Pre Sex Mental Checklist from Grumblings... By the Author of Paula Takes a Risck, Available March 2012

Pre-Sex Mental Checklist 

There are occasions when we just don’t know what the end of an evening is going to bring.  Dinner, then a movie, perhaps we holding hands as we walk down the main boulevard and window shop, or a glass of port wine or a cup of coffee in front of the fireplace and a goodnight kiss.  Perhaps the kiss will turn into a make-out session. The next thing you know, buttons are being unbuttoned, zippers are being unzipped, and hooks are no longer connected to eyes.  What happens next? I consider. But, I’m not prepared!  

Sex is great.  Spontaneity is great.  The combination of the two is exciting.  The problem with the “unplanned” is that there isn’t an opportunity to make the appropriate arrangements that are necessary to ensure ease of mind.  So, in a split second, almost subconsciously, I run through our pre-sex mental checklist to determine and hopefully eliminate any stumbling blocks that could effect the outcome of the impending sexual experience.

The Pre-Sex Mental Checklist can be divided into four categories: the essential checklist, body related issues, clothing related concerns, and emotional issues.

The Essential Pre-Sex Mental checklist

·         Who is supplying the birth control?  Is there enough?

·         When was my last menstrual period?

·         Did I shave my legs?

·         Do I have intestinal gas?

·         Do I know his name?  If not, will “Oh, baby” suffice?

Body Related Issues

·         Do my breasts disappear into my armpits when I lie on my back?

·         Do I have any tattoos, piercings, bruises or scars that will require explanation or result in disgust, laughter or pity?

·         When was my last bikini waxing appointment?

·         Are my toenails painted? Or are there just remnants of a pedicure that was done three weeks ago?

·         Do I have any band-aids on my body?

·         Do I have any embarrassing acne or break-outs?

·         Do my joints crackle?

·         Is my nose clean?

·         Is there anything in my teeth?

·         How’s my breath?

·         Do I get severe bed head?

Clothing Related Concerns

·         Do I have too much make-up on?  Will it rub off and ruin the pillowcase? 

·         Will he be frightened when he doesn’t recognize me in the morning?

·         Am I wearing sexy underwear?

·         Am I wearing that underwear?

·         Is my bra worn out, baggy or have wires that may cause injury?

·         Are my shoulder pads being held on by my bra-straps?

·         Am I wearing any clothing that is difficult to remove? (i.e.: pantyhose, tummy control garment)

·         Am I wearing any garments that have tight elastic that, when removed, will leave a red ring around my waist or under my breasts?

·         Am I wearing knee-hi stockings?

·         Am I wearing any jewelry that will cause scratching or choking?

 Emotional Issues

·         Will I stress out over my clothes wrinkling on the floor overnight?

·         Should I keep my jewelry on or is this an all-nighter?

·         Do either of us consider this to be a one night stand?

·         Do I want to see this man ever again?

·         If we are at my house, how do I get him to leave before morning?

·         Am I expecting any phone calls from other men, a member of the clergy, or my mother?

·         If I’m at his house, what excuse will I use to leave before daybreak?

·         What will I say if the sex is mediocre-to-bad?

Purse PAtrol from Grumblings.... by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Purse Patrol 

There is no discussion about who will do it.  It’s an unwritten, unspoken rule. It’s a fact.  The one person who is considered the homeliest or most antisocial one of the group is designated to watch her friends’ purses while they enjoy themselves.  Because she has been assigned to purse-patrol, the purse monitor is relegated to the table, disallowed from going to the ladies room and unavailable to accept invitations to dance.  Her main objective for the evening is to loyally stand guard over her friends’ belongings while they socialize and have a good time.  Purse patrol is the grown-up equivalent to being invited to teenage function because her mom will drive.

When my friends and I arrived at the club, we found a vacant table and sat down.  Then the inevitable happened, I heard the phrase, “Will you watch my purse for me?”  Before I could answer, clutches, backpacks and evening bags were all piled up on the table in front of me.  Oh my God!  I had been caught completely by surprise.  I had been appointed as the purse-monitor for the evening.  I quickly whipped out a hand mirror and began an assessment to determine what had gone wrong.  Was it my hair?  Was it my choice of clothing?  Had I been too quiet in the car on way to the club?  Did my friends perceive my silence as a bad mood?  Whatever the case, there was nothing that could be done now.  Unceremoniously, I had been assigned to purse-duty.

