I Triple-Dog-Dare You

I used to pride myself on being a very talented flirt.  I could seductively smile, coyly toss my hair, and bat sultry eyes with the best of 'em.  But that was almost ten years ago—I do not really know if I still possess this above-average ability.  Perhaps the skill is something that one gradually forsakes without practice like playing the piano or speaking French.  If you don't use it, you lose it—isn't that the rule?

Flirting aside, one aspect of my personality which has always remained consistent, even without use or practice, and despite my increasing wisdom and maturity, is the fact that I absolutely refuse to be told that I cannot, will not, or would never dare to do something.  In fact, if a certain individual wants to ensure that something will get done by me, tell me that I can't do it, and, by golly, it will get done so fast you'd think my dog's life depended on it.  Every time I think that I have outgrown this silly, stubborn behavior, someone goes and says "DD, you would never do that..." and drop-kicks me back into resigned reality.

One of the first emergences of this trait occurred when I was seven years old.  An older girl at my elementary school was the master of the Cherry Bomb, a challenging move on the monkey bars that involved hanging by your knees from the high bar and swinging back and forth to gain some momentum.  Once the right level of "swing momentum" had been reached, one would then flip her body mid-swing, release her legs, and land gracefully standing on her feet.  It was majestic.  It was fearless.  It was a feat that no one else could accomplish...until I came along.

Unfortunately, while I was basking in the awe of my admiring fans, my little sister Steve thought, if I could do it, she could do it too and ended up with a broken wrist.  Our mom did not share my feeling of glorious accomplishment.

And who could forget when I was twelve and dared to prank call the boy I liked to tell him how cuuute he was but not reveal my true identity—which then backfired (of course it did...it's me) when Cuuute Boy's older brother figured out how to call back our number.  An hour later, my friends and I were no longer guarding the phone, and my sister Rugrat answered to tell Cuute Boy our family's last name.  Oops.  Cuuute Boy made sure no one forgot about that phone call for the rest of the school year.

Finally, this trait was again notable when I was sixteen and a junior in high school.  Steve and I were staying at our seventeen-year-old cousin Prima's house for the night, and Prima decided to take us out to a nightclub featuring an 18-and-under night so that we could dance the night away...or until our midnight curfew.  Well, this nightclub had platform cages—yes, you read that right:  enclosed, barred cages that were up on platforms around the dance floor.  (I promise, it was not quite as sketchy as it sounds.)  It started out as Prima and I trying to convince little Steve to dance in one of those cages for a laugh, but of course Steve shyly refused unless her big sister danced in one first.

Prima let out a huge laugh.  "Yeah, right!  DD would never get up and dance in that cage!" she insisted.

I kid you not—I was in that cage and dancing faster than you can say "underage debauchery."


Bringing us to present day...  Recently, I attended the annual Christmas-tree-lighting ceremony in my town, followed by a post-ceremony drink with Faith, Rowdy, and Todd.  The night starts out fairly quiet—until I notice the DJ working that night.

"That DJ is pretty attractive...how old do you think he is?" I remark, my gaze still affixed on Mr. DJ.

"Yeah, he's definitely cute.  Go request a song," responds Faith, smiling encouragingly.  "Then you have an excuse to talk to him!"  Discussion commences amongst us over which song to request before an agreement is reached, and I'm out of my seat and striding over to the DJ booth.

"Hi."  I give Mr. DJ my best flirtatious smile.  He actually turns away from his music and smiles back.  Score.  "I was wondering if I could request a song...?"

"Sure, what to you want to hear?" Mr. DJ says.

"Well, my friends really want to hear 'Don't Stop Believing,' so they sent me up here to talk to you," I say, putting my hand on my hip, slightly tilting my head, and still smiling.  "Do you think you could play that one?"

I know—I'm pathetically obvious, but it did work.  Introductions were made, Journey was put in the queue, and I sat back down looking triumphant.  He was totally going to glance in my direction right away.  Or soon.  Any second now.  I mean, he did have a job to do....  Sigh.  Maybe not so triumphant.

Rowdy decides to take charge of the situation.  "Here's what you do:  Go buy two drinks; one for you, one for him.  Then you walk up to him, give him the drink, raise yours, say 'cheers' and walk away," she instructs.  "Trust me, it will work.  You will totally get his attention."

I'm skeptical.  "I don't know...that's not really me.  I'm not sure I can pull that one off."  Rowdy and I argue; Faith plays Switzerland; Todd refuses to be dragged into, much less acknowledge, our nonsense.  At last, I give in and obediently march up to the bar defeated.

I manage to talk myself out of this Rowdy-move once I'm alone at the bar waiting to order drinks.  Minutes later, I skulk back to our booth and straight into Rowdy's disapproval.

"Why don't you ever listen to me?!?" she exclaims.  "Why do you give me decision-making power if you don't listen to me?!"

"I was thinking...maybe I should just go flirt with him?" I suggest tentatively.  "I can actually do that!"

"Ugh.  I've seen you flirt.  You cannot do that," Rowdy sighs.

My jaw drops, and I let out huge gasp of shock, quickly followed by a stubborn look of determination.  Without a word, I drop my purse next to Faith, throw off my cardigan sweater, push up the sleeves of my shirt, and stalk off resolutely to conquer the challenge.

As I exercise my best flirting moves on Mr. DJ, back at the table Todd is pretending he doesn't know me (which I'm sure has nothing to do with the fact that I stick my tongue out at all three of them when Mr. DJ has his back turned to change the song).  My flirting works sufficiently enough for Mr. DJ to ask for my number—insufficient, however, in getting Mr. DJ to call.  Weeks later, and my phone still hasn't rung.  Apparently my flirting techniques could use a tune up....

At least I can count on the fact that some things about me will probably never change—too bad it's the things that probably should.

Lesson #10 in Post-Divorce Dating:  Flirting is a time-honored tradition that requires regular use and exercise in order to see improvement.  One should practice flirting on unsuspecting men that are not too important to snare when still enhancing skills.  The use of new flirting methods is highly suggested and encouraged, but beware of the "triple-dog-dare" method—it has not been proven to be the best source of motivation.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée