Maybe it's the air ... maybe, in this particular case, it's the pollen. Who knows? Who cares?
This is the exact text of an e-mail from a potential match, via match.com. For which I was again suckered into handing over my hard-earned dough.
Here we go. Are you ready?
60-year-old man (Note: my range is now 45-75)
Seeks women 42-54 (well, of course he would, wouldn't he?)
<Start wooing here>
A lady recovering from an illnes [sic] wrote about her pumpkins that she had grown from seed:</wooing>
"Butterflies, thick as confetti, float there each day -- sometimes I wear them in my hair. I am amazed at the music a gentle rain can make on the wide leaves, and I feel tender toward the wrens that bathe in the water that pools in the hollow heart of each one. I have stood there in the garden with the new dog at nightfall, her pale fur sequined with fireflies, watching bats swoop and listening to the scurryings of mice while the blue moonlight licks at the round white fruit that might someday sit lit in a window on Halloween. And I feel hope for the future in a way I have not for a long, long time."
Now that is prose -Wow!
We seem to share many traits - I would have to meet you to see if there is chemistry.. I am afraid I can bicycle well still but am not as good at running as I used to be.. (no dogs any more - I use to run ahead and jump the creek and hide - and they would play and come and "find")
I swear I am not making this up. I mean, who could?
It's lovely and all...there is a certain sweetness...but, um, SAY WHAT? Pumpkins? And yes, we actually would have to meet. Eventually. Or, I suppose we could get engaged after this one e-mail. It's possible!
Speechless in Bethesda