Funny where this dating whirlwind takes you. Almost to Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon). That’s right. I came close to falling in love with Sabrina, a beautiful dark-haired Vietnamese woman in Naples, Florida, with whom I spent a romantic weekend.
She wanted me to meet her family in Saigon. At first I was almost willing to go as she was sexy as her pictures and as nice to be with as it was to talk to her on the phone. For a while, I thought this book might have a happy ending, but she was much too objective, too critical.
She wondered if I snored, which for her would be a deal breaker. And could I brighten and whiten my teeth a bit more and do lots of other fine tuning to my appearance, also to my manner of speech, my frank way of expressing myself.
But Isn’t Love Subjective?
Sabrina was being from her point of view objective about me. She was contemplating seeing me every day. Sleeping with me every night. Waking up with me every morning. But to me, real love is not subject to such objectivity and fine tuning.
I submit to you that real Love is subjective. It can cover and smother a multitude of blemishes, faults and shortcomings.
You see a desirable totality, the whole and not so much the parts and it makes your heart beat faster, heats up your groin area, makes you excited. You don’t say “Hold it. Stop everything. Those teeth need more whitening!”
No, you want to embrace totally someone you love, not alter, improve or fine tune them.
So I told my editors not to wait for a happy ending to this book, as there have been too many disappointments and dead ends like this latest love journey to Naples where my Love Boat was shipwrecked on Sabrina’s piercing pinpointing.
Yes, dating has its ups and downs, but I’m a hard core optimist who’ll always be curious and hopeful.
I’ll probably always be asking pretty girls on the Internet: And what’s your real name, sweetheart?
Then a charming Russian woman from Paducah, Kentucky winks at me. She lives with her son, a chef, and now keeps sending me texts showing pictures of the tulips in her backyard, storm clouds overhead and of herself when she was a sweet young girl working with her famous journalist father in Russia.
We have more than a few things in common like our appreciation for Russian authors like one of my all-time favorites, Anton Chekhov.
Then she keeps telling me what she’s planning to have for dinner very night. Why? She says tonight she’ll eat cured salmon.
Then she asks me what I’ll be eating.
Frankly I just don’t see the point of all the food in our online discourse, unless this is some kind of culinary romance?
Enter Doris Day
And finally here’s my favorite date story, Doris Day.
I took Jane out to lunch the other day. She an attractive, shapely and lively blonde whose blue eyes, cute short haircut style and bright-white-teeth smile reminds me of one of my favorite film stars, Doris Day.
We had a nice time talking and getting to know each other at Bradley’s in West Palm Beach.
Then she tells me she’s worried about her BMW as it was flashing a warning sign and she needed to drive to the nearest BMW dealer.
Being the perfect gentleman and wanting to continue the great impression I thought I was making, I chivalrously offer to follow her there in my car to make sure she arrives all right.
Later, while we were waiting around for her car to be fixed, she starts ogling all the obscenely expensive Bentleys and Rolls Royce’s.
Then when her car is fixed, she tells she has a date with her girlfriend that night, says goodbye, hugs me and plants a kiss on my cheek. This morning I sent her this sobering email:
I don’t know about you. You’re so attractive and fun to be with, but the way you eyeballed those expensive cars you remind me of Madonna, the Material Girl.
And then to choose going out with a girlfriend over me, Prince Charming, drained all the fuel out of my lowly caddy’s gas tank. What am I going to do with you Doris Day? Oh well . . .
Que sera, sera
Whatever will be will be.
The future’s not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.”