Jeremy Dean

It was bound to happen sooner or later. As your faithful correspondent, I’ve sailed the seven seas and crossed however many continents there are to bring perilous and exotic experiences to your humdrum lives. And last week, my little chickadees, was no exception. Last week, in fact, brought the most perilous and exotic experience of all.

Two words: timeshare salesman.

Or is that three words? Four? Time share salesman? Timeshare sales man? Time share sales man?

When my dear friend Elizabeth invited me to her timeshare in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, I was happy to go-even though I’d be required to sit through a “presentation” at eight fifteen on Monday morning, a time when civilized people are still abed. And as any civilized person would, I see salespeople, especially of things I don’t want or need, as adversaries to be thwarted, defeated, utterly obliterated. But I have enough conflict in my life. So I met Mr. Jeremy Dean determined to enjoy myself . . . at least, as much as is humanly possible at eight fifteen on a┬áMonday morning.

More specifically, I decided to pretend I was on a date. Over breakfast, I threw on the moth-eaten mantle of my most sparkling persona and asked probing and insightful questions about his background and interests, never allowing the topic of timeshares to even be mentioned.

I stared deeply, deeply, deeply into his eyes as he chewed his omelet.

Oh, dear reader, what a time we had, Jeremy Dean and I. We ate. We chatted. He showed me what he had to offer, and I pretended his dingy, Days Inn Bland condominium was the bees’ knees. It was the most charming date . . . until he led me into a vast room crammed with tables, and at these tables sat dozens of married couples, and with each of these married couples sat a timeshare salesman.

And then I realized. There, in front of everyone, my date expected me to put out.

I have never attended an orgy of such magnitude. All around me, the numbers flew. I could pay as little as this much per month. I could get a special deal, lucky me, only available at that very moment and never again anywhere in the universe. My beloved Jeremy Dean was only after my money, the whore. And when I turned him down, I was led into a separate room to meet his pimp, a barely intelligible Neanderthal who rearranged the numbers, shifting this here, that there, until he came up with an offer that was precisely half of the “special deal” from before.

I suppose it pays to play hard to get, but at that point, I was all “Not tonight, I have a headache.”

So I did what I always do after a bad date: gave them a fake phone number and prayed I wouldn’t run into them again.

Talk about awkward.

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