I’m all set up and waiting for the participants to arrive. I count eight women and two men. I’m not too surprised. Facebook is more of a woman’s thing anyway. Men are on Facebook, but they aren’t as interactive. I hope they can catch on.
After only a few hours of sleep last night and my workout this morning, I’m relying on my coffee to get me through class. I stopped off at the gas station and bought the largest size possible. Twenty ounces of black coffee ought to keep my eyes open. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have a few Red Bulls for lunch.
The women situate themselves away from the men, all chatting about grandkids and backaches. The lady who appears the eldest takes her time sitting down, her rounded back touching the back of the chair at its most curved point.
My mom isn’t as old as any of these women, but I can’t help but imagine what she looks like now. Does she massage her hips while she walks, wear her hair in a ponytail in an attempt to look younger? Did the drugs thin her out so much she could break if I touch her? Or did the opposite happen and she turned to food and is now obese?
I push the thoughts out of my head. I don’t want to satisfy her by even giving her the time of day in my mind. I can’t win, though. I drink my coffee and my mom is replaced by Keith.
Keith.
My eyes find their way to the two men who have joined the class. I notice a wedding ring on one finger. The other is bare. The two don’t talk to each other, even with being the only men in the class. They sit next to each other and stare at their computers, waiting for me to begin. Would Keith be this silent? Would he come to the group and keep his mouth shut? I don’t see the appeal for him to join us other than to pick up women, and we are not a singles club. Dating for Decades isn’t a mixer. I’m not convinced he’s right for the group, though. I don’t want to turn anyone away, but he goes against everything the group stands for. Doesn’t he?
A lady to the left clears her throat, drawing my attention to the clock. Class starts in a few minutes. Before I begin, I walk around the room to each computer and check their Internet is working and Facebook is up on the screen. Each person is ready to set up an account and log in. Good. We can start.
Once at the center of the room, I tap my hands on the table. I wait while everyone situates themselves and finally focuses on me. “Hi, everyone. My name is Cassie and welcome to Facebook 101. I’ll be teaching this class for the next couple Saturdays. I’ll help you set up an account, create a profile picture, and add friends. Most importantly, I want to teach you about security on the site, and online in general.”
Everyone stares at me. They don’t look the least bit interested, but I assume they must have some curiosity or they wouldn’t have signed up for the class. Unless for them, it’s a Saturday out of the retirement home and a way to spend some time. Hopefully, someone retains the information. I don’t want to waste my time here. I could be in a downward dog or Warrior Three right now instead of standing in front of a group of people who don’t give a shit about what I have to say.
“I would like to go around the room and have everyone introduce themselves. You may all know each other, but I don’t know any of you. I put card stock next to your computer, along with a marker, so please write your name there as well. Then I’ll be able to identify you each class.” I’m bad at remembering names and these cards should help.
I wait as everyone writes their names down and then go around the room and introduce themselves.
“I’m Edward. You can call me Eddie.” His voice booms across the room. “My wife Roberta dragged me here.” He points across the computers to a woman with vibrant red hair. Remind me when my hair goes totally gray to dye it something natural. She’s cute, though, even if she is in her eighties and trying her best to pull off Lucille Ball.
“Frank.” The chubby man folds his hands and rests them on top his belly. He doesn’t offer any more information than his name. I have my bets on him not learning a thing in this class.
“I’m Lucille. She’s Melinda.” The short woman starts pointing at all the name tags as she runs through the names. “Lissy, Sharon, those two are both Patricia and both go by their full name, and Dominique. Can we get on with the class?”
I contain my smile at Lucille’s obvious leadership role in this group and her anxiousness for me to teach her. I’m torn between if she really wants to be here and is excited, or wants to just get the class over with so she can get back to a Bridge game.
I begin with a brief history of Facebook and Frank is already in the corner falling asleep. I won’t wake him. If he doesn’t want to learn, I’m not going to force him, especially in a class he didn’t pay for, and I’m not getting a check for, either.
“The first thing we need to do is set up an account. It’s very simple. You can see there’s a button that says “Create an account.” All you do is click on that and follow the directions.” Ten people (well, nine because someone is asleep) stare at me. Do they not know how to click a button? “Who here needs me to help?”
Every person raises his or her hand. Every. Person. If I have to go around to help everyone, I won’t cover a third of what I want to go over today. But if we don’t get through the first step, we can’t move onto the second.
“Okay. I’ll go through one by one to help you create your account. Sound good?”
No one budges so I move away from the front of the room and help the first person. About twenty minutes pass, and I only have about twenty-five left of class, when I arrive at the last person. Lucille. She’s so adorable with her snow white hair pressed in a bun on top of her head. She’s aged well, and dare I say, the cardigan she’s wearing is actually kind of cute. Does this mean I’ve officially crossed over the hill? “What brings you to this class, Lucille? Why do you want to learn about Facebook? To keep in touch with your grandkids?”
