I was talking one lifetime with my two teenage nieces-both sensible adolescent women who apparently admit never suffered wound up the dating experiences I had wrestled with. I started the argument for I was curious as to the techniques and strategies of the mating dance in the 21st Century. After all, it was my informal observation that dating, as I knew it in the Sixties, had died some age ago.

With patience and a healthy awe for elders, the girls gave me an inside study into their world, although I did obtain a sporadic rolling eyeballs and a couple of those dad-was-right-Uncle-Bob-is-really-dense, big-eyed, blank stares. On the contrary they hung in there comparable champs and explained to me the rules of existing engagement.

I learned that "hooking up" is justification for locking up and "hanging out" is something between a age and a party. I'm nice definite that there is yet a conceit of dating on the other hand it no longer leads to "going out" or "going steady". It simply leads to added dates closer calm which eventually example to some beneficent of anonymous monogamous relationship, at which end all roads vanguard to ownership, jealousy and breaking up. Whew, at least something is much the same.

As for the transaction of engagement, it is accomplished by IM'ing, or entering chat amplitude discussions, or passage messaging on cell phones. Essentially you can contact likely targets in the safety of your basement or bathroom or garage, without much truly talking to them directly. That translates into a Brand-new Cowardly Existence void of black snarling parents, crackling octave-changing apprehensive voices, irritable bowel syndrome, and most importantly, the boreal bludgeoning slam of a callous bell rejection. It's equal servers, routers, cell towers, satellites and keypads nowadays.

It is gloomy in a idea that this has all changed since I had mastered a dating method so sophisticated in its simplicity that it is a disgrace to examine it whither outside prize so several of my other inventive adolescent coping skills-and I had developed a sack entire of them.

The approach is called "The Rejection Dating Maneuver".

Its birth was the backwash of the later telephone ring I mythical to supposedly a too luscious butterfly whom I had been introduced to approximately a week before that lowly moment. It was my aboriginal "cold" phone to a coed for a date. (note: the adjacent is an excerpt from a short autobiography I wrote called "The Rejection Dating Maneuver". It is one from a crowd of short stories entitled, "Still Living in the Sixties", available to scan for costless at my website)

After a lengthy pause, during which my short uneventful growth passed before me, I released the remain digit of her ring unit on the rotary phone. I stared blankly at the spinning dial, clutching my sweat soaked paper money between my thumb and index finger, unaware of my trembling hands.

deh-deh-deh-deh-deh-deh-deh ... dah!

Silence.

My ear began to sweat against the receiver.

Ringtone!

Rehrehringgg ... Rehrehringgg ... Rehreh

"Ya-ello?" a fathomless articulation boomed into my ear.

Oh my god! It was her dad; her raspy voiced, connected (as in Tony Soprano connected) father of all people. I never expected that he'd be habitation that night. I figured he'd be absent breaking legs or forging books or both, nevertheless not at homey on a Friday night.

I needed to respond. He was waiting for some amiable of letter of duration from my foot of the phone. However my seeing was blurred from anxiety, rendering the dopy script I held in my shaking fist useless. My lips were glued in sync with fear. But somehow I managed to eek gone some sounds.

"Umm ... hi ... umm ... is Gina ... umm ... home?" I cackled akin a constipated Leghorn hen.

"Yeah she's home. Who's calling?"

I ... I ... I didn't know. Who was I? Active my notes!

"Yeah, this is Bob. Umm Crane. That's Bob Crane who this is." I answered in broken English, as smooth as Barney Fife on crack cocaine.

"Bob Crane huh? You that Hogan's Heroes guy? You Hogan?"

Was I? Possibly I was. I checked my notes. Insignificancy there.

"No sir. Dependable popular Bob Crane. No Hogan Bob Crane. I'm dispassionate regular. I allying Hogan's Heroes but that isn't me. I'm just-"

Her dad incision me off.

"I purchase it. You're not. Jesus Christ I was honorable jokin' with ya son. Clout on!"

"Thank you!" But before I finished, he covered the call with what I could particular visualize was his thick knuckled hand.

Though muted, I could all the more clearly hear him.

"Gina! Phone!"

Muffled voice.

"The guy from Hogan's Heroes!"

Muffled voice.

"Just pick up!"

It felt analogous an interval but I credit it was about three seconds.

Click.

"Got it Daddy."

Click.

"Hello"

"Hi ... Gina?"

"Yeah?"

"This is Bob Crane."

"Who?"

"Bob Crane. We met about a week ago. Remember? After band practice? Carteret Park?"

"Were you the guy stressful that bloodshot bandanna with the crowded floppy socks according to that basketball player, 'Rifle Rick'?"

"'Pistol Pete' ... yeah."

"Yeah, I flash on you."

Silence. Hmm ... she remembered. I guess I was looking appealing cool. But there was no duration to bask. Where was I in the script? My notes!

"Yeah, I was wondering provided maybe you'd alike to animation away to the movies or something?"

"No. I don't consider so."

Yeeoowser! That hurt.

But I didn't stop. I continued along the script approximative a runaway train. I was so basket case that I am beautiful trustworthy the receiver was shoved up into my ear canal, urgent against the eardrum, forming it impossible to listen.

"I was thinking we could contemplate The Ultimate Picture Show."

"Bye."

Click.

"I can pick you up at 7 okay?"

Dial tone.

"Okay, look ya then. Bye."

I gently lowered the receiver and placed it onto the cradle. I felt ill to my stomach. I stared at the phone. It stared back, snickering.

(end of exerpt)

At that bona fide mo I went from "loser" lowercase to "LOSER" uppercase.

But not for long. Soon I would progress the "maneuver" and what a like honey maneuver it would be.

Without going down the extensive apologue of how I figured this all elsewhere (read the story), it eventually occurred to me that it was not getting a period that mattered as even as it was controlling the rejection. It was, after all, rejection-cold unadulterated rejection-that was at the affection of my searing pain. I needed to grow into one with rejection. And what higher quality path to discharge that than warrantly rejection. So going forward, I did due that. I always fabricated firm to diary a inaugural day at a interval when I was certain the cupcake could not arrange it.

Knowing filled great rejection was guaranteed, it was ethical a complication of judging how I was rejected that would impel whether I would dash off a follow-up telephone for a existent date.

And you be schooled what? It worked perfectly. Girls who wanted a interval pleaded for me to bell back, sometimes telling me what date worked prime for them. In a few situation or two, they yet rescheduled the generation deserved then and there. As for those girls who were uninterested or violently sick at the thought, they simply jumped on the built-in pardon and politely bowed out. My feelings were never hurt. It was a charming thing. And I used it unapologetically for second childhood with bulky results.

Needless to say, I handed this immature juicy bit down to my son. He has embraced it. And he has assured me should the dating nature ever repay to the days of the rotary dial phone, he testament be ready and he will be relieved for my guidance. He again asked that I not handwriting it with anyone else, that it be our dinky secret. I did not vow (to his chagrin).

And immediately I artisan it with all. Sorry son. My undertaking is at once complete.