My gynaecologist has asked me out on a date. After a physical examination. Seriously.
I feel free, really I do. I don’t have to bother with shaving my legs (among other places), I have complete control over the TV remote control in my bedroom, I can eat M&Ms in bed while perving Jason Momoa on Youtube, and I can choose to sleep on the left hand side, the right hand side, or under my king-size bed.
But my gran, (she’s eighty-nine, but doesn’t look a day over eighty-eight) she’s a pain in the ass neck – insisted that I get back onto the dating scene. Doesn’t want me sitting on any shelf.
She made me buy an iPhone (said men will be heaps impressed that I have one) and insisted I get myself an iPad which she instructed me to take on my dates (said men will be heaps impressed that I have one). Then she badgered me into visiting a beautician (said men will be heaps impressed with the end result).
Grudgingly, and since I had her will to think about, I caved – had my hair colored and layered with a spiky fringe that rivals Ashton Kutcher, had a shellac manicure and pedicure, an oxygen facial for fuck knows what , waxed till I screamed in agony — an orgy of self-indulgence, except for the waxing bit.
To firm, tone and get my ass into my not-so-little black dress, I amped up the exercise – hit the treadmill for forty-five minutes a day and lifted my bodyweight, while listening toEye of the Tiger. (Okay, so I exaggerate – I lifted two cans of baked beans.) gave up M&Ms, chocolate cake and Coke (cola not the other Kate Moss thingi).
Felt great, and those endorphins – got me taking the high road. No seriously, When somebody stole my parking space, instead of threatening to bust a cap in their ass or yelling stuff about their mother they didn’t know, I shrugged, then circled the block foranother fifteen minutes.
Then gran showed me how to create a profile on an on-line dating site.
All good – my first day there, I snagged a bus driver with a great sense of humor. I never dated a bus driver before, so I thought, what the heck, let’s live a little. Hopefully, he’d let me drive the bus. However, contrary to what I thought, his company vehicle was not a bus. Every night he has to leave it behind. Can you believe that? Of course I was disappointed. And since he yacked non-stop about his domineering mother and didn’t give me a chance to get one word in about my domineering gran, I shouted ‘neeeext!’
And next, I met David Crook, a criminal attorney. A widow. My heart went out to him — poor man must have experienced so much pain with the death of his spouse. I resisted the urge to give him a hug.
He was good-looking, laughed at my jokes, had neat fingernails, breath that did not smell of cat food and took me to a swanky restaurant where the prices did not appear on the menu. (I was a tad worried, cos the twenty in my purse would pay for fuck all in that stiff joint.)
Both he and the waiter talked like Inspector Clouseau from Pink Panties Panther. Was I impressed? Fuck yeah! Even though I have some French heritage, I unfortunately do not speak French and neither do I like croissants or frogs legs. (I’m not averse to French kissing though.)
Anyho, David Crook was perfect, even with that surname. He seemed enthralled with me and almost immediately talked about taking me on a cruise.
Easy peasy. I smiled to myself when I though how quickly I had snagged husband number two. Record time. As we dined, in my mind, I was choosing the venue for my wedding, picturing the look of utter astonishment on my ex-husband’s face when I told him that I was getting married before him to a lawyer (so don’t fuck with me, I will get my new husband to sue yo ass); I was practicing saying my married name, Eve Crook (okay that didn’t sound too good, but hey, I needed to get married before my ex-husband, remember?) and finally, the look on my gran’s face when I told her that the iPhone and iPad really did the trick.
Then, the bombshell – David Crook leans in, drops his voice, looks into my eyes and says, “I know how to commit the perfect murder and get away with it.”
“Ooooh yeah. And I won’t get caught.”
“But …what about the twenty-five mistakes a criminal ma…?”
Not realizing what he just said, his eyes twinkled as he went on to talk about duct tape and bleach and alibi and barrels of acid and how not to use your credit card so as to avoid a paper trail …
All this after only two glasses of French champagne. WTF?
