He went much further the day I introduced him to my new fiancée and joyously told him of my wedding plans. He sat me down the next day to tell me about the mistake I was about to make. He virtually interrogated me about my future bride and advised me to probe deeper. Women couldn’t be trusted, he told me point-blank, and I needed to be careful.
I mentioned his paranoia to an aunt who smiled knowingly and decided to unravel a page of family history. Dale, she told me, had to keep long work hours because of his city beat, even when he got married. His new bride pleaded, argued, remonstrated. Dale, proud of his responsibilities, said it couldn’t be helped. Six months later, he came back home in the middle of the day to pick up a dossier he had studied the night before and had left behind by mistake. His wife was in bed with another man. He got divorced. He never dated again. And he hated women, the aunt said, with intense and consistent passion.
Two months later, Toni radiantly announced her decision to marry Dale. Dale was twenty-two years older than her, she was told, and not keen on marriage, but Toni wouldn’t be dissuaded. Her persistence paid off. Twelve weeks later they were married.
Dale remains a very friendly guy, ever ready to take us out for a drink. But, everybody concurs, he has become an incurable bore on a subject from which it seems nearly impossible to wean him. Women, he tells us at every conceivable opportunity, are very caring, totally trustworthy, simply wonderful.