I’m going to admit to something here.  I have watched more than one episode of the gameshow Baggage hosted by Jerry Springer. Okay, I’ve watched multiple episodes.  I’m not particularly proud of those late-night, binge-watching hours that I can never get back, but I learned something.  I learned something along the lines of don’t stick your tongue to a metal pole during freezing temperatures or don’t pick a cactus with your bare hands.  But I learned something all the same.  We all bring baggage into a relationship.  

In fact, the older we get, the more of it we’ve accumulated, and that is one of the things that make dating after fifty so hard…and Baggage so comforting to watch. After just one episode, we are relatively reassured that our stuff is at least acceptable in comparison.  On the show, there is a male contestant with three ladies to choose from, or there is a female contestant with three males to choose from.  The three ladies or gentlemen in the pool each have three suitcases – small, medium, and large – that hold their baggage.  As the suitcase gets bigger, the baggage gets increasingly heftier as well. The single male or female who is picking from the three candidates also has a large suitcase, and after he or she has chosen a winner, his or her baggage will be revealed.  At this point, the winner decides (based on just how appalling the baggage is) if he or she is still willing to go on a date with the person that did the picking.

Now, I’m improvising here, but the baggage usually goes along the lines of something like this. Small baggage might include, “I live with my fifteen cats in a one-bedroom apartment” or “I can’t pee in a public restroom.”  It is personal and revealing – often awful – but it is generally mild compared to what is to come. No one is eliminated in this round, but you’re already getting a little squeamish about the habits of these individuals.  

The medium baggage is usually enough to have me running for the hills.  It might include something like, “I only bathe once every other week,” or “My mother insists on French kissing all my dates.”  At this point, the would-be suitors are not with their baggage, so when the terminal baggage is chosen, the owner claims it and is eliminated from the game.  In this round, the contestant is eliminating someone based purely on baggage and not on appearances.  

After some banter, the big suitcases are revealed.  This round is not for the faint at heart.  These bags mean business.  Someone might say something like, “I never divorced my husband, and he still lives in my basement,” or “I believe I’m a vampire and drink blood.”  Now you’re thinking, “Who would ever pick either one of these clowns?” But then you remember that the contestant has baggage, too, and that’s probably why they’re on this show in the first place. 

Invariably, one of the two remaining men or women is sent home because their baggage is just too egregious to bear.  I personally think that often times the choice is made on attractiveness more than baggage.  I’ve witnessed the mental anguish as the guy struggles to send home the drop-dead gorgeous brunette who once stabbed her lover for snoring or the somewhat less attractive lady who doesn’t eat vegetables.  After a few moments of torment, the guy will invariably say something like, “I know that so-and-so stabbed someone, but vegetables are an important part of a balanced diet.  I’m sorry, Plain Jane, but you’ve got too much baggage.”

At times, I think online dating is more like the gameshow than we want to admit.  When we’re chatting online, the small bags might be revealed.  People are often willing to admit up front that they’re unemployed, got their driver’s license suspended for a DWI, or keep tarantulas for pets. 

And then, when you meet in person for the first time (assuming the spiders didn’t scare you off, of course), the medium bag often quickly rears its ugly head.  This is when you find out that he has a fascination with roadkill, believes he’s followed by an entourage of ghosts, or likes to pop his fake teeth in and out of his mouth during dinner.  Now, supposing you’re okay with the first date revelations, the big baggage may not show up until about three to four months into the relationship.  Do you know that is about the time an average person can carry on a charade without being discovered?  

With rare exception, I tend to eliminate prospective suitors at either the small or medium bag stage, but on one particular date, I got all three bags served up in the course of one night out on the town.  I went out with a gentleman we’ll call Danny.  Danny took me to my first Red Dirt concert.  Now, I had no idea what Red Dirt music even was, but I’m adventurous. I met Danny who lived an hour from me outside his garage apartment so that we could ride together to the concert, which was another hour away.  Actually, my first impression was not bad.  He offered me coconut water for the ride, and I’m a big fan of coconut water.

We went to a club to see Ray Wylie Hubbard.  I had never heard of RWH, but apparently, he has quite a following and is a superstar of Texas outlaw music.  When we got there, we discovered that our tickets were for standing room only, and the place was packed.  While we waited and had some appetizers, my date started opening suitcases – small to large.  The first suitcase was revealing that almost every part of his body that I could not see was covered in tattoos.  The man had on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, so only his head and neck were without the colorful markings.  Okay, deep breath.  I accept your baggage.

Dinner followed, and Danny decided to open his medium suitcase.  He used to be in a motorcycle club…called the Pagans…when he was the prospect…it was his job to deliver crystal meth.  Wow.  My brain was doing flip flops at that point, and I was thinking that if I accepted his baggage it was only because he was a nice-looking man (albeit I couldn’t see the tattoos) and he offered me coconut water.  Okay, deep breath.  I accept your baggage?

When the concert got going, I was in for quite a musical experience.  I don’t know which was worse – the lyrics to the songs or the fact that my date knew every single one of them.  If you think I’m kidding, please enjoy “Snake Farm…it’s an erectile house!” So while I’m STANDING and trying to decipher the lyrics, my date asks me if I can use my phone to get a pic of RWH, and I’m happy to oblige.  However, he takes advantage of the fact that my hands are engaged in picture taking and uses his to grope my butt.  Not a slight brush of the hand across the rear subtle move, but a full-fledge grab and grope.  I turn to him angrily and say, “That’s a lot of hand on my ass!”

If you’ve read my book, you know that I have rules for online dating, and I frequently break them, which results in disaster.  One of the rules is to never ride in the same car with someone you just met online. You should always meet at the location you’ve picked for the date – even if it is a long drive…and it’s storming…and it would be “safer” to ride together.  I reiterate this to myself, “NEVER BREAK THE RULES!”  

You see, I still had to ride home with this overly-tattooed, former Pagan gang member who found it acceptable to grope my derriere while singing obscene lyrics along with RWH. To make matter worse, he cannot seem to grasp that things are not going well.  On the way home, he asks me to stay the night…because of the storm…of course. I am polite but firm when I tell him there’s no way that’s going to happen.  In my mind, not only does hell have to freeze over, but Santa Claus has to show up there with eight reindeer and a sleigh to deliver gifts! It’s not going to happen. Danny continues to insist.  I continue to resist.  At one point he tells me that he can make me stay because he has handcuffs.  I consider forcing someone to stay over using handcuffs to be ginormous baggage!  

He actually said this in a joking manner, but I detected a scary undertone, so I replied with an equal concoction of joking and scary, “Well, it’s a good thing I have a gun in my purse then.”  For those of you who are gasping right now, it’s a Texas thing.  We’re always armed…or pretend to be…and for good reason! I put my purse on my lap, placed my hand inside, and was ready to prove my point…or I had my bluff in.  You decide.

To Danny’s credit, he finally got a clue…and he got a little nervous.  He dropped me off at my car, and I left without incident.  I really think that I should have at least gotten a nice set of luggage as a consolation prize, don’t you?