The Woeful Tale of Glitter Skulls and Dating

Halloween is coming. This has prompted my Sister, who is an amazing artist, to add some skulls to the repertoire of jewelry offerings in her burgeoning business. They are super fun…beads and bone skulls…cute earrings and bracelets. Actually, perfect for Halloween. People will grab them up and she’ll run out almost before she puts them out on display. But for me – I’m burned out on the whole skull phenom…all because of the glitter, bedazzled and faux leather fashion catastrophe of the recent years as women of a certain age attempted to accelerate their entry into the otherworldly existence of dating post-divorce – and started hopping on the back of motorcycles. Halloween jewelry – fun…yes. Everyday fashion for the middle-aged woman…not so much.

The middle-aged man and his ride. What can I say? It’s either a car or truck. A sports car.

Or, a Harley.

Disclaimer: This isn’t intended for my girlfriends who have their own ride or ride with a man who has always had his ride. Or married couples who are adding some fun when the birds have flown the nest. Just sayin’…

I’m not talking about a man who rides a Harley with experience and intelligence, who has a history of beating the odds. I’m talking about the middle-aged man who comes out of a 20+ year marriage, and finds himself maybe flush with a little cash and loads of free time – and nothing to spend any of it on but his ride and attempting to re-enter the dating world. It doesn’t matter if he has never had that much power under his crotch before – this is the man who just has to have a motorcycle – and at least one gorgeous woman on his arm at all times.

Mr. Motorcycle doesn’t know how to ride, but he’ll learn how to ride – I mean, what’s the big deal here? He has always wanted one. It’s in his blood. But, 2.5 kids, a mortgage, select sports and a wife kept him from it. He’ll get a cool Harley. He’ll get a hot chick – and then, they will ride.

This will send a shock wave out into the world which will drown out his ex-wife’s voice forever – as he rides into the sunset of suburbia on a Saturday – pulling up to men driving mini-vans back from the soccer field – who will then think to themselves…

”Damn, I wish I was that guy.”

So, let me state this one more time…so y’all don’t blow up this blog…I’m not talking about legit riders. I’m talking about the man who wants it until he doesn’t…or it doesn’t want him and decides to buck him like a wild horse. This is for the middle-aged women covered in glitter skulls and shot up with Botox. Straightened hair, injections in the lips…frosty lip gloss. if you can get any air between leather and skin…it’s just not tight enough. Starvation meets boob job meets spray tan meets boutique skull fashion. Helmets, for some reason, seem to be optional. But, do-rags – designer branding preferred – they are a must. I mean – it’s only your head. But, damn y’all look good.

Picture this…three women off of Match.com who have made it past the initial profile pic screening – winks, emails – followed by the “let’s get a drink” body scan, and now – they are in direct competition to jump on the back of that new, shiny Harley. Like the dating game, but with glitter skulls.

“Ladies, I have some qualifying questions for you…Which of you will get on the back of my bike and RIDE?”

They all look at each other. I’d venture to guess that none of them have been on the back of a Harley – but, hey – it’s a vicious dating world out there…all three say reluctantly say…”ME!”

Moving on.

“Ladies, I need someone who will look great on the back of my bike.”

They are all stumped. They all look good. They sure as hell look better than him. But, that’s not the point. This is where he starts ranking them…then, tells them…” Ladies, I have ranked you in descending order. But, I would like to give you a one-week reprieve before I announce who will ride. Use it well.”

All the women call their girlfriends – and the now we have Team competition. Laser fat treatments, spray tanning, body wraps, spa treatments, facials, Botox, new lashes, updated roots. One team drops out – he’s not worth it. You know…slight man boobs and some erectile dysfunction. Too much work.

They return…he has a winner with a backup. “Alright, alright, alright. My Lucky Lady, you get to get on the back of my bike and enter Texas traffic on our next date.”

Not marriage.

A date.

No agreement signed in blood as to the status of your relationship if you and Mr. Crotch Rocket with No Experience – or Harley Hercules – wipe out with your fine ass on it and you end up with permanent brain damage and a broken back.

No guarantees, just the thrill of his ride.

Like when the mother of one of my daughter’s friends…hit the big 45…started dating a guy with a new shiny ride. She had a great job, great benefits, big 401(k), looked great – she just wanted to date this guy. She preferred hanging out and drinking craft beer. Maybe a steak dinner and some live music. Nope, not him. He wanted to ride.

That is – until he wiped it out and crushed her leg, to name just one of the many injuries. Traction. Years go by in casts, surgeries, rehabilitation, recovery from addictions to prescription pain killers and hard liquor.

Crushed her leg and her world. Splat.

He was fine. He held on. She went flying – and it took her about 10 years to stick the landing.

They broke up while she was in traction.

(And all the people said…”Hey! Party foul. Booooooo…hisssss!!!!!!!!!)

Come on people. Reality check. It was just a date.

I was dating a really nice man who had a Harley. He knew what he was doing. But, I dumped him…because he asked me…

“Hey, Cherry! Do you think you could lose some weight so that you could wear a bikini top with cut offs on the back of my Harley?” …there were no words…yet, he continued…” I want to see the look on every man’s face with you on the back of my bike…and they are sitting there at the light in a mini-van! I want them to see what I have on the back of my bike.” So, he was trying to tell me I was fat, yet make it a compliment. Okay. Got it.

My mind was screaming…” NOOOOOO!” Matter of fact, I was thinking…” I wouldn’t have Daisy Duke’d it on the back of your freakin’ motorcycle in my 20’s – you ain’t that big of a deal – and I’m in my 50’s!!!!! I’m a freakin’ grandmother, for Christ’s sake!” But, that’s not what I said.

“Would you like me to lose some weight?” Sweetly. He literally, nodded his head. “Oh, I’m so glad you brought it up. I’d just love to lose some weight.  Would that make you happy?” He smiled because it would make him happy. Which made me laugh on the inside in an evil female way.

(Cue evil laugh and let it go on for a good five minutes.)

This gave him hope. But there was no hope. His mind was drifting off to how good I was going to make him look. You know, after I lost weight. It was somewhere after the first question, that I had dumped him. He just hadn’t gotten the memo. I decided that in this case…a text would be really nice.

Anyway, if there was one thing I would never do is this…I would never lose weight and look gorgeous as a middle-aged woman – and buy cut-offs and a bikini top – braid my hair like I could also back up a professional in a yodeling contest…and deal with spray tan. Nobody is shooting pharmaceuticals into my face, laser zapping my body or trying to recycle the boobs I’ve had since the 5th grade.

(I’ve stopped cussing – so insert the word you know goes here…” xxxx that!”)

Let’s see…lose weight and be absolutely awesome, stunning, and drop dead gorgeous to…

…go on a long, extended trip through Europe with a new wardrobe.

…live like a Rockstar.

…get my own cooking show or something.

Ride a motorcycle?

We broke up. No loss to him. He rode off into the sunset with a young, starving, gorgeous blonde on the back of his ride. Everyone wins.

I even had a guy who was a member of our middle-aged single friend group – who rented a motorcycle to do the “Easy Rider” thing with another one of our guy friends. They magically showed up where all of us girls were hanging and sipping on fruity cocktails – minding our P’s and Q’s. They just couldn’t contain themselves – they had to show us all.

I’m in a dress, vintage scarf and heels inside a nice restaurant. They come in with do-rags and are high on life. They were so happy. It was a new look for them both.

“Come on, Cherry!!! We will take you for a spin around the block and bring you right back.”

It took a while for me to agree – and a lot of arguing and avoidance – but eventually I did it. My only disclaimer was that I had three fruity cocktails and it all seemed to be harmless by that point.

What was supposed to be a spin around the block ended up several miles away in the Fort Worth Stockyards, by Billy Bob’s Texas – up on a sidewalk – into the grass – he loses control and jumps off. The entire Harley falls over with me on it. My head hits the concrete bedding around a tree – and I’m trapped with the bike sitting on top of me with my head squished between the bike and the side of a concrete planter. Not the pipe side, thank you, Jesus. I was trapped, nonetheless. And, my friend can’t pull it off of me. He just stands there looking at me.

Men start yelling from about 50 feet away. “Pull that off of her!!!” He can’t.

Cue about four Cowboys waiting in line to get into Billy Bob’s running over and pulling the bike off of me – yelling at him – and then, one of them lifts me up off the ground – carrying me over to check on me.

(A moment of silence.)

Come to think of it – that was the only good thing that happened that night. My dinner bill was ridiculous, I only had a small concussion. But, being carried by a tall, handsome cowboy with a big cowboy hat, and the best cologne ever – rounded it out just fine. Anyway, I got his starched white shirt dirty – apologized…and he said…

“That’s fine, Ma’am. Just as long as you are alright – and all in one piece.  I should say not to get on the back of a motorcycle with anyone who can’t control it and knows how to ride.  You don’t want to mess up that beautiful face and brain. That’s all we could see was beautiful brown hair and heels flying in the air and it falling over on you. We’re just glad you’re alright.”

And, then…he picked grass, twigs and stuff out of my hair.

(Another moment of silence. He called me beautiful.)

I love Texas.

I loved being carried like I was a precious treasure – as if I’m made of delicate sugar, and there’s lava on the ground. You know – I would just melt if he sat me down on the ground.

Lava, I’m telling you.

I also loved that the lava didn’t seem to permeate his alligator boots or mess up his starched jeans and shirt. And, his cologne was impervious to lava. All of that lava and it didn’t matter to my concussion.

Again, I love Texas.

“Cherry, do you want to head out into the Texas Hill Country with us tomorrow and RIDE?”

It was immediate – I almost choked on the words as they were flying up out of my throat in such a rush. “Hell, no – I want to LIVE!!!!” I think I slapped not one but both of them. It was instinctive.

Not the cowboy. My guy friends. That cowboy was my hero  They weren’t.

That’s it, Ladies. You should want to live!

Live past the suckiness of dating that happens until you find someone you really enjoy spending your time with and just can’t live without. Not Mr. Right Now, but Mr. Right For-Freakin’-Ever!

And, come on. Be original. Let some other chick win the guy and get on the back of his ride. Take three steps back when they all step forward. Just wait it out. And, if they all say…”Really, Cherry? Really? Is this how you want to live your life?”

Your answer is “Yes. You go right ahead. I chose to LIVE!”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5UWRypqz5-o