As I sat there, I called upon my improvisational skills and tried to act as if my obvious solitude didn’t bother me.  I attempted to appear as if I enjoyed watching all of the socializing that was going on around me.  With faux confidence, I attempted to look enormously interested in some activity going on near the bar.  I tapped my toes to the music, snapped my fingers, and even attempted some chair dancing.  I mindlessly sipped at the drink that quickly became melted ice and eventually an empty glass.  I cringed when I realized that the people who passed by gave me the pity-filled “once-over.”  Suddenly, I became self-conscious. What were they thinking?  I could hear their thoughts.

“Look at that poor soul, sitting there all alone.  What a loser.”  Only the former purse-monitors knew my pain.  

Along with purse-duty, I also had the responsibility of guarding the chairs around the table.  Many attempts were made by other clubbers to commandeer the empty chairs. “No, someone is using that chair,” I snapped.  “My friends will be back in a minute.”  Finally, after I realized that I was behaving like a rabid Rotweiller, I conceded to a couple. “You can use them until my friends come back.” 

The woman gave me a “Yea, sure” and chuckled as she and her new friend proceeded to sit down.  It didn’t take long for them to forget that I was there.  They began to perform hands-free tonsillectomies on one another.  I sat there, the purse-lieutenant, and attempted to ignore the foreplay that is happening just two feet away. 

After about an hour, a man approached the table.  He introduced himself as Jim and asked me if I would like to dance with him.  I wanted to, but I simply could not.  I was on purse-patrol.  Abandoning my post would have been met by the social equivalent to a court martial.  Jim was forced to make the decision to either, accept the apologetic “no” and walk away or sit down to converse with me.  With a look of defeat on his face, Jim looked around the room, shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Oh, what the hell…” and sat down.

I was having trouble focusing on our conversation because I was trying to catch the eye of one of my friends.  I tried waving my hand at her.  I tried staring at her.  Finally, I attempted to telepathically connect with one of them.  I hoped that she would feel compelled to relieve me of my post.  No luck.  Once Jim realized that I was not going to be excused from purse-duty, he excused himself and left.

I felt defeated.   I decided that I now hated the people who assigned me to purse-duty.  And, as soon as I had the opportunity, I would give them a piece of my mind.  Suddenly, one of my friends, Karen, approached the table.  I perked up.  I smiled wide, hoping that her feet were tired from two hours of dancing.  But, the purpose of her visit was only to reapply her lipstick.  Then she announced that she was going outside to grab a breath of fresh air and that she would be back in a minute.  Yeah, sure.  Every so often, my other friends glanced over and waved at me from the dance floor.

All hope of having a conversation with anyone other than with the busboy was gone.  The “lovers” who were borrowing the chairs, had by now moved onto the button fiddling, caressing and moaning portion of their evening.  They were now practically sitting on top of one another and had freed up a chair.

I sat there and casually looked around the room.  I wasn’t really focusing on anything but it was something to do.  I rocked back in the chair a few times. I checked my watch.   During the next visual sweep of the room, my eyes settled on the purses that were on the table in front of me.  “Hmm,” I thought.  “I wonder what’s in there.”   I rationalized, “I have the right to know what I’ve been asked to guard with my life.”  Besides, I was bored.

I looked around the room again and quietly reached for the clutch bag.  The clutch bag belonged to a longtime friend, Karen, who was on a constant, unrelenting search and conquer husband-finding-mission.  Because the clutch was so small, I didn’t expect to find much. I was just going to take a peek.  In addition to a redder-than-red lipstick, a comb and a kissing-fresh breath spray, I unraveled the continuous roll of twelve condoms.  Wow, someone certainly is optimistic, I thought. I can understand one, possibly two, perhaps three, that is, if he’s young and sober.  But, a dozen? Whoa!  Go girl!  I tucked everything back into the clutch and replaced it on the table.

Still, there was no sign of “my friends.”  I would continue my purse inspection.  The next item of inspection would be the Barbara’s backpack.  Barbara is known to her friends as “Ever Ready,” the woman who could be ready for anything at anytime.  Spontaneity seemed contrived compared to Barbara’s “whatever” attitude. The backpack was heavy.  When I unbuckled, untied, and unsnapped the flap, I found a cell phone, make-up, a Swiss army knife, comfortable shoes, safety-pins in a variety of sizes, a scarf, pantyhose, a simple yet classic black dress, a highway flare, a travel toothbrush and a package of trail mix.  Barbara isn’t out for the evening, she’s running away from home.

