Maryland & Delaware

My apologies to those of you who LOOOOVE the long narratives, but someone told me that no one's going to buy the book if I give away everything here.  So here's an abbreviated version of my dates in Maryland and Delaware . . . you'll have to pay for the rest, haha.  :)


I kind of cheated in Maryland.  I’d met Mr. Maryland before.  He’s a friend of a friend, but if I’m the one making up the rules, who says I can’t go out with someone I’ve met before?  No one.

My other option was to go out with a friend of the cool couple I stayed with.  Nora & Steve are retirees, and they said I could go out with a friend of theirs if I didn’t mind helping out with his air tank and wheelchair.  Oh, and his teeth clicked when he talked.

I went with the other option.

I met Mr. Maryland in a small town outside of Washington D.C.  I’d had a couple of fun days there exploring the city. I particularly liked one fly guy who rolled past the park bench where I was sitting; his car stereo was blasting (and he was dancing to and singing along with) “SexyBack.”  On a scale of 1 to 10, I gave him a 5 for attractiveness but a 9 for enthusiasm.

The small town where I met Mr. Maryland didn’t have wannabe JT's with high self esteem, but it had a cool bridge.  It appeared to be made of stone but was actually a giant mural with lots of little paintings blended in.  We walked along the creek, checked it out, and walked up and down the quaint little main street.  It was pretty long, and when we got back closer to where we started, there were four fire trucks blocking off the street.  All of the firefighters were standing around talking to each other, so it must not have been too big of an emergency.  There was a fire truck just sitting there with no one near it, so I reached for my camera and told Mr. Maryland that I was going to go jump in it.  Right about that time, though, a firefighter came along.  I’m gonna guess that bailing a girl out of jail is probably not a fun date for most guys, so I didn't do anything.  Bummer.

The next day I had a date in Delaware.  Mr. Delaware said he liked to golf, so I asked if maybe he could teach me how to hit a golf ball.  We agreed to meet at a driving range near Dover.  He was waiting for me with his clubs and a basket of balls.  After showing me a couple of times how to hit it, he handed me the club.  I’d nail one and watch it sail, but then barely hit the next one and watch it dribble four feet off the tee.  Consistency probably comes with practice, right?  I’d say I did pretty well, considering the only other time I’d ever tried to hit a golf ball was during a one-day P.E. session back in high school.  We chipped a few out of a sandpit, then putted a few times on the putting green.  Then we were off to try a hole.

I didn’t do so hot the first time around.  I kind of lost count, but I think I got a six.  Not bad, right?  I mean, I’ve taken six shots at a putt-putt course.  But on the second hole, I shot par.  How amazing is that?  Three hits and I was done.  I doubt the LPGA will be calling anytime soon, but I left feeling pretty good.

We swung down to a restaurant on the wharf and had the dining room all to ourselves (all of the other customers were in the bar).  We had lots of time to talk, and he was a great guy.  I didn’t figure he was for me, though, so I asked the question I’ve been asking a lot of the guys I’ve gone out with.

“What are you looking for?”

“Someone like you,” he said.  “But near me.”

Aw.  Good answer.

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