Love, Jimmie

I used to work with a man who always had a really great tan. He had pretty teeth, too, and he was tall and he did a bunch of rodeo riding in his spare time.  The first time I met him he wore the Wranglers that only true cowboys can pull off, a belt buckle he’d won from one of his rodeo gigs and some boots, the good kind, the shit-kicker kind.  I nearly passed out when we first came face-to-face because although I had talked on the business phone with him for years, and although I’d heard he was pretty, I was unprepared for all of that beauty housed in one man.  Watching him walk across the room towards me made my ovaries whimper and I’m pretty sure another whimper flew out of my mouth, but I said “excuse me” like I had just burped and I’m pretty sure he didn’t know.

During that meeting he called me “baby” once. I think it was an accident but I still remember it like it just happened.

A few years later, when Boss and I changed companies, hot cowboy moved to Nashville to work with us in our new office and I got to see him every day. At first I walked around the office with my stomach sucked in all the time and I coiffed my hair into spectacular perfection every morning.  After a few months, though, I realized that hot cowboy was still hot but only until he opened his mouth to say something and then somehow the hotness piggybacked out on his words and left him.  He was still cute but I no longer religiously engaged my core, and some days I put my hair in a ponytail.  That’s the thing about getting to know people.  The insides don’t always match the outsides.  He was good in motion if the motions you got to see were the cattle roping and the bowlegged swagger across a room, but he was no Dammit Todd.  The motions stopped there.

That year we had a big old project out in the desert, and I was slated to pick him up from the airport after he had flown out to Utah for an airport inspection. He had a cocktail or two on the ride home so was pretty free with his words, and he told me that his girlfriend thought I was pretty, that he did, too, and that perhaps we should try this thing out called a “threesome.”  After I finished wheezing with mirth, I said, “no thanks” and dropped him off at his car.  Nothing was ever said again and I was relieved.  I chalked it up to the alcohol and then made it a point to really pook my stomach out whilst walking around the office, and I wadded my hair in an unflattering mini-donut bun often.

Eventually Cowboy and I left that company and moved on to other life adventures. I fielded a couple of calls from Cowboy when he needed something related to the work we used to do, which was unique.  He also let me know that he married a woman who owns a ranch and I was pleased for him as his work was always just a means to feed and keep show ponies.  This was quite a few years ago and there was never again a whisper of suggestive talk, so I never worried about it again.

That’ll learn me.

This is a transcript of our last phone conversation, sometime last year.

Cowboy: Hey, Jimmie.

Jimmie: Hey, Cowboy! What’s up?

Cowboy: I’m in New Orleans, by myself, and its lonely here.

Jimmie: <cluing in right away, because I have gone down this road before with at least more than one online dater> That’s too bad.  You should call your wife.

Cowboy: She’s boring.

Jimmie: Then don’t be boring when you talk to her. I’ll talk to you later.

Cowboy: Wait, I have a real question, an important one.

Jimmie: Yes?

Cowboy:  Why did we never have sex?

Jimmie: Cowboy, no.  I’m not talking about this with you.

Cowboy: But why didn’t we?  I always wanted to.

Jimmie: We worked together!  And now you are married, so later.

Cowboy: I’d still really like to see what you and I would be like.

Jimmie: *crickets*

Cowboy: It’s kind of hot to think about, right?

Jimmie: *crickets*

Cowboy: I’m kind of hot thinking about it right now, actually.  I’m going to take my pants-

Jimmie: <firmly presses end button on cell phone><blocks number>

Why is it that I forget these things? Why do I get hopeful that men will be different as time passes?  Why do I sign up for online dating, for crying out loud? It has never, not ever, been my best idea.

For you reading pleasure, below are some messages I received in my last go round of hopefulness.

Boy 1: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

 

Boy 2: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

 

Boy 3: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

 

Boy 4: Hey, how r u?

Jimmie: <contemplates answering because thinking this is as good at its going to get but *crickets*>

 

Boy 5: wyd?

Jimmie: I don’t even rate a full sentence?

Boy 5: *crickets*

 

Boy 6: BBC?

Jimmie: What is BBC?

Boy 6: Big Black Co-

Jimmie: <firmly presses the delete key>

 

Boy 7: Have you ever made love all night long?

Jimmie: Did you read my profile?  Let’s level the playing field here.  I’m celibate until I get married.  Do you want to talk to me now?

Boy 7: *crickets*

 

Boy 8: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

 

Boy 9: Hi. I like your profile.  How are you today?  Would you like to email?

Jimmie: Praise the Lord, yes!  I love full sentences!  This is so great!  Yes, how are you?!

Boy 9: blah, blah, blah, pretty, blah, blah, I like travel, poo-tee-weet, blargh

Jimmie: ditto

Boy 9: Before we go much further, I do have a question.  I don’t want to waste your time.  Do you like dominant men?

Jimmie: Dominant men?  Did you just step into the sex talk because I have to tell you, I’m celibate until I marry and if you can’t deal, we can stop this train right here.

Boy 9: No, this has nothing to do with sex. I’m just dominant in every way.

Jimmie: Like, for the Lord?  Like the head of the household thing?  I may not be getting this.

Boy 9: Well, I’ll give you an example.  If we are at a restaurant and you have to go to the bathroom, you’d ask my permission first.

Jimmie: <wheeze> Seriously?

Boy 9: Yes.

Jimmie: <wheeze> So if I needed shoes, I’d have to ask permission to buy them?

Boy 9: Yes.

Jimmie: <wheeze> <snort> <much eye rolling> I feel like you expect me to be flattered here because I seem “worthy,” but I think perhaps I’d be a little too spunky for you. I’ve lived alone a long time and I pretty much do what I want.  I don’t think I’d be able to never question a decision or live without having a voice or worry about my needs being met.

Boy 9: Those things can happen.

Jimmie: Successfully? Can your partner be successful in those things?

Boy 9: Not really.

Jimmie: Thanks, but no thanks. That is no life for me.

Boy 9:  I would be happy to train you.

Jimmie: <in the throes of apoplexy> <eye roll so hard it causes a sprain> No, thank you. I’m not interested.

Boy 9: If you change your mind, let me know.  It’s never to late to learn something new.

Y’all. To late.  TO late.  Oh, hell no.

Jimmie: Look, here’s how I see this going down.  You’d “instruct” me in something and you’d use improper grammar.  I can’t deal with that. I’d have no choice but correct you.  In turn I’m guessing you’d feel the need to “punish” me for speaking “without permission” and then I’m sorry, but I’d have no choice but to beat the shit out of you with a frying pan.  Those are my rules.  Do you think you can live with that?

This will shock you guys, truly, but this is what he said to me:

Boy 9: *crickets*

 

Somebody send me the link to this one when I sign up for some online dating thing next year. This one will work, too. Please and thank you.