 Finally, I dragged Marcia’s bag across the table by its ornate shoulder strap.  When I unhooked the clasp of the purse, an artillery of anti-man paraphernalia was uncovered. I was reminded of the Viet Nam documentaries I had seen on PBS.  I found a canister of pepper-spray, a personal alarm (push button activation) and a key chain with a self-defense baton, and a small flashlight with a whistle attached to it.  I carefully checked the side pocket for a hand-grenade (careful not to set off a trip wire).  I was expecting the Morley Shaffer and a 60 Minutes camera crew to appear and interrogate me.  “Can we ask you a few questions regarding concealed weapons?”  

I would, of course, act shocked.  Morley and a cameraman would chase me as I ran to my car.  I’d pull my jacket over my head in an attempt to hide my face.  No doubt, they would catch up with me when I arrived at my car only to find that I had locked the keys in it.  I’d be forced to cover the camera lens with my hand and recite the customary, “No comment.”

The evening had dragged on for what seemed to be an eternity.  I had had enough time to evaluate every person in the club, what they did for a living, how much money they made.  I also figured out which men lived with their parents, who was cheating on a spouse and who was out just for sex.  By the time my friends were ready to leave, I had worked myself into a major tizzy because I had been ignored for several hours.  I was furious. 

Karen, Marcia and Barbara were giddy.  They were waving around business cards and crumpled paper napkins that had telephone numbers written on them.  They hardly noticed that I was seething. 

During the car ride home, Barbara looked at me and said, “Wasn’t that fun? Did you meet anyone?” 

Even though I had mentally prepared an oration about the responsibilities of friendship that would, no doubt, leave my friends reevaluating their behavior and begging for forgiveness, I kept it to myself.  I realized that I was just irritable because I was forced to take my turn at purse duty.

“I met Ivan, the busboy,” I said, “but he works nights and weekends.  It just wouldn’t work out.  So, we decided to just be friends.” 

Man Under Assessment from Grumblings..... by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk - Available March 2012

Man Under Assessment

Because of the competition amongst women, we are hesitant to leave a prospective date alone for too long in a room filled with other women. Short of taking him with you to the ladies room, locking him your car, or asking him to hold your purse; there is little you can do to identify him as “taken” or “under consideration.”  Wouldn’t it be great if you could place a reserved sign on a man?  Perhaps an ear-tag or sonar device could be used as either a visual indicator that the man is currently under assessment, or as a tracking device to trace his migration during the evening.

Perhaps a car alarm type device could be utilized.  If you need to excuse yourself from the conversation to use the ladies room, or begin assessment on another man, you would simply activate the alarm by pressing a button that’s conveniently located on your key chain, “chirp-chirp.”  If another woman approaches the man, a loud warning would sound.  “Please step away from the man. This man is currently under assessment.  If you do not step away from the man, an alarm will sound and the authorities will be notified.”

If the other woman persists, an additional, yet silent, alarm would be activated.  When the second alarm is set-off, the area would be swarmed by the older female members of your family, who would employ harassing and shaming techniques until the intruder retreats.

The intimidation techniques they use would include: waving a rolled-up newspaper, aggressive and loud hand clapping and foot stomping, and hollering, “Shoo! We’re trying to marry-off this girl.  She’s almost forty years old, for heaven’s sake.  Scram!”  If necessary, they will take a few quick combative steps toward the intruder to indicate that they are willing to chase her into the parking lot.

Survival of the Fittest from Grumblings - by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk - Available March 2012

Survival of the Fittest

There is a fierce, ongoing survival of the fittest competition occurring in bars and restaurants across the country. Perhaps it’s because of the well-publicized ratio of women to men. When women are on the prowl, they often exhibit animal traits when competing for the attention of a potential dance partner, boyfriend or … husband.  With claws exposed, they are willing to fight to the social-death in order to insure their places in the dating food chain.

 Women on the prowl can be characterized into the following animal categories: the house cat, the tigress, the gazelle, the elephant, the snake, the chicken, a pack of wolves, the kangaroo, the wild boar, the hyena and the vulture.

House Cat

This species M.O. is complete indifference.  She is aloof.  She sits quietly, preening and adjusting, knowing that she will draw attention to herself by simply exuding confidence.  She is an observer.  Without warning, she will suddenly rise and leave a conversation, only to return a short time later with a new toy.

