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Michael Vick Injury: Inactive Vince Young Means Mike Kafka Sighting
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With backup Vince Young out for the game, this means third-stringer Mike Kafka is now in charge of Philly's offense. He's good at handing the ball off to LeSean McCoy and drawing iffy roughing the passer calls. Vick was spotted by NBC's cameras ...

How I Handled a Dating Crisis





A Date I’ll Never Forget
Gloria Shell Mitchell, D.Min.



Hi, I’m Davida.  I hope that your dating experiences will be more pleasant than the one described below.
Right after my divorce, I moved into my first apartment as a single woman. I was through with all men because of my broken heart. Several months later, my sister Beverly, came from New York to visit me in South Carolina.  We went out to a nightclub where she met a polite, tall, dark, and charming man who ended up monopolizing our evening.  Beverly returned to New York the following day, but J.R., the gentleman who had shared our evening, showed up at the door of my apartment. 
 J.R. explained that he just stopped by because he happened to be in the neighborhood.  I knew that was a lie.  He soon confessed that Beverly, in a sneaky attempt to get me to meet other men so I could get over my ex, had divulged everything that I had refused to tell him.
“Please let me get to know you?” J.R. pleaded. “Give me a chance to prove myself.
“Why should I do that?” I asked from the other side of the wooden front door with a glass window for the top half.  That front door was the only way in and out of my upstairs apartment.
“I didn’t call you because I was afraid that you would be angry with your sister for giving me your phone number,” he answered compassionately. “I know the pain associated with being betrayed by someone you love. I was hurt by my ex-wife.  She slept with my best friend and told me she did it because I wasn’t good enough in bed to please her.  That really hurt.  You and I are both single now. Please give me a chance to make you happy?”
“I closed the pink cotton café curtain that I’d pulled aside so I could see J.R. through the window.  Then I turned the lock on the doorknob and invited him inside.  I waited until he was comfortably seated on my white French provincial sofa with embroidered pink roses before I began asking more questions.
“Okay, now tell me more,” I said abruptly.
J.R. talked for quite awhile and I keenly listened.  He told me about his family, his marriage, his divorce and his pain as I searched for truth in his facial expression.  I also listened for contradictory statements but detected none.
“Now I’ll tell you my story.” I said.  I felt at ease with him.
As we were getting to know each other, I confessed my fear of living alone for the first time in my life.
“I can help you with that,” he said.  “I’ll be right back.”
To my surprise, J.R. (a police officer), quickly went downstairs to his car and returned with a handgun and showed me how to use it. 
“Keep it in a safe place so your daughter can’t get to it,” he warned.
I placed the unloaded 38 revolver in my top dresser drawer. Then I wrapped the bullets in a blue handkerchief and placed them in the second dresser drawer to reduce the risk of an accident if Tanya or someone else should happen to find the weapon.  I put the gun away as J.R. had instructed and completely forgot all about it.
J.R. and I had been dating for about a month when Beverly called to tell me that J.R. had called her, my mother, and Vince (my ex-husband) to tell them that the two of us were getting married.
“Is it true? she asked.
“Of course not,” I replied. “I would never marry him.”
“I don’t think he knows you won’t marry him,” she replied.
“He will this afternoon,” I said.  “Just wait until I see him.”
J.R. and I had never even talked about getting married. I’d already told him that the wounds inflicted by my previous marriage and divorce were far too severe for me to consider another serious relationship so soon.  I had lots of plans, but marriage was not one of them. Besides, my divorce was not yet final and I’d never even thought of introducing J.R. to my mother.
“I don’t know how J.R. found their phone numbers but I’m angry about his audacity to speak on my behalf without consulting me first,” I told her.
Around five o’clock that afternoon I calmly opened the door when J.R. knocked.  I invited him inside and closed the door before I confronted him with my fury.
“How dare you call my mother and ex-husband!” I scolded him.  “I am telling you nicely to get lost!” I spoke forcefully as I glared at him – no doubt with flared nostrils. My mind was made up and the penitent look on his face would not change the way I felt about him.
“I need you to leave right now and never come back!” I harshly stated.  “I only invited you inside so the neighbors wouldn’t hear what I had to say and perhaps call the cops.”
At first J.R. looked stunned, then distraught.  It took a minute or two for him to realize that I was serious.
“Let me just sit here for a minute so I can understand what you’re saying,” he said. He sat down on the white chair that matched my French provincial sofa with pink roses.  I stood looking down at him with my hands on my hips while thinking, “He has to get out of my life.”
 He sat motionless with his head in his hands.  He closed his eyes as if to ponder the situation. 
Even if he cried I was not going to change my mind.
 He groaned like he was in pain. Then he muttered, “I promise I will leave as soon as you return the gun that’s registered to me.”
“Oh, I forgot all about that thing,” I said sarcastically. I figured he was just delaying his departure so I marched off to the bedroom to retrieve the handgun. I also found the blue handkerchief with the six bullets inside. I wanted him to have everything he’d given me so he wouldn’t ever have to see him again.  I threw the handgun in his lap and then dumped the bullets from the handkerchief into his outstretched hand.
