Dating For Decades (6 page)

I’m flattered, and I shouldn’t be. I know they’re good ideas. I’m successful at my job. I’m just a little behind right now.

“But, they aren’t as good as this one.”

And strike. He had to go and ruin the small moment I was having actually liking him. My mouth falls open, and for once in my life, I can’t speak any words. I want nothing more than to ream him out, make him feel bad for his choice of words and for insulting me, but I know he’s right. I’m pissed I didn’t come up with the idea. It seems so easy now. Why didn’t I realize any of this? I’m kicking myself in the ass for being so blind to the obvious. Have all my years in this business and spending so much time in meetings tossed the logical side of me away? Am I so focused on learning the latest and greatest and being equal to my counterparts that I overlook the keep it simple, stupid format?

I don’t refute him, accepting my inadequacy at the moment. It may take some time, but I’ll prove my place at this company, even though I’ve done it once before. If there is anything Cassie Noble can do, it’s prove other people wrong.

Chapter

Seven

My first class arrives, and the knots in my stomach are making more knots. I shouldn’t be so apprehensive. Technology is my life. I know most operating systems inside and out, and something as simple as Facebook should be an easy thing to teach. However, as I enter the room and am faced with a group of elderly people, I catch my breath, tempted to turn around and leave. Teaching someone only ten years older than me how to use the computer is difficult, now I have to explain the ins and outs of Facebook to people in their seventies and eighties? I sigh as I set my laptop up on the rolling cart in front. I should be at yoga. I switched my sessions to Sundays, but as I stand in front of these people I yearn for the peace of my sun salutations.

Computers trace the perimeter of the room, which is perfect because the class can still see the big screen behind me while they work. I set up a new email address before I came so I can create a profile from scratch. I have a Facebook account, but don’t use it. Ever. I signed up a few years after it started and haven’t been on it since that week. MySpace was still hot when I joined. My profile picture is me in my late twenties. I don’t look much like that anymore. My hair is starting to gray and the lines by my lips are prominent. That’s fine. I don’t want to be twenty-seven anymore. I’d much rather be an established business woman with a few strands of silver than a twenty-something still trying to fight my way up the corporate ladder while having way too much to drink and ending up on a strange man’s couch in the morning.

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 someone 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.