Tigress

The tigress lays low in the grass, sizing up her prey, and waits for the perfect time to pounce.  When she spots her target, she hunkers down and quietly assesses possible obstacles.  When the time is right, she springs into action. She flashes her teeth and with the lightening speed, she chases down her prey.  She grabs him by the neck, sinks her nails into his flesh and doesn’t loosen her grip until he has succumbed to her force.  Satisfied with her conquer, she licks her chops.  As she consumes her prize, she fiercely growls and swipes at the other women if they dare approach.

Gazelle

The gazelle moves with ease and beauty.  She glides through the bar.  Gracefully leaping from one conversation to the next.  She is sleek and moves at great speed.  It’s difficult for a man to catch her in the crosshairs.  But when she’s brought down, she is a beautiful prize.

Elephant

She’s clumsy, forceful and hard to escape.  She’s difficult to ignore.  She’ll demolish everything in her path.  When she selects her target, she begins to kick up gravel, lets out a thunderous roar, aggressively flaps her ears and wildly swings her trunk to knock any obstacles out of her path.  The only hope of escape is to run. 

Snake

The snake slithers up and wraps herself around a barstool and waits silently. She may rattle her tail or spit venom at any intruding woman who dares to threaten her domain.  Men approach her with caution.  It’s difficult to ascertain whether she’s harmless or deadly.  Is she toxic?  Is she a docile house pet?  Or is she just slimy? 

Chicken

The chicken wanders aimlessly, clucking, digging at the dirt, and nervously picking at the bar snacks. If engaged in a conversation, she will lay and egg with inappropriate comments, silliness or stupidity. Initially, her wackiness is endearing, but it quickly becomes a handicap when a pack of wolves invades the bar. 

 Pack of wolves

This group of women arrives at the bar in a pack with the common goal of seizing and conquering the next victim.  They work as a group.  They howl at the moon to announce their arrival.  With steely eyes they intimidate anyone who dares to enter their marked territory.  The group surrounds and then runs down their prey.  They share their prize.  If one wolf becomes too greedy, she will be cast out of the pack and forced to fend on her own.

Kangaroo

She seems carefree.  She’s lively and bouncy and happily hops around the bar. Her pouch is filled with perkiness.  But an unwelcome intruder should never let down her guard, the kangaroo can knock down any competition with the force of her tail.

Wild Boar

The wild boar charges through the bar and forces herself into conversations.  She interrupts, spewing unsolicited, uninteresting facts until the group disperses and climbs up into safe territory where they know she can’t get to them.  She’ll persist for a while until she gets tired or spots another victim.

 Hyena

The hyena is loud, laughing hysterically, overly enthusiastic about nothing in particular. She draws attention to herself.  Is her behavior fun or is it embarrassing?  She has the ability to scare off the faint of heart.  Anyone who wants to have a good time gravitates toward the hyena.

Vulture

The vulture circles the bar searching for her prey.  She is in search of someone who’s wounded or weak. She swoops down out of nowhere and takes the victim by surprise.  She relentlessly bombards him with her intentions, over and over, until he his rendered helpless and has no option other than buying her a drink or asking for her telephone number.

Whichever the category she falls into, each woman must stay alert and be aware of her actions and her surroundings at all times. If she lets her guard down or displays any signs of weakness she will quickly turn from the hunter, to the hunted, or worse, the road kill that passers-by swerve to avoid.

Drop in Visitor From: Grumblings... By the Author of Paula Takes a Risk - Available March 2012

Drop in Visitor

During a casual-flirty conversation with Roger, a co-worker, I said in an “I’m-available-ask-me-out-on-a-date” kind of way,  “When you’re in the neighborhood sometime, you should drop by.”  What I really meant was, “If you’re going to be in the neighborhood, call me at least an hour before you plan on coming by.”  I thought it was implied.  Fire a warning shot.  Give me a chance to straighten up the house and hide those items that might cause me some embarrassment or require an explanation if seen. 

So, at ten o’clock on Saturday morning, while I was skulking around the house wearing paint-stained sweatpants, a pajama top, and a pair of brown knee-hi argyle socks, the doorbell rang.  I put on a baseball cap to hide my severe case of bedhead and opened the door just a crack, knowing that I would quickly turn away whoever was on the other side. I figured it was my annoying neighbor or someone selling magazine subscriptions.  No such luck.  It was Roger. 

“Oh, what a surprise …” I said, forcing a smile.

“You said to drop by anytime.  So, here I am.” He held out his arms as if to say “ta-da.”

“Yes, you are.”  I stared blankly at him.

