This story takes place at a time when my political views were rather different from those I hold today. Some things change with age and experience. Fortunately, so does one's taste in men.

The telephone rang at eight o'clock in the morning, dragging me from a perfectly good sleep.
 
"Hi, sexy baby," purred a deep, wonderfully masculine voice.
 
I stretched luxuriously beneath the covers and smiled.
 
"I love you, baby," he continued. "I think about you day and night. I can't wait to see you."
 
Ah, romance! At sixty-six, having been deserted by my husband after more than thirty years of marriage, I was discovering that the heart could still flutter, the pulse could still race, and a telephone could be infinitely more interesting than anything on television.
 
Unfortunately, I was also about to discover that a seductive voice and a suitable husband are two entirely different things.
 
His name was Jerry.
 
We had met on an Internet dating site and had been communicating for over a month. He lived in Colorado, I lived in Los Angeles, and we had somehow convinced ourselves that a thousand miles was a mere geographical inconvenience on the road to everlasting happiness.
 
Jerry telephoned several times a day. He was attentive, affectionate and wonderfully complimentary. He made me feel desirable, cherished and, most importantly, wanted.
 
After years of feeling rather like an unwanted piece of furniture in my own marriage, this was intoxicating stuff.
 
There was one small problem. Politics.
 
Jerry was a passionate Democrat. I was, at the time, a Conservative. Our political discussions occasionally became so heated that I ended up in tears.
 
But what was a little political disagreement between two people destined for eternal bliss?
 
I told myself that perhaps I might even learn something from him.
 
As it turned out, I certainly did.
 
"So when are you coming, baby?" he asked.
 
"This Friday. My son has arranged an airline pass for me."
 
"I can't wait to hold you."
 
Neither could I.
 
I had seen photographs of Jerry, although the original one on the dating site was suspiciously fuzzy. More recent pictures showed a large, rather cuddly-looking man. He assured me that he had been exercising religiously, running regularly and shedding pounds at an impressive rate.
 
I imagined a burly, fit gentleman with the appearance of a slightly oversized teddy bear.
 
I wasn't looking for a film star. At my age, I had long since abandoned the notion of finding Cary Grant waiting outside the arrivals terminal.
 
All I wanted was a kind, loving, companionable man with whom to share the rest of my life.
 
Surely that wasn't asking too much?
 
Apparently, it was.
 
The Arrival
 
Friday arrived, and I boarded the plane at Los Angeles International Airport.
 
As we began our descent into Denver, my stomach performed several complicated maneuvers.
 
What if we didn't like each other? What if the chemistry wasn't there? What if his photograph had been taken during the Eisenhower administration?
 
"Please, God," I whispered, "just let him be reasonably attractive."
 
I reapplied my lipstick, sprayed on my favorite perfume and stepped off the plane with the nervous anticipation of a teenager on her first date.
 
I spotted him immediately.
 
Oh, dear.
 
Standing at the end of the arrivals area was a very large gentleman who bore only a passing resemblance to the photographs I had been studying.
 
His promised transformation through diet and exercise had apparently been somewhat exaggerated.
 
My first instinct was to turn around, find the nearest departing aircraft and return to California.
 
Unfortunately, he had already spotted me.
 
There are moments in life when good manners become an absolute curse.
 
This was one of them.
 
I approached with what I hoped was a convincing smile.
 
He enveloped me in an awkward embrace. His breath was unpleasant, his face was florid, and his appearance suggested that his daily runs had been considerably shorter than advertised.
 
"You look disappointed," he remarked.
 
"Oh, no!" I replied brightly.
 
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
 
We collected my luggage and proceeded to his car.
 
He had told me he drove a large luxury vehicle.
 
The car waiting in the parking lot was a small, rather battered specimen, containing an impressive collection of dried leaves.
 
Perhaps, I thought, the luxury car was at the cleaners.
 
I climbed in, fastened my seat belt and stared resolutely out of the window.
 
We bypassed Denver altogether and drove to his small town. Conversation was limited. I could sense his disappointment in my reaction, and guilt began to creep in.
 
After all, wasn't I being terribly shallow?
 