Remember, he’s a widow! Why the hell didn’t I ask him how his wife died before I accepted a date with him?
Now I may be a writer of graphic and even violent scenes, but I’m a bit of a scady cat, so that was it for me. I silently held a funeral for my wedding plans and surreptitiously eyed the exit.
I played it cool though – acted like I was impressed and said, “You should write a book, you psycho, eh, David. Will be a best seller for sure.” Showed all my teeth when I smiled. (And if you look at my photos, I have a looooot of teeth.)
However, the moment I got a chance, (after dessert of course. No need to let a good double-choc mousse go to waste) I grabbed the Chanel purse I borrowed from my sister, my iPhone and my iPad and high-tailed it out of the swanky restaurant. Then I changed my phone number.
Okay, so I didn’t change my cell number, but I did what any mature woman would do and came clean with Crook – I hit him with a text:
Hey David thanks for the lovely dinner. Sorry while talking to u, I realized that I want to become a lesbian nun. So sorry to have wasted your time. All the best. Best of luck with that crime thriller.
I chose not to tell gran about my dating disaster just yet. But I decided that I hated the dating scene. Would rather have root-canal than do the dating thing. (No pun on ‘root.’) So I stopped visiting the dating site and instead googled Crimestoppers rewards page.
The next day, I visited my gynae – routine check-up.
I’ve known him for years, so as he inspected and probed, we chatted about a lot of things. For some reason, that day, we talked about Lionel Ritchie. Why? God only knows.
My check-up was without incident, thank God.
Just as I’m leaving his practice, he asked me to dinner.
I was floored, then confused:
A) I didn’t know that he was now single and
2) He had just examined my reproductive organs.
What the fuck? (No pun on ‘fuck.’)
I took another look at him – all his teeth, taller than me, still got a lot of his hair (on his head), earring in one ear, skinny jeans under his white coat.
“Does your ex live in Sydney?” I asked, in a voice dripping with disinfectant honey.
Okay, so she’s alive. But I had to make doubly-sure. “Where in Sydney?”
I accepted the date.
Trouble is when I told my friends and family about them, the reaction was similar – three stages of response:
Laughter, followed by, “You must have a very good looking …” (Fill in the blank)
Laughter followed by, “Did he ask after your inspection?”
Laughter, followed by, “Is that legal?”
Laughter, followed by, “This doesn’t sound right.”
Laughter, followed by, “Did he give you a mammogram as well?”
Laughter, followed by, “Was the check-up any different from the last one? You know, the ‘examination?’”
Laughter, followed by, “You realize you have to change your gynae after this?”
After giving it a lot of thought and feeling as uncomfortable as hell, I decided to bail. I typed up a text.
Hey Daniel, sorry, unable to make dinner gotta take a raincheck will call u
But just as I was about to hit send, he texted me!
Eve, looking forwards to Friday night. Pick you up at seven. I have ur address.
Chills went down my spine. This man knew a lot about vaginas and he knew a lot about me –inside and outside – Fuuuuuuck!
In the end, I didn’t send the text. I’ve decided to keep the date. If all else fails, I have fodder for my books.
If the roles were reversed, say he came to me for a routine prostrate examination (If I was female doctor, not a writer of romance novels, so puh-leese!) and after the examination, I asked him out, would he think about it while driving, cooking, cleaning, going to sleep? Would he blog about it, discuss it with his friends and family? Would he mention it to his gran?
Oh, shit, taking ’bout Gran, how’s the old bat going to react to my dating feedback/ fiasco thus far? Would she lose confidence in me and cut me out of her will? Would she lose confidence in the iPhone and iPad theory and force me to purchase a typewriter instead?
Time will tell. Right now, gotta grab some baked beans and hit the treadmill again to Eye of the Tiger.
Friday, here I come. Ready or not.
Stay tuned for details of my date with my gynae.
Eve Rabi is the author of 14 books and is known for her kick-ass leading ladies, and her no-holes bared, modern-day love stories. She is known to offend and entertain at the same time. Guaranteed, you will laugh.