COLUMN: On the Subject of Jon
Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Jon.
Sorry, no last names. Like Dragnet, monikers in my column are changed to protect the innocent, and by all accounts Jon is as innocent as they come. He’s 20, fair-skinned, bright-eyed and ready to arm wrestle the world.
Most of the time, he’s upbeat, light-hearted and guile-free. Jon spews compliments like Democrats and Republicans share insults. Indeed, Mr. Jon has become a “trophy husband.”
However, Jon Boy is beginning to change. Wearing his heart on his sleeve is becoming too painful. More often than not, he is confused by the devilish game single folks like to call “dating.” His questions, like other males of similar age, are varied, but full of worry. When should I call a girl? How long should I wait before I ask her on a second date? When she sighs, four octaves lower than her normal sigh, should I register that as anger? If I call seven girls on a Friday night and each turns me down, should I turn gay?
Poignant questions. No easy answers.
The best I could offer Jon was a realistic view of dating from someone who is seven years his elder. I’ve dated, bled, cried and succeeded in marrying a top-notch woman. Sure, every now and then I break into stuttering and slobbering, but for the most part, the dating game has left me scar-free. Now, a marriage veteran (an entirely different sadomasochistic game) of six years, I have some advice for Jon and his dating homeboys.
First, realize it is a game and plan accordingly. Basically, this means maintaining the upper hand at all times. The upper hand in dating is not showing emotion right off the bat. Sure, she looks like Shakira, has the body of Aphrodite and whispers sweet musings of love in your ear, but you must persevere. Letting your guard down could mean a swift kick to the mental privates.
Second, be yourself. Does this really need explanation? I don’t think so, but for the slow folks, what this means is simple. If you are high on life because you wear turtlenecks and listen to Serge Gainsbourg, then that is you and it should always be you. If chicks don’t like you, move on. Internalize this rule.
Third, wear cologne. I couldn’t think of anything profound, so this will have to do. But hey, the benefits of smelling like a French Horse are severely underestimated. Try to match your cologne with your date’s personality. And not the cheap stuff. Old Spice was banned as cologne right after World War II.
Fourth, don’t despair. This rule could also be titled “When You’re Down, Watch Baywatch.” Depending on your religion, this could be changed to watching Cinemax or renting the Red Shoe Diaries at Hastings. What this rule actually means is regardless of the thousands of Brown Helmets you may receive before you tie the knot, there is always light at the end of the tunnel, Carol Ann.
In the end, I explained all of this to Jon. He paused and digested my words. His face was etched in concern and wonderment, but soon was lighted with a smile.
“But I like girls,” he said, grinning and nodding like Jo-Jo the Monkey Boy. Clearly, Jon is willing to risk pain for pleasure. Maybe he’s smart. I think he’s nuts.
So, I’ll be his pimp. Ladies, drop me an e-mail, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies, and Jon will be yours forever.