He might have a heart of gold beneath that considerable exterior.
 
I gave his knee a reassuring squeeze.
 
I was determined to be fair.
 
This determination would prove to be one of my less successful character traits.
 
Home Sweet Home
 
Jerry's house was large, but the surrounding garden looked as though nature had declared independence and the owner had surrendered without a fight.
 
Grass grew enthusiastically in every direction. Garden furniture was scattered about, jackrabbits hopped through the undergrowth, and a rusty lawnmower stood abandoned like a monument to good intentions.
 
Inside, things were not much better.
 
Cobwebs decorated the ceilings, dead insects adorned the windowsills, and dust had settled so comfortably that I suspected some of it had acquired squatter's rights.
 
I was shown to the spare bedroom, where I deposited my overnight bag and silently resolved not to inspect anything too closely.
 
That evening we went out for Mexican food.
 
A couple of margaritas later, the situation began to look considerably brighter.
 
Isn't alcohol marvelous?
 
Jerry became more charming, his arm around my waist felt pleasantly possessive, and I began to wonder whether I had been too quick to judge him.
 
Perhaps the handsome men of my past had simply spoiled me. Perhaps a good heart mattered more than appearance.
 
Perhaps I was about to discover the true meaning of love.
 
Or perhaps I had consumed too many margaritas.
 
Back at the house, Jerry settled himself in front of a small television set equipped with rabbit ears.
 
Football was on.
 
I don't like football.
 
Jerry loved football.
 
Indeed, as I was soon to discover, Jerry loved football with a passion normally reserved for one's spouse, children or possibly the family dog.
 
I sat beside him, smiling encouragingly, while enormous men crashed into one another for what seemed like several geological eras.
 
Eventually, the game ended.
 
We retired for the night, and I discovered that, despite my earlier misgivings, there was a genuine attraction between us. Jerry could be surprisingly tender and affectionate, and for a little while I forgot the dreadful car, the neglected garden and the insects.
 
Perhaps, I thought, this might work after all.
 
Then came the sleeping arrangements.
 
His bedroom was dark, oppressively warm and sealed behind heavy draperies.
 
I felt as though I had been placed inside a velvet-lined coffin.
 
"Could we leave the door open?" I asked.
 
"No. It will interfere with the air-conditioning."
 
"Could we have a little light?"
 
"No."
 
"Perhaps open the curtains?"
 
"No."
 
Well, that settled it.
 
Unable to sleep in what felt like a particularly luxurious tomb, I gathered up a pillow and moved to the living-room sofa.
 
Jerry promptly went to sleep.
 
I lay awake, wondering whether this was what people meant by making compromises in a relationship.
 
The Housekeeping Incident
 
The following morning, I made us breakfast.
 
Jerry went off to shower, leaving me alone in the living room.
 
Now, I have always been a tidy person. Not obsessively so, you understand, but I do like to be able to distinguish the furniture from the surrounding dirt.
 
As I surveyed Jerry's living room, I became increasingly distressed by the dust, cobwebs and deceased insect population.
 
He had specifically told me not to clean anything.
 
Naturally, I decided to clean everything.
 
I located the vacuum cleaner, dragged the furniture away from the walls and attacked the accumulated debris with the enthusiasm of a woman preparing for a royal inspection.
 
I swept. I dusted. I vacuumed. I mopped.
 
Dead insects disappeared, cobwebs were dispatched, and the room began to resemble somewhere a human being might willingly spend an evening.
 
At last I stood back, hands on hips, admiring my handiwork.
 
Surely he would be delighted!
 
He emerged from the bathroom, took one look around and exploded.
 
"WHY HAVE YOU CLEANED MY HOUSE?"
 
I blinked.
 
"I thought you'd be pleased."
 
"DO YOU THINK I'M A PIG?"
 
Well, since he asked...
 
"HOW WOULD YOU LIKE IT IF I CAME INTO YOUR HOUSE AND STARTED CLEANING?"
 
I considered this.
 
Since my house was already clean, I couldn't imagine what he would find to do. Perhaps polish the light bulbs?
 