“Can I come in?”

“Oh … sure.”  What could I do? I opened the door and ushered him into the living room. “Excuse the mess … it’s the weekend, you know.”

“Did I catch you in the middle of folding your laundry?” He motioned to the basket of laundry that had been sitting on the living room floor since I had brought it in from the laundry room five days earlier.

“Oh,”  Think fast, “ yes ... that’s okay.  I’ll finish it later.”  The truth was that I was going to have to put it in the dryer again to get rid of the now imbedded wrinkles.

I smiled.  Suddenly, I remembered that I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet.  I knew that I would have to practice the inhaling-speaking technique.  It always gives me the hiccups.

He settled onto the couch.  He smiled and took a sweeping look at me. 

Oh God!  My clothes!  I flashed back to Halloween in the early 1970s when I dressed like a hobo and I had worn something similar to what I had on.

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?  I have to check something in the other room.  I’ll be right back.”

I quickly escaped into my bedroom.  It was a mess.  The bed was unmade.  I threw the bedspread over the tangled sheets.  All the bureau drawers were open, and clothes that needed to be taken to the dry cleaner were piled on the floor.  A box of frosted shredded mini wheats was next to the bed.

I flung open the closet.  What should I wear?  What should I wear? Roger had only seen me wearing business clothes.  Perhaps, something casual. I’ll show him my sporty side.  Jeans. Oh no, my current-size-jeans were in the laundry basket in the living room.  I spotted another pair toward the back of the closet.  As I reached for them, I knew that it was going to be a struggle.  This pair of jeans was a size, or two, smaller than I was that day.

“So,” I yelled from my bedroom “What brings you to my neighborhood today?”

“I got an early start today and had to drop something off at a friends house.  He lives right around the corner from you.  So, here I am.”

“Um-hum …” I grunted, as I continued to yank at the zipper on my pants.  I laid down on the bed.  Concentrate!  “I’ll be there in a minute.”  Finally, After a few more seconds of testing my upper body strength and sustaining severe thumb and forefinger cramps, the zipper was up.  I threw on a baggy sweater to cover the tummy glob that was oozing over the waistband of my pants.

“I’ll be right there.”  I walked past the living room and held up one finger through the doorway. 

I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth.  I hope he doesn’t ask to use the bathroom.  There were towels on the floor, toothpaste in the sink, various sleep aid and laxative boxes on the sink.  I picked up a towel and wiped out the sink and opened a drawer and swept everything else in.

I took off the baseball cap and looked in the mirror.  I no longer had bedhead, my hair was now plastered against my skull.  Oh great.  Isn’t this pretty?  I was horrified to see the under-eye make-up remnants, along with the multiple encrusted dollops of zit cream that had been strategically placed on my chin and forehead. Really pretty.  I washed my face, brushed my teeth, rearranged my hair and quickly applied some natural-look make-up.

As I walked into the living room, I picked up the newspapers and magazines and three pairs of shoes that had been kicked-off after I had come home from work on Monday, Thursday and Friday.  Wednesday I worked from home. Friday I wore the same pair of shoes that I had worn on Tuesday.

            “So, what do you have planned for the day?” I sat down on the couch.

He started, “Well, I thought that I’d come by and …” I didn’t hear another word.  While he was speaking, I looked across the room and noticed one of my bras hanging on the doorknob. I had put it there to air dry after I had washed it.

Roger noticed that he no longer had my attention.  “Are you alright?”

I was focused on the bra.  “What? … Uh, yes. What were you saying?”  Think fast! I stood up, crossed the room and sat down in a chair next to the bra.  I casually reached back, grabbed the bra and tucked it under my sweater.

Roger continued, “I thought that I’d just stop by and say hello.”

Is that it?  Stop by to say hello? Aren’t you going to ask me out for breakfast? “What about a cup of coffee?” Did I say that out loud?

“I’d love some.” He smiled.

Damn!

I stood up and started walking toward the kitchen.  Roger stood up to follow me. Uh-oh!  My mind flashed on the mess in and around the kitchen sink.  What now?

As Roger started to follow me, I stopped in my tracks. “You know what?” I blurted.  “I’m out of coffee.”

Roger looked puzzled, “Oh … well, I suppose we could go out to get-”

“Great!” I turned around and walked him toward the door.  Then I suggested that he step outside while I set the burglar alarm.  I needed a diversion.  “I’ll be there in a minute.”  When Roger was out of sight, I fished around under my sweater, pulled the bra out and hung it on the doorknob on my way out of the house.

 

Chapter 5 "You're Next Dear" - From: Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman

“You’re next, dear”

Bridesmaid? Maid of Honor? Guest book attendant?  If you need one, I’m your gal. I’m practically a professional. I have extensive experience, work well with others, and own my own equipment. I am the proud owner of a rainbow of bridesmaid dresses that have only been worn once (four to six hours each). I’ve been in more weddings than an overworked white dove.

Most experienced bridesmaids are well aware of the purpose, and design of bridesmaid’s dresses. If, by chance, you are unfamiliar with its function allow me to enlighten you. The purpose of a bridesmaid’s dress, it is to insure that the bride looks better than any other woman within an hour’s drive.

Seafoam green is the color of the most recent acquisition to my bridesmaid dress collection.  No living, breathing human being looks good in seafoam green. My friend, Karen, the bride-to-be, had chosen the color of a polluted tide for her three best friends to not only wear but to be photographed in. A permanent record. She tried to minimize the damage by uttering the three obligatory Bridesmaid dress phrases. “It can be cut down and worn again.” “It really doesn’t look like a bridesmaid dress.” “Dye-ables (shoes) are the only way to go.”

Really now. Who would go to the expense of cutting down a dress that should, by all means, be cut up? With the exception of being cast in and supplying wardrobe for a Jackie Collin’s TV mini-series, I know of no other occasion to wear a floor-length, taffeta and velvet dress with poofy sleeves and a large bow positioned on the butt.

If the pain and embarrassment of wearing the dress once is ranked as high as falling down a flight of stairs, why repeat the performance? Wear it again? Who’s kidding whom? “Perfect for a garden party or cotillion,” the saleswoman may say. Sure, perhaps I’ll be invited to the inaugural ball.

Frankly, whether or not it looks like a bridesmaids’ dress, when two or more women, in the same room, are wearing noisy, pastel colored dresses, it is considered bridesmaid-wear.

Dye-ables are terribly uncomfortable cardboard-soled shoes that have been dyed to match any color dress, no matter how unattractive. If the three hundred dollar expense of the dress isn’t enough to cause a rift between the bride and her friends, add eighty bucks for the shoes and an additional two thousand dollars for the bunion surgery that will be necessary after spending an afternoon standing and dancing in them.

I stood in the reception hall desperately wishing that someone would spill something on the dress, preferably red. I was looking for a reason to shed the after-dinner mint that I was wearing as a dress. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and other unfamiliar faces were milling around. It seemed as if all eyes were focusing on me. I could read the expressions. “Who is that?  Is she in pain or just a miserable person?”

Then it happened. The one thing that I had dreaded most. The most annoying three-word combination that any one person could say to a chronic bridesmaid. “You’re next, dear.” It’s always someone’s pudgy, beige haired Aunt Ruth who waddles up to me, grabs my hand, draws it to her motherly bosom and with a pitying tone offers her condolences regarding my marital status. “I can’t imagine why a pretty girl like you isn’t married.” Someone please shoot me in the head before I have to hear those words again.

After listening to fifty choruses of:  “Have I got a nephew for you,” it was ironic that I was spared by the announcement of the ceremonial bouquet toss. I pretended not to hear the bandleader as he summoned all of the “single gals” to the center of the dance floor. I searched for a place to hide. Just as I was about to slip into the ladies room, I felt someone grab hold of my arm. It was Karen. She proceeded onto drag me to the dance floor. I smiled politely as I gave her arm a twisting pinch. 

Karen took the customary bouquet toss position then pivoted, pointed at me and announced, “This one’s for you. Get ready.”

 Okay, I thought.  Give me a gun.

So there I stood with five awkward giggling teenage girls, two very enthusiastic divorcees, a couple of widowed grandmothers and good ole’ Aunt Ruth. I would have preferred catching a virus than that bouquet. I took my standard bouquet catching stance: arms folded and eyes averted.  Then, as if in slow motion, the bouquet left the bride’s hands. It flew through the air, over the heads and flailing arms of the others and was headed directly at me. What could I do?  I half-heartedly reached out.  Swish!  I caught it.  Congratulatory cheers rang out. 

Karen rushed over, hugged me and shrilled, “You’re next!” 

“These don’t work,” I tried to explain. “Over the years I caught enough to fill an arboretum.”

So there I stood in my seafoam green ensemble realizing that the last of my single friends was married off.  You’re next. I laughed, By default.