Courting. Dating. Going out. Going together. Talking. But “woo”? They just needed a rhyme for “boo.”
Ridiculous.
John had had several dates with some “Nubian princesses” over the past fifteen years, nothing serious, and nothing that lasted more than a date or a movie. A few hugs, no kisses. I have never held hands with anyone but Sheila. I have never even been, in the biblical sense, with anyone but Sheila.
He smiled at the picture. “Miss you, Boo.”
Sheila will be smiling in that picture forever. Her hand will be holding on to mine in that picture forever. Maybe it’s time I smiled a little, too. Maybe it’s time I held another hand. I know I need to expand my romantic horizons, but on TV?
Ridiculous.
John read the rest of the e-mail.
Do you have what it takes to be part of the Crew? If you think you’re hunk enough, click below to find out if you would make the cut.
Do I have what it takes to be a hunk? No. A punk? Definitely not. I’m forty and normal. If the Nubian princess is twenty-five, I’d almost be old enough to be her daddy. Geez. My life is so boring that I’m thinking about clicking on links inside junk mail I never should have received to go on TV to find a woman.
Ridiculous.
John clicked the link. White words enlarged on the black screen to form:
To see if you qualify for Hunk or Punk, answer the questions on each page.
Question 1: How tall are you?
There’s a height requirement for romance? What is this, the NBA? I’m five-eleven when I stand up straight. Should I make myself taller? With platform shoes, I could be six-one. Nah. He moved the slider to “five-eleven.”
What is your hair color?
Brad Pitt’s face stared back at John. “Hi, Brad. What are you doing here?”
By clicking on the colors to the right, John could put any shade of hair on Brad Pitt’s head. White hair on Brad Pitt was especially creepy, and flaming red hair did nothing for Brad’s eyes.
Auburn? Chestnut? Salt and pepper? That’s me now. I used to be mostly dark brown. I could dye it blond. Nah. Salt and pepper it is.
What is your eye color?
Blue green? Gray blue? Gray green? Gray? I could get contacts. Nah. Brown they are.
What is your ethnicity?
John had been told once that he looked Mediterranean—whatever that means. He knew he had some Italian back in his ancestry somewhere, but “Caucasian/white” was his only real choice. White I am.
What is your body type?
John jogged three miles every morning when his knees cooperated, played basketball at the Y Friday nights with the youth group, and considered himself fit. “Fit,” however, wasn’t one of his choices. “Athletic”? Not really. I can get up and down the court for a few games before wheezing and praying to die. “Slim”? I could stand to lose a few pounds. “Lean muscle” … hmm. Yeah. If I dropped ten pounds and worked out for a year.
John checked “Slim.”
What “body apparel” do you have?
“Body apparel”? Oh. Tattoos, earrings, facial piercings, body piercings.
John clicked “None.”
John clicked the “Next” button and saw:
Thank you for your time. Please attach a recent photo and type a daytime telephone number in the box below. Click the “Make Me Famous!” button below to submit your answers, photo, and phone number.
Huh? That’s … it? No questions about level of intelligence or degree of spirituality? No checkboxes for criminal record? No long lists of likes or dislikes? No probing questions to determine my personality? I could be a psychopath. No questions about age? All of this is based on appearance—but not age. It’s probably illegal to ask about age.
Attach a recent photo. The only photo of me on this laptop is one Sheila took of me in a suit fifteen years ago.
John located the picture and enlarged it on his screen. I had no worry lines then, no wrinkles, and no worries of any kind. Just dreams. Just starting out.
Now starting over.
John attached the black-and-white photo,
Ridiculous.
John had had several dates with some “Nubian princesses” over the past fifteen years, nothing serious, and nothing that lasted more than a date or a movie. A few hugs, no kisses. I have never held hands with anyone but Sheila. I have never even been, in the biblical sense, with anyone but Sheila.
He smiled at the picture. “Miss you, Boo.”
Sheila will be smiling in that picture forever. Her hand will be holding on to mine in that picture forever. Maybe it’s time I smiled a little, too. Maybe it’s time I held another hand. I know I need to expand my romantic horizons, but on TV?
Ridiculous.
John read the rest of the e-mail.
Do you have what it takes to be part of the Crew? If you think you’re hunk enough, click below to find out if you would make the cut.
Do I have what it takes to be a hunk? No. A punk? Definitely not. I’m forty and normal. If the Nubian princess is twenty-five, I’d almost be old enough to be her daddy. Geez. My life is so boring that I’m thinking about clicking on links inside junk mail I never should have received to go on TV to find a woman.
Ridiculous.
John clicked the link. White words enlarged on the black screen to form:
To see if you qualify for Hunk or Punk, answer the questions on each page.
Question 1: How tall are you?
There’s a height requirement for romance? What is this, the NBA? I’m five-eleven when I stand up straight. Should I make myself taller? With platform shoes, I could be six-one. Nah. He moved the slider to “five-eleven.”
What is your hair color?
Brad Pitt’s face stared back at John. “Hi, Brad. What are you doing here?”
By clicking on the colors to the right, John could put any shade of hair on Brad Pitt’s head. White hair on Brad Pitt was especially creepy, and flaming red hair did nothing for Brad’s eyes.
Auburn? Chestnut? Salt and pepper? That’s me now. I used to be mostly dark brown. I could dye it blond. Nah. Salt and pepper it is.
What is your eye color?
Blue green? Gray blue? Gray green? Gray? I could get contacts. Nah. Brown they are.
What is your ethnicity?
John had been told once that he looked Mediterranean—whatever that means. He knew he had some Italian back in his ancestry somewhere, but “Caucasian/white” was his only real choice. White I am.
What is your body type?
John jogged three miles every morning when his knees cooperated, played basketball at the Y Friday nights with the youth group, and considered himself fit. “Fit,” however, wasn’t one of his choices. “Athletic”? Not really. I can get up and down the court for a few games before wheezing and praying to die. “Slim”? I could stand to lose a few pounds. “Lean muscle” … hmm. Yeah. If I dropped ten pounds and worked out for a year.
John checked “Slim.”
What “body apparel” do you have?
“Body apparel”? Oh. Tattoos, earrings, facial piercings, body piercings.
John clicked “None.”
John clicked the “Next” button and saw:
Thank you for your time. Please attach a recent photo and type a daytime telephone number in the box below. Click the “Make Me Famous!” button below to submit your answers, photo, and phone number.
Huh? That’s … it? No questions about level of intelligence or degree of spirituality? No checkboxes for criminal record? No long lists of likes or dislikes? No probing questions to determine my personality? I could be a psychopath. No questions about age? All of this is based on appearance—but not age. It’s probably illegal to ask about age.
Attach a recent photo. The only photo of me on this laptop is one Sheila took of me in a suit fifteen years ago.
John located the picture and enlarged it on his screen. I had no worry lines then, no wrinkles, and no worries of any kind. Just dreams. Just starting out.
Now starting over.
John attached the black-and-white photo,
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