But the truth is that I am not studying my wrinkles in the mirror. Nope, I am looking for that invisible stamp on my forehead. The one that only males can see. The one that reads “Jerk Magnet.”
I’m the chick who can draw the attention of every sociopath within a 65-mile radius: Men who wear those fashion-forward ankle bracelets and enjoy monthly lunch dates at adult probation, those are the ones who decide that I’m the love of their lives. Guys who draw every last penny of unemployment before they get off their hind ends to get a job ... yeah, those are the ones who definitely want to whisk me away to the altar.
For a long time I have engaged in long conversations with other women who share this affliction. They tell me their nightmare stories of love-gone-awful. And I not-so-jokingly share with them that I have dish towels longer than I have husbands. In fact, I once had a divorce attorney on speed dial. I also had a coupon book, good for at least two divorces in a decade, at reduced rates.
Thank goodness I finally I started to grow up. I finally stopped looking at men as potential husbands. In fact, I have hives every time a man gets down on one knee.
I’ve come to grips with the fact that I’m definitely not bride material.
I’m not a moron anymore, either.
But unfortunately, I can’t get rid of this stamp on my forehead.
By the way, I know it’s still there since I recently tested the waters. Let me assure you, the water is still turbulent around this old woman.
Well the story goes like this: I got a text from a man whose cellphone accidentally picked up a number that was obviously already in his phone. ‘Was it his grandma’s number?’ you might ask. Was that the number for a food pantry where he volunteers? No, ladies and gentlemen. It certainly was not! Being curious and extremely distrustful since I have not only been around the block and bought the T-shirt, but also drove the bus, I made it my business to investigate that foreign phone number. And guess what? It was the direct line for a girl named Ali, one of the more popular employees, I suppose, for an escort service.
Um yeah, in this man’s free time, he was apparently living a “Pretty Woman” sequel.
The next day he sent another text, “Oh that darn auto correct ...”
But I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to put anymore energy toward a Richard Gere wanna-be. Beside that fact, I don’t have time to mess with drama.
I am once again in front of the mirror, looking for that invisible stamp.
A former Southsider and an award-winning journalist and humor writer, Sherri Coner resides in southwest Florida. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com. She also speaks to women’s groups.