“You’ve got your gun and your bullets!  Now go!” I demanded.
J.R. didn’t move.  He just sat there and slowly began loading all six bullets in the gun, one –by-one with trembling hands.  He began crying and talking about how life had been so cruel to him.  He babbled about his parents’ poor health, his ex-wife’s unfaithfulness with his best friend, being wounded in Vietnam, financial problems, job dissatisfaction, and now rejection by the woman he loves.  He complained so long about life being unfair to him that I became even more disgusted with that six foot, two hundred twenty-five pound crybaby.
“I have no sympathy for him because he should never have taken me for granted,” I pouted. “He knows I can’t help him,” I thought.  “I have my own problems.”  I felt so vulnerable because I’d told him my problems and he betrayed my trust.
“Life is not worth living.”  J.R. murmured after a long period of silence. “I might as well end it right now!” 
Suddenly, I realized things were not working out like I’d planned. Next I envisioned seeing a man sprawled in a pool of blood on my living room floor.
“This man wouldn’t dare shoot himself in my apartment!” I thought.  “I could get accused of shooting him since my fingerprints are on the gun. He might even shoot me! He might spill blood on my furniture that I am still making payments on! If he shoots us both there won’t be any witnesses.  Who will take care of Tanya if I’m found dead?”  These thoughts came to mind just moments before I became terrified of the endless possibilities.
My former tough talk quickly turned into a phony coo. With a myriad of thoughts racing through my mind about how to get out of my predicament, I slowly approached J.R. and gently pushed the hand containing the gun aside, and slid onto his lap. I slowly removed the gun from his hand and placed it on the floor and pushed it beneath the chair.  Meanwhile, I played the role of a woman madly in love with her beau. I could have won an Oscar had I played that scene in a movie but this was a real life drama and I was the leading lady.  I didn’t know the script, but I knew it was a matter of life or death.  I learned how to ad-lib in the absence of a director on the set.
I gently wiped away sweat from J.R.’s forehead with the blue handkerchief.  I massaged his chest, kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his ears, and his neck.  I whispered positive affirmations about wonderful things that make life worth living. I kept trying and doing whatever might make him stop panting so heavily, stop his heart from beating so rapidly, cause his violent trembling to cease, and stop perspiration from rolling down his brow.
“If you want to end your life that’s fine, but not in my apartment, on my white chair, and in my presence,” I shouted inwardly as I envisioned a bloody mess.  “You’ve got your nerve!  This is my place,” I silently declared.
Following almost three hours of torment I begged him to leave.  “J.R., please go home and get some rest,” I whispered in his ear. “We can talk about us tomorrow.”
“I really am tired,” he said. “I feel sick inside.”
“I know Baby. Go home and lie down awhile.  Then you’ll feel better,” I whispered in the most charming voice I could muster under the circumstances.
“Okay,” he finally agreed about three hours later.  I slowly slid off his lap and stood up.  He got up from the chair and I opened the door for him to leave.
“Wait a minute,” I whispered once he stepped out on the porch.
I stooped down and picked up the loaded gun that I had gently kicked beneath the chair, shoved it firmly into his hand, then slammed the door in his face.  I’d made certain that  the lock on the doorknob was on before I pushed the door shut. 
“Go away and don’t you ever come back!”  I yelled through the glass portion of the door.
J.R. hesitated for quite awhile as I stood on the other side of the door awaiting the sound of footsteps. Finally, I heard the long awaited sound of his footsteps slowly descending the metal steps leading downstairs.
Suddenly, I realized how foolishly I had handled the situation.  “You fool!” I cried.  “He could have shot me through the glass window!” I thought.  “He could easily have kicked in the door and come back inside.”
“Thank you, God, for keeping me alive tonight!  Thank you for my stellar performance,” I cried aloud.
I fell prostrate on my living room floor and prayed a tearful prayer of thanksgiving for all the horrible things from which I had been protected.
For the next three evenings, J.R. parked his car in front of my apartment. I was afraid to go downstairs even though he never got out of his car. He just sat behind the wheel long enough to frighten me into thinking he might commit suicide in front of my apartment.  After that, I neither saw nor heard from him again.
I learned that people do stupid things when they are upset – things they might later regret.  Remaining calm in a tense situation allows a person to think more clearly.  I felt guilty because I pretended to care for J.R., when in fact, I reacted out of impure motives in order to preserve my own life, to prevent J.R. from committing suicide, to prevent my home from becoming a crime scene, and to avoid stains on my beloved white furniture. 
I also learned that divorced people are often wounded individuals who often seek another lover when what they really need is time, space, genuine love, counseling, and God’s help to mend their brokenness.  I don’t know why I took a chance with J.R. when I was fully aware that I wasn't ready for another relationship. I guess divorce made me vulnerable.
I would love to hear your thoughts about how I handled my problem with J.R. 
Thanks for your honest opinion.
Davida





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