But I wisely kept that thought to myself.
 
"I was only trying to help," I protested.
 
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING!"
 
And so began our first major argument.
 
I cried. He shouted. I defended my good intentions. He accused me of insulting him.
 
Eventually, I reached a startling conclusion.
 
I had made a dreadful mistake.
 
I retreated to the spare bedroom, telephoned the airline and arranged to return home on the next available flight.
 
Jerry was astonished.
 
He apologized, protested and begged me to stay.
 
But I had seen quite enough of Colorado, thank you very much.
 
He drove me to the airport, and I fled towards the departure gate with the enthusiasm of an escaped prisoner.
 
As the plane lifted off, I breathed a sigh of relief.
 
Goodbye, Jerry.
 
Goodbye, football.
 
Goodbye, dead spiders.
 
I was free.
 
Or so I thought.
 
The Return of the Voice
 
Back in California, the telephone began ringing.
 
Jerry was distraught.
 
He apologized repeatedly. He missed me. He loved me. He couldn't bear the thought of losing me.
 
The emails arrived in droves.
 
And then there was that voice.
 
That deep, affectionate, wonderfully persuasive voice.
 
I had to admit that Jerry was considerably more attractive when he was a thousand miles away.
 
Over the telephone, there were no dirty windowsills, no unpleasant arguments over housework, and no football games demanding my undivided attention.
 
There was just a man telling me how much he loved me.
 
And after years of loneliness, I wanted desperately to believe him.
 
Gradually, my resolve weakened.
 
Perhaps I had overreacted.
 
Perhaps his outburst had been an isolated incident.
 
Perhaps he really was the loving man I had imagined.
 
Eventually, Jerry suggested coming to Los Angeles.
 
This seemed a sensible compromise.
 
I would be on my own territory, surrounded by my familiar comforts. If things went badly, I could simply ask him to leave.
 
What could possibly go wrong?
 
A question I really should have stopped asking.
 
Jerry Comes to California
 
I arranged a free airline pass for him, cleaned my already clean house and stocked the refrigerator with delicious food.
 
I was determined to be a perfect hostess.
 
On Tuesday morning, I drove to the airport.
 
His flight had arrived early, and I spotted him waiting outside.
 
As I approached, he stepped off the sidewalk and began walking towards my car, which was in the wrong lane for loading.
 
I motioned for him to return to the sidewalk.
 
The driver behind me honked.
 
Jerry turned and began shouting abuse at the unfortunate motorist.
 
We hadn't even left the airport.
 
Four days to go, I thought.
 
Only four days.
 
At home, I proudly showed him around my lovely little house.
 
I prepared a delicious steak dinner with potatoes, corn and salad. Afterwards, I suggested a walk around the neighborhood.
 
Jerry had assured me that he exercised daily, so I imagined we might enjoy a pleasant evening stroll.
 
We hadn't covered a mile before he began breathing heavily.
 
"Let's go back," he announced.
 
I was surprised.
 
This was a man who had described his energetic runs through the Colorado countryside with considerable pride.
 
Apparently, those runs had been conducted entirely in his imagination.
 
We returned home.
 
Jerry sat down in front of the television.
 
Football was on.
 
Of course it was.
 
"Jerry," I ventured, "wouldn't you like to do something else?"
 
"Like what?"
 
"Well, we could talk. Listen to music. Play cards."
 
He looked at me as though I had suggested we take up competitive camel wrestling.
 
Then he changed the channel.
 
To another football game.
 
I went to bed.
 
The Great California Adventure
 
The following day, I decided to show Jerry some of the delights of Southern California.
 
We would visit the beach, perhaps stroll along the promenade, enjoy the sunshine and have a leisurely lunch.
 
A lovely romantic day.
 
Unfortunately, Jerry was much more interested in the local fast-food establishments.
 
He wanted to know where he could find Jack in the Box.
 
And Fatburger.
 
And other places specializing in enormous quantities of meat.
 
He informed me that he didn't particularly care for fish, vegetables or eggs.
 
His dietary preferences seemed to consist largely of anything that had once walked on four legs, preferably accompanied by french fries.
 