“Pfft. My grandkids. Whatever happened to picking up a phone to call your granny? All these electronics. They’ve got their TV and video games in their isomethings and computers that sit on their laps. It’s disgusting, I tell you.”
Should I defend my field or laugh at her obvious denial of the 21st-century? People are so scared of technology when really it’s a wonderful thing. People can communicate with loved ones on the other side of the world and see their faces. You can go shopping in your bathroom and have the item the next day. You can even have your groceries delivered. I wish people stopped avoiding the way of the future.
“Well, I still use the phone.” My grandmother passed when I was very young, before my mother relied entirely on drugs to get her through the day. She was feisty like Lucille. As I watch her click around the computer, I wonder about her and how she would react to the technology.
“Not one of those cordless ones either, you know, the kind you could take anywhere in the house.” She’s getting upset at even the thought of a cordless phone?
“I have a good old-fashioned phone. With a cord.” I don’t, but for the sake of argument, I agree with her.
“Good. That’s the way it should be.”
“Now tell me again why you’re here?”
“Men.”
“Excuse me?” I catch a laugh in my throat. Did I hear her correctly?
“My husband passed away two years ago. My daughter and grandkids tell me it’s time for me to get out there, whatever the hell that means.”
“Facebook isn’t a dating site,” I tell her. Yes, a lot of creeps are on there, and this is one of those safety issues. But I would expect to discuss those with a class of middle-schoolers, not a grandmother.
“I know. I’m on that Match-a-whatever site, and my daughter said I can Facebook stalk the men I like to be sure they aren’t some serial killer, gold digger, or only out for sex.”
Now I’m forcing back the laughter. “Lucille, I’m not sure you can find out all that information on Facebook.”
“Maybe not, but I can see if the picture matches the one on the dating site, so I don’t think I’m meeting Clint Eastwood and s
omeone really ugly shows up.”
“You got me there.”
This morning started off with me upset over my mom and Keith and Lucas, but Lucille has come in now and turned this day upside-down. I love her outlook and her attitude and maybe teaching this class isn’t such a bad idea. I could use someone like Lucille in my life, if only for a few months. She’s older, experienced, and I’m pretty sure the only drug she’s high on is life, possibly living proof that not all mothers are like mine.
Chapter
Eight
I wish these hands could stay on me forever. The way his hands knead into my feet and scale up my legs bring a feeling of euphoria I need so desperately right now. “This is amazing,” I say to Shannon who is sitting next to me receiving the same incredible treatment on her feet. I can’t wait to see the deep red polish I picked out on my toes, but I wouldn’t complain if this never ended. I’ve spent the entire week on my feet, running between my office and Terrence’s while trying to maintain my composure around his nephew. He presented his idea to Terrence, and of course, Terrence thinks it’s incredible. He might as well have told him he invented an app that can find the best parking space before you arrive at the store. It’s not like he did that. Give me a break.
“So, this guy comes into your group and you kick him out?”
I filled Shannon in on Keith and his attempt to join Dating for Decades. I wish we’d talked sooner, but her in-laws were visiting and then they took a vacation over the Fourth of July. This is the first time in over a month we’ve been able to sit down in the same place and talk longer than a few minutes.
“Yes, and I don’t think it’s uncalled for. I created the group. I get to choose who is allowed in.” That’s part of the advantage of being the leader, right? I’m not wrong, right?
“Basically, you’re in second grade and have a no boys allowed sign hanging from your tree house?”
If she weren’t my best friend, I’d punch her in the nose, comparing me to an eight-year-old. Am I really being that petty? I don’t think I am. I notice these types of things. I’m well aware of what battles to fight. “This is a group of women. Some talk about …” I glance at the man massaging my feet and whisper the next word “Sex. I don’t want this guy getting off on their stories.” There are too many perverts in this world and none of us have ever met Keith before that night.
“Wait? Is this like in the episode of Taxicab Confessions in there? I should cancel my satellite and get late-night HBO right in your support group?”
The man stops rubbing my feet and starts polishing my nails. The wet lacquer slides across the nail. It’s cold and relaxing.
“No. Honestly, Shannon. I don’t think the women would be comfortable, though.”
“These women, or you?”
“Please. I don’t have any encounters to discuss anyway. It’s been almost six months. I’m in quite a dry spell.”
A group of girls laugh loudly across the room. I’m sure one of them said something funny, but for some reason, I can’t help but feel as though they’re laughing at my lack of sex over the past months. I’m sure their twenty-year-old bodies get plenty of it, and at thirty-nine I can’t complain, but I miss it when I don’t have it.
“Girl, please. Have a baby and then we’ll talk dry spells.”
“Are things okay between you and Ben?” I’ve sensed something for a while now, but she’s never made a remark like that before. It may be more serious than I thought.
“I guess. He’d rather watch sports than get down and dirty with me, though.”
