Senior dating is for the birds … but still, I’m glovin’ it

Bob Morrissey

Some dreams are so fantastic you never want to wake up; others are so frightening you only want them to stop. And then there are dreams that are just plain goofy — like my latest one.

The weather was turning cold when Jillian and I set out from the Montreal suburb of Beaconsfield, where we both live in the same condominium complex. After several months of flirting, I asked her out. I realize taking a lady to Canadian Tire for an oil change isn’t the most romantic of gestures, but it’s a start. Who knows, if all goes well we could end up bonding over a Big Mac at McDonald’s.

The fact is, we’re almost strangers. I wouldn’t know her from Adam if I didn’t occasionally rummage through her garbage. Not that it did much good. Jillian’s trash kept all its secrets, except one: Jillian was addicted to Metamucil; the numerous empty bottles don’t lie.

So off we went in her car, two seniors acting like giggly, wrinkled teens — me behind the wheel, sporting Tan & Ivory driving gloves, bought with coupons just for the occasion. Think James Bond, without the sex appeal.

And like Bond, I almost flipped the car on the first twisty corner we came to. My intention was to send Jillian flying over the armrest and onto my lap. No such luck. Damn those seat belts.

“Are you trying to get us killed?” Jillian snapped.

“Yesh,” I said, in Sean Connery fashion.

Jillian wasn’t amused. Instead of complimenting me on my spot-on impersonation, she thought I was slurring because I’d been drinking.

“Let me smell your breath,” she ordered.

I gave her the I’m-shocked, how-dare-you look and said, “Don’t you think that’s a little inappropriate on a first date?” She gave me wicked, snarly grin and said, “What about the last date?”

Not bad, I muttered to myself.

Our little tiff seemed to suck all the air out of the car. Neither of us said a word until a minute later, when Jillian spotted a flock of birds, forming almost a perfect triangle, swooping overhead. Suddenly her eyes lit up and her jaw dropped. “Look at that,” she marvelled. “It’s that time of the year. The birds are heading south for the winter.”

With that, the flock veered sharply left. “No they aren’t,” I said. “They’re going to Pierrefonds.”

“You mean the great migration starts in Beaconsfield and ends in Pierrefonds?”

“With a stopover in Dollard-des-Ormeaux,” I said.

“Surely not to rest?”

“No,” I told her. “They go there to scrounge for food in the West Island’s biggest McDonald’s parking lot.”

As we silently continued on our way, Jillian looked straight ahead, her fingers fidgeting with her purse. She looked in pain and I thought I heard a burp.

Remembering all those empty bottles of Metamucil, I asked if she was OK and she said she was. I suspected she might be lying and really needed to use the restroom. But I also didn’t want to let on that I knew about her digestive/bowel problem because of rummaging through her garbage.

So instead of coming right out with it, I ambiguously and quietly asked, “Would you like to see a man about a horse?”

“What!” she snapped. Then her expression changed, and not for the better. It was obvious she was putting two and two together and coming up with ‘“this guy is playing games with me.”

Before she could say anything, I jumped in with, “Hey, we’re only a few miles from Hudson. That’s horse country. We can go right now.”

A few seconds passed while she thought it over. “But what about McDonald’s?”

“What about it? Are you really that hungry?”

“No,” she said. “I just miss the birds.”

I said, “I always thought you were a little flighty.”