We never actually reached the beach.
 
We stopped for lunch, and Jerry was so contentedly settled in the restaurant that I began to suspect he intended to spend the remainder of our vacation there.
 
I watched him eat and tried not to judge.
 
After all, who was I to criticize another person's appetite?
 
Unfortunately, food wasn't the only subject on which Jerry had strong opinions.
 
There was my driving.
 
Apparently, I drove too fast.
 
I braked too suddenly.
 
I changed lanes incorrectly.
 
I parked badly.
 
I made him nervous.
 
He also objected to other drivers, particularly those displaying Republican bumper stickers.
 
I began to feel that my car was less a vehicle than a mobile debating chamber, with Jerry acting as judge, jury and executioner.
 
Back at the house, he found fault with my photographs.
 
Why did I have so many?
 
And my bathroom lotions.
 
Why did I need all those?
 
My possessions, my driving, my habits and my opinions were apparently all in need of improvement.
 
The only thing Jerry never criticized was my cooking.
 
He was far too busy eating it.
 
That evening, I took him to my favorite Mexican restaurant.
 
He attacked his burrito with a determination that suggested it had personally offended him.
 
Tortilla chips, salsa and numerous Diet Cokes followed.
 
I sat opposite him, contemplating the mysteries of human attraction.
 
Why was I still trying so hard?
 
The answer, I eventually realized, was simple.
 
I was lonely.
 
I had spent years hoping to find someone who would love me again, and Jerry had offered me precisely that.
 
Or at least he had offered it over the telephone.
 
In person, the romance was rapidly disappearing beneath a mountain of fast-food wrappers and football broadcasts.
 
The Bicycle Experiment
 
In a final attempt to find something we could enjoy together, I suggested a bicycle ride.
 
This seemed an excellent idea.
 
Fresh air, gentle exercise, a little sightseeing.
 
Jerry agreed.
 
We set off.
 
One block later, the expedition ended.
 
Jerry fell off the bicycle, panting and struggling for breath.
 
I stood beside him, wondering what recreational activity remained available to us.
 
Walking was out.
 
Cycling was out.
 
The beach was apparently out.
 
Conversation was becoming increasingly hazardous.
 
That left eating and television.
 
And I was beginning to suspect that Jerry considered both Olympic sports.
 
There were occasional moments of affection between us, but even those could not disguise the fact that we had remarkably little in common.
 
He wanted a woman who would admire him, feed him and leave him undisturbed in front of the television.
 
I wanted a companion who would talk, laugh, explore, share experiences and occasionally venture beyond the refrigerator.
 
We were not exactly a match made in heaven.
 
More a clerical error in the celestial matchmaking department.
 
The Gas Station Explosion
 
The following morning, we set off for Venice Beach.
 
We stopped for gas, and Jerry offered to fill the tank.
 
I would pay, naturally.
 
He had some difficulty operating the pump, and when the gas stopped flowing, I stepped forward to show him how to adjust the handle.
 
A perfectly innocent gesture.
 
You would have thought I had publicly questioned his manhood.
 
"I KNOW HOW TO PUMP GAS!" he roared.
 
People turned to stare.
 
"I'M NOT A CHILD!"
 
I stood there, holding my credit card, wishing the ground would open and swallow me.
 
Not him.
 
Me.
 
I was beginning to understand why some women develop a preference for cats.
 
At least cats only hiss occasionally.
 
We continued to Venice Beach and then Santa Monica, where Jerry criticized my parking arrangements with his usual enthusiasm.
 
Eventually, we arrived at the Old King's Head, a British pub I particularly liked.
 
Jerry paid for lunch.
 
This was a momentous occasion, and I considered marking it on my calendar.
 
Unfortunately, the payment process took approximately as long as the construction of the Channel Tunnel.
 
The waitress brought the bill.
 
Jerry ignored it.
 
She returned.
 
He ignored her.
 
He complained that waitresses were always trying to hurry people along.
 
Eventually, he paid.
 
I rose hopefully from my chair.
 
"Another Diet Coke," Jerry announced.
 
I sat down again.
 