“But you have the boys. Don’t they get in the way of things?” Another reason not to have kids. If I want to chase my man around the house naked at the drop of a dime, or jump in the shower and have crazy sex there, I want to be able to.
“We have a lock on our bedroom door. And they’re in bed by ten at the latest. Instead of sitting and watching TV for another hour and a half, he could join me in the bedroom. Maybe I’m not attractive anymore.” Shannon not attractive? You’ve got to be kidding me. Her hair flows perfectly on her head and her freckles are the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Back in high school, all the guys wanted to date her. She bypassed them all and chased Ben until he finally asked her out.
“I doubt that. Maybe work is really busy for him. He could just be tired.”
“Well, if he can stay up and watch the game, he can stay up and have sex with me.”
The guy painting her toes glances up and back at her feet. I’m sure we’re embarrassing him. Shannon isn’t bothered by things like this. She can talk about her sex life, her period, her kid’s puke, and she doesn’t care. Her not having a filter comes as a positive and a negative sometimes. I lack discreetness at times as well, but I’m tame compared to my best friend.
“Have you ever tried putting the moves on him? Maybe strip down in front of the television?”
“Yep.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Wow. I find it hard to believe her husband wouldn’t jump her bones if she stood there naked, ready, willing, and able. No wonder she feels rejected. I would, too.
“I’m sorry, hon.”
She covers her eyes with her pointer and index fingers. “It’s fine. I’m not the woman I used to be.” Her voice squeaks as her lips curve downward into a frown. She’s fighting back the tears.
“You’re right. You’re not. You’re a gorgeous, hardworking mother who puts aside everything for her family. That’s a far cry from the party girl I went to high school with.”
“Maybe he wants that party girl back.”
“Ben?” I’m not sure we’re talking about the same person. “He can barely lift himself off the couch some days. I doubt he wants to go out and party. He’d never make it past ten.”
She takes her hands off her eyes and starts giggling. “You’ve got that right.”
Most days when I visit Shannon and Ben is home, he’s lying on the couch with his hand down his pants like Al Bundy. A beer settles in his other hand while he yells at the television. Don’t get me wrong — he’s a good dad, and I always thought a decent husband. He works hard and deserves to relax. I didn’t realize trouble lurked beneath the surface of their marriage.
“Maybe you need to talk to him.”
“Ben talk? As in have a conversation about our relationship?” Her laugh makes me laugh uncomfortably. “The last time we had a conversation like that was probably when we got married. He isn’t a feelings kind of guy.”
What constitutes a feelings kind of guy? How hard is it to give a hug or a kiss every once in a while? I’m not one to commit, according to my group, but if I were in a committed relationship, I sure would do what I could to keep the relationship going.
“Okay, enough about me. What about this guy trying to join your group? Is he cute?”
“I don’t know.” I do know. And I already know where she’s going with this. The same place she always goes — trying to make me date someone and get married.
“He is,” she teases. “Is he so cute you want to go out on a date with him?”
“What? I think we’re a little bit more mature than this.”
“Then admit it.”
“Admit what? That he’s cute? Fine. He’s cute. But he’s still not welcome.”
“What about the guy you work with?”
“Lucas?” I spit out, realizing I basically shouted it across the room. “No, no, and more no.”
The man finishes polishing my nails, and we both waddle to the drying area to avoid damaging our lacquer. “You’re attracted to him.”
“What? I am not.” Thinking someone is good looking and being attracted to that person are two very different things. I pick through the magazines at the table and decide on People.
“Cassie, you’re interested in a lot of men. That’s fine. Give one of them a chance. Maybe you’ll fall for one.”
“Absolutely not.” I want to switch the subject, but the only other topic on
my plate is my mother. I don’t want to go into that. Not here, not with Shannon already upset about her relationship with Ben. If I bring up my mother, I know she’ll try and defend her and get upset with me when I refuse to see things her way.
“At least admit they’re both cute.”
I close the magazine and fold it up as though I’m going to swat a fly with it. “Fine. They are both cute. Lucas is young, vibrant, and knows what he wants. Keith is handsome, owns his own business, and wants to hang out with a bunch of women. There. That’s how their dating card reads. Happy?”
“For now.” She grabs a magazine of her own to read. “I still think you’re crazy.”
“I think you’re crazy. I’m not letting a man into the group, and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t date him.”
“Is that against the rules?”
“No, because that rule doesn’t exist. Since men aren’t allowed, it’s unnecessary. It would be dumb, though, I couldn’t even imagine.”
She flips open the magazine and stuffs her face in a page. “Oh, but I sure can.”
Chapter
Nine
It’s the perfect day for an event like this. Seventy-five degrees and not a cloud in sight. Tents are spread out in the parking lot, and once I lay my eyes on the snow cone truck, I know I’ll be making a beeline for that later. The smell of barbecue fills the air surrounding the tent where the food will be served. I’m a tad annoyed the bouncy house is right next to where we will be eating, but the kids sure do enjoy it.
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