was frowned upon, the corset had to have another means of making the stays. So instead of whalebone, they used metal.

  The feminine undergarment helped save the country from using 28,000 tons of metal that were needed to put the stays in the corsets. The women of the United States were asked to give up the corset for the new brassiere and girdle. I seriously doubt if many women argued with the government over this request. At least they were given a choice about their bodies.

  The women became patriotic as they helped the country to use the tons of metal for making weapons of destruction instead of creating perky boobs and squeezing in the waist to make the coveted hourglass figure. What an interesting trade. One item was a means of torture for women, the other a means of winning the war for men. If we made men wear a corset, would we have no wars?

  I like Mark Twain. He is one of the great authors of the U.S.; however, I didn’t know that he had his hand in the creation of the modern bra. He invented and patented a strap to be used to hold up men’s pants, socks, underwear, etc. Because of this invention, women had straps for the newfangled garment, to dig into the shoulders, instead of having to tie ribbons to keep the bra in place.

  My research proved entertaining; however, only took up less than thirty minutes of my workday. I sat staring at the walls, wishing for flowers to count. It was then I knew if I didn’t get a man, I was going to go insane.

  “That was fun, now what do I do on my weekend off work? Help me, God, I need to get a life, and a man would be nice, too.”

  I managed to get through the weekend without screaming. I spent most of my time painting my nails and cleaning the refrigerator, even though the oven needed cleaning worse. The time has come for me to solve my problem to end my aloneness.

  If my ex-husband can be happy, I deserve to find happiness and have some fun before I’m ready for the nursing home. There is a plus side to the nursing home; at least the men can’t escape the woman’s advances, the only drawback I could think about was what happens when the woman catches the man? Despite that positive side to old age, the problem was that I didn’t have the foggiest idea of how to find a man.

  Chapter Twelve

  One day at work, weeks after finding out the fun facts about bras, one of my peers, Jenny Henderson, the office business manager, said, “Stel, it’s time you find someone to love.”

  Was she reading my mind?

  I hate it when someone calls me Stel. Stella is a short name and doesn’t require a shorter version. My first impulse was to say, ‘Oh, yeah. My name is Stella. What do you want me to do about not having a man in my life? Do I look like I have a man hanging around my neck?’ I could only wish.

  I was nice, ignoring the nickname, I sweetly said, “Why?”

  “You’re grumpy most of the time. It’s been two years since your divorce. It’s time you get out and have fun and stop letting seeing your ex with the young thing hurt you. He never deserved you anyway.”

  My eyes widened in surprise. Jenny had spoken so forcefully. Was I coming off as a bitch, with self-pity issues? I found I didn’t have anything to say that didn’t prove Jenny’s argument.

  “I have a friend that would love to meet you,” Jenny said.

  “What do you mean I’m grumpy?”

  I knew I sounded defensive because it’s the way I was feeling. My feelings were touched. I needed to protect them from profound harm.

  “How do you know he would love to meet me? Has he seen me? What have you told him about me?” I asked.

  “No, he doesn’t know you. I haven’t met him myself. I shouldn’t have called him a friend. He’s my boyfriend’s friend since they were in grade school. He’s coming to town this weekend, and my boyfriend asked if I knew someone for his friend to date,” Jenny said, barely taking a breath. “John and I were planning on going out to eat this weekend, but it seems awkward for his friend to be with us without a date. Will you go with us to dinner? He’s a nice guy; you’ll like him?”

  I noticed she ignored the essence of my question. I needed to know why she felt I was grumpy. I waited a moment to see if she was going to answer my question.

  “If you’ve never met him,” I said. “How do you know he’s nice? If he’s so nice, why is he single at his age?”

  “Well, he is newly divorced, just like you, so I thought the two of you would find something in common. John said he’s a nice, kind man.” Her broad grin stretched her face. “So, what about it, will you go and see for yourself? Who knows you may like him and have a great time?”

  “I’ll go with him if you’re there, and if he knows I’m not looking for a long-term relationship.” I glared at her. “I don’t need him, you know.”

  “Perfect. He doesn’t want a relationship either, this is just so he won’t be the third wheel. You won’t be sorry. We’ll pick you up at your house, or would you rather meet us at the Steak House.”

  “I’ll meet you there. What time?”

  “Sevenish.”

  “I’ll be there. Is it a dress-up occasion or casual?”

  Visions of my first date flashed in my mind. Fourteen is too young to have a traumatic event that follows you throughout the rest of your life. I certainly didn’t want to make that mistake again.

  “I usually dress up a little when we go to the Steak House,” Jenny said. “I don’t have that many occasions when I can get all gussied up for a night on the town.”

  “OK, I won’t come in my sweats then.”

  “Girl, you need to get laid,” Jenny said through laughter.

  “Well, maybe I should wear my black G-string and crystal-encrusted pasties with silver-tone tassels that I’m sure I can learn to whirl around before Friday night, if I do a lot of practicing, in hopes of getting laid by the nice man.”

  “I hope you’re joking about your outfit.” She smiled and wrinkled her brows at the same time.

  Shrugging my shoulder and rolling my eyes at her, I let her wonder about my G-string, shaking my shoulders seductively, hoping it would cause my girls to wiggle around. It didn’t, I forgot you must have boobs to make them whirl, so I sat down at my desk to nurse my wounds as the phone rang.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Friday night came. It was time for my blind date. I was a basket case, racking my brain for a legitimate excuse not go out to dinner with a stranger, secretly wishing he would be at least be a little blind so he didn’t see the gray running through my hair and the crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes, I reminded myself that I needed to replace my moisturizer soon and get back to caring for my skin.

  Why couldn’t I be a hypochondriac? Even if I were, the disease
process would’ve had to begin at work. Why did I agree to this madness?

  My mind worked over-time, causing me to have doubts about going out with someone I didn’t know. To say I looked forward to meeting someone of the opposite sex to begin my whole life over again, made my heart rate shoot to a sonic speed from the fear. I began to talk aloud to an empty house.

  “I need a cat, at least that way, I wouldn’t sound insane talking to myself. I’d just seem crazy to the innocent animal.

  “What am I doing? I’m much too old to be beginning again. I’m over the age of being able to find someone to spend the rest of my life with. It’s easier for me to be hit by lightning than to get married again after forty.

  “Is it too late to have my head examined? How did Jenny convince me I needed to have a man in my life as I’d been thinking? Do I look that desperate?”

  I gazed into the eyes of the face that was staring back at me in the mirror, trying to put on a thin coat of my mineral makeup. The image in the mirror looked younger to my mind.

  “Yep! I’m desperate.”

  My makeup applied, I picked up my brush to style my hair. I frowned as I pulled the brush through the tight curls. I continued to doubt my sanity with the knowledge that I needed an attitude adjustment, and it didn’t make my thoughts of the night better.

  Self-doubt and the image in the mirror pushed me toward an anxiety attack. I obsessed over making a good impression and not being a disappointment to Jenny. Most of all, I didn’t want a repeat of my first date.

  Jenny was the only one I trusted at work, and I didn’t want to lose her friendship by making a fool of myself in front of her. I was scared spitless about the date. What if he doesn’t like me? What if I don’t like him?

  I looked deeply into my hazel eyes, lined with brown eyeliner and my lashes without clumps of black mascara. The fact that I’m forty-two dawned on me as I gazed at the end results of my efforts, I was aware I liked the image of the woman in the mirror. It didn’t matter that I was thirty pounds overweight since my youngest son was born. He is only twenty years old, so I assured myself that I still had time to lose the baby weight.