After his numerous refills, I casually mentioned that there was a restroom nearby if he needed one before we left.
 
Another explosion.
 
"STOP TREATING ME LIKE A CHILD!"
 
Several diners looked around.
 
"I WANT A GIRLFRIEND, NOT A MOTHER!"
 
I was beginning to wonder whether he actually wanted either.
 
We left and visited The Tudor House, my favorite British shop, where Jerry expressed enthusiasm for a chocolate éclair and a trifle.
 
I bought them.
 
Of course I did.
 
Back at home, he consumed both, followed by a packet of popcorn, while watching television.
 
Football, naturally.
 
By this time, I was beginning to feel like a combination of chauffeur, cook, waitress, travel agent and unpaid activities director.
 
The only thing missing was a uniform.
 
The Final Straw
 
That evening, I suggested going to the movies.
 
Surely we could manage a film together without incident?
 
We drove to one theater, but the film wasn't showing until ten o'clock.
 
We tried another.
 
Same problem.
 
Meanwhile, Jerry continued his running commentary on my driving.
 
"You're going too fast!"
 
"Watch that car!"
 
"Don't brake so hard!"
 
"You're going to hit something!"
 
By the time we returned home, my nerves were shredded.
 
We decided to watch television until it was time to leave for the late showing.
 
The program was Wife Swap, featuring a particularly domineering husband who shouted at his wife.
 
I made what I considered a harmless little joke.
 
"Goodness," I said, "I've got a boyfriend who shouts at me too."
 
Silence.
 
Then Jerry stiffened.
 
And exploded.
 
Again.
 
He accused me of never listening to him, of deliberately upsetting him, of being a terrible driver and of failing to consider his feelings.
 
The accusations poured out.
 
I had finally had enough.
 
I stood up and walked upstairs.
 
He called after me, demanding that I come back and discuss the matter.
 
I stopped halfway up the staircase.
 
"Jerry," I said, "I will not be shouted at. Not in public, not in private, and certainly not in my own home."
 
I went to bed.
 
The movies could wait.
 
In fact, everything could wait.
 
I never wanted to go anywhere with this man again.
 
Eventually, Jerry came upstairs and stood beside the bed, looking rather like a large, chastened schoolboy.
 
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "Can't we talk things through?"
 
I looked at him.
 
For days I had cooked for him, driven him around, paid for almost everything, tried to entertain him and made endless allowances for his behavior.
 
And what had I received in return?
 
Criticism.
 
Complaints.
 
Shouting.
 
And a remarkable education in the television schedules of American football.
 
"No, Jerry," I replied. "I've had enough. I have treated you with kindness and consideration, and you have done little but find fault with me. I'm not going to put up with it any longer."
 
He apologized again.
 
He promised to change.
 
He assured me that he loved me.
 
I listened.
 
But something had changed inside me.
 
I no longer believed that love was enough simply because someone said the words.
 
I had finally begun to judge the man by his actions.
 
Since he was leaving the following morning, I decided not to provoke another confrontation.
 
We made a temporary peace.
 
But in my heart, the relationship was over.
 
The Last Supper
 
The following morning, I prepared Jerry a splendid breakfast.
 
I knew it would be the last meal I would ever cook for him, and I must confess that this thought gave me a rather uncharitable sense of joy.
 
Jerry announced that he was determined to lose twenty pounds by January.
 
He began with oatmeal.
 
"Very healthy," he declared.
 
Then he added brown sugar.
 
And honey.
 
He ate his muffins, generously spread with my English marmalade.
 
Then he reached for the muffin I had left untouched.
 
Bacon, eggs and sausages followed.
 
I watched in fascination.
 
At this rate, I thought, he would need to begin his diet sometime around the following century.
 
Finally, it was time to leave.
 
I had prepared him a packed lunch for the journey.
 
After all, it was a two-hour flight, and I couldn't possibly risk him arriving in Denver in a state of starvation.
 
At the airport, Jerry suddenly remembered something.
 
"Oh, I forgot to take a couple of sodas from your refrigerator."
 
"Don't worry," I assured him. "They give you free drinks on the plane."
 
"Yes," he replied indignantly, "but they won't give you the whole can."
 
And there, dear reader, was the man I had almost persuaded myself I loved.
 
A gentleman who had spent four days eating my food, criticizing my driving, shouting at me in public and private, and who was now concerned that an airline might deprive him of several ounces of Diet Coke.
 
I kissed him goodbye.
 
Not passionately.
 
Not romantically.
 
More the sort of kiss one might bestow upon a departing relative after an unusually exhausting Christmas visit.
 
Then I drove away.
 
Alone.
 
Blissfully, gloriously alone.
 
The Telephone Rings Again
 
A few hours later, Jerry called to say he had arrived home safely.
 
He chatted cheerfully, apparently under the impression that everything between us was perfectly normal.
 
I was polite but distant.
 
When I hung up, I sank onto the sofa and released a long, heartfelt sigh.
 
It was over.
 
Or at least it would be as soon as I told him.
 
For the first time in days, the house was peaceful.
 
No shouting.
 
No football.
 
No complaints about my driving.
 
No one asking what was for dinner.
 
Just me.
 
And it felt wonderful.
 
Then the telephone rang.
 
Oh, heavens, I thought. Not Jerry again.
 
"Hello?" I answered cautiously.
 
But it wasn't Jerry.
 
It was Rory, an old beau, wondering whether I might like to go to the movies that evening.
 
My spirits rose.
 
A film!
 
An actual film!
 
With a man who might even allow me to drive there without providing a running commentary on my shortcomings.
 
I accepted.
 
A few hours later, Rory arrived to collect me.
 
Just as we were leaving, the telephone rang again.
 
This time it was Steve, another gentleman I had dated a few months earlier.
 
Would I like to see him later in the week?
 
Well, well, well.
 
Only hours earlier, I had been wondering whether I was destined to spend the remainder of my life alone.
 
Now it appeared that my social calendar was experiencing a modest revival.
 
Perhaps the universe had finally taken pity on me.
 
Or perhaps, having endured Jerry, I was simply appreciating the finer qualities of almost every other man on the planet.
 
That evening, after returning from the movies, I sat down at my computer and wrote Jerry an email.
 
I told him that our relationship was over.
 
There were more calls, more apologies, more pleading and eventually some rather unpleasant recriminations.
 
But I didn't change my mind.
 
Gradually, the messages stopped.
 
And Jerry disappeared from my life.
 
A Lesson in Love
 
Looking back, I sometimes wonder how an intelligent, independent woman of sixty-six could have become so thoroughly entangled with a man who was so obviously wrong for her.
 
The answer, I think, is loneliness.
 
When you've spent thirty years married to someone, the sudden absence of companionship can leave an enormous hole in your life.
 
And when a stranger comes along offering affection, attention and promises of everlasting love, it's terribly tempting to believe that the hole has finally been filled.
 
Jerry had a beautiful telephone manner.
 
Unfortunately, his telephone manner and his actual personality had apparently never been formally introduced.
 
I had fallen in love with a voice, a fantasy and the possibility of being loved again.
 
The reality was rather different.
 
I learned that no amount of romantic conversation can compensate for a bad temper, a lack of consideration or a fundamental incompatibility.
 
I also learned that generosity should never require the surrender of one's self-respect.
 
And, perhaps most importantly, I discovered that being alone is not nearly as dreadful as being with someone who makes you wish you were.
 
So, to my fellow ladies venturing into the occasionally treacherous waters of Internet dating, I offer this advice:
 
By all means enjoy the compliments.
 
By all means appreciate a handsome voice.
 
But before you fall hopelessly in love, meet the gentleman in person.
 
See how he treats you.
 
See how he treats other people.
 
And, if possible, discover whether he can operate a gas pump without causing an international incident.
 
There are, after all, plenty more fish in the sea.
 
But after Jerry, I decided that before casting another line, I might first check whether the fish had teeth.
 
And if another Mr. Wrong should happen along?
 
Well, I have a perfectly lovely home, wonderful friends, a busy life and a television remote that belongs entirely to me.
 
I can always watch a movie by myself.  

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