October 9, 2019
This year my husband and I would have celebrated our 45th wedding anniversary. People are surprised because of my youthful good looks, wrinkle-free complexion, flat stomach, and taut, girlish figure. It’s a curse I tell you. Everyone insists that I must have been a child bride because of the length of the years of our union and thus, by extension, the length of MY years on this earth. But, it’s true. I’m a senior citizen. I collect a pension and Medicare. I go to Harris Teeter on Thursdays because of their 5% senior discount. I have had a knee replacement and I am on a myriad of prescribed medications. I’m long in the tooth, So, of course, now that I am “single,” it stands to reason that I am beating off potential suitors with a stick. (read the entire sentence, you perverted bastards!) Ummm, that would be a big fat NO. Rewind several years. Throughout our marriage, we would periodically discuss our wishes for our spouse should one of us die. Sometimes it was in jest, as in, next time I marry for money instead of love; next time I marry someone with a certain “skill set” in the kinky romance department (even I can’t elaborate on this – there might be children present – I have some standards, no matter how low.) All kidding aside, both of us agreed that each of us would want the other to be happy and if that meant pursuing a relationship, even marriage, we would be fine with that, as long as we found someone worthy who would take care of our beloved’s emotional and other needs.
I haven’t had a date since 1972. Except for that one in November 2018 – that one date acquired through the dreaded, the unforgiving, the ridiculously artificial vehicle of online dating. My crazy friend (I will refer to her as CF and she’s not certifiably crazy in the clinical sense, though sometimes I wonder) after a night of frivolity (read dinner and drinks and then more drinks back at my place – too many so I wouldn’t let her drive home) decided it would be “fun” to sign me up for a dating site. She got my credit card, grabbed some photos off my Facebook page and went to town creating my profile. I thought it was funny at the time – until my VISA bill came in. Ugh. It took me almost a year to remedy this sad excuse for trying to create a semblance of a social life. When I sobered up, I realized that I had at least six months on at least four sites. As a writer, I also made major corrections and enhancements to my profile; I have a reputation to protect, people! This was obligatory.
And so it began. My foray into online dating was brief, but eye-opening. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Since I had six months where I was locked in, I decided to see what the fuss was all about. I know several people who’ve even married those they’ve met online. Either I am living in an alternate universe or I have a gift for attracting a plethora of freaks, all around jerks, pervs, narcissists, entitled assholes, just no one whom I would consider “normal.” My requirements were not unreasonable: be kind, have a sense of humor, like children, dogs (if they think cats are assholes, that’s a plus), music, trying new restaurants, and, because I am a writer, and it’s a huge deal for me, a good command of the English language and grammar skills is a must. So, I figured I would at least have some fun for six months, reading the daily barrage of “matches” sent to me by the dating sites, along with multiple “likes,” “flirts” and other terms used to indicate how very desirable I was. I was beginning to believe that I was quite the catch – until I saw who was interested in me. I began to question everything in my life. Was I grotesque and no one ever had the balls to tell me? I wasn’t a prolific dater in my younger years, but I did OK. My husband was adorable, sweet, funny, and kind. Some of his predecessors were also good looking and checked off a lot of the boxes. My high school sweetheart was also a cutie pie. And they were all smart and each had specific skill sets. Why now, after all these years was I suddenly queen of the loser brigade? Because they seemed to be the only ones interested. It seemed to intensify after my date that November. Looking back, I think maybe this guy was sent on a reconnaissance mission for the rest of his comrades, though in his defense, he was harmless and a sweet person.
Here’s where it went wrong. If you want to get lucky with me don’t ask to meet at a pizza place which is not conducive to talking. Don’t immediately start the conversation with telling me that you bruised your groin in a car accident the prior week. Honey, I’m sorry you’re hurting, but take an Advil and shut the hell up. I will be nowhere NEAR your groin now or ever. I knew that within the first 30 seconds, when you used a double negative. Sorry, I am a grammar snob. Also, if you want to get lucky with me, don’t project six months into the future discussing what beer festival we will attend. By God’s good grace, I was living six hours away in another state by then anyway, so, moot point. Also, when I return from the ladies’ room, two suggestions: Do NOT say “Everything come out all right?” That’s something my husband would say and it was endearing and funny, but honestly asshole, you don’t KNOW me, so your sorry attempt at humor was just that. And, number two (no pun intended) the eyes are up here. Please stop staring at my heaving bosoms. What are you, a 15-year-old boy? Of course, you are. Ugh. After a painfully plodding hour of conversation so tedious I truly would prefer watching paint dry, I politely bid my adieu and told Mr. Wonderful how lovely it was to meet him and made my escape. Of course, he wanted to see me again. I am that charming. I told him I was embarking on a 12-day cruise in another week and we would catch up. Lucky for me I ended up in the hospital a week after the cruise ended with a suspected stroke and remained there for two weeks in rehab and recovery as well as homebound for the next 90 days. Funny how things happen. Another blog. Let’s continue our current discussion.
Profile photos matter. They will determine if you’re going to get lucky with me. I saved a few photos of the most memorable gentlemen who reached out to me in hopes of starting a relationship. Suffice it to say their hopes were dashed. I never responded. But if they are reading this blog, perhaps they will rethink their choices. First impressions are the key to potentially lifelong relationships, fellas. Take the time and make the effort to show you care. Don’t take a selfie in front of a mirror with the toilet in the background. Do you have at least one friend who can do the honors? Here we go.
If you want to get lucky with me, listen carefully: bare chested doesn’t work for me. It makes me gag. Whether you’re in a pool, sucking your gut in on a beach chair or just a random shot in your back yard as if this is your normal way of going about your business, just don’t. I don’t want to see it. Not yet at least. So, don’t do it. I am not impressed. And I am not a prude. I just can’t stand these staged shots of you trying to show the ladies what they’re missing. I am happy to miss it. Next please.
If you want to get lucky with me, please have all your teeth. It’s just a thing I have. Call me superficial if you want. So be it. They don’t have to be yours. Implants are fine. Good dental care speaks to other areas of your existence and at this point in my existence, I am neither willing nor prepared to deal with your issues. Buh bye.
If you want to get lucky with me, wearing your oxygen canula in your profile photo, while admirable in its honesty is a real buzzkill for me. Call me shallow, but I am looking for a friend, not a patient. I don’t have a nursing degree, cannot give CPR, and have decided to start smoking again, so that might be an explosive situation, so I am truly sorry about that. Good luck in your search for a soulmate, aka caregiver.
If you want to get lucky with me, lying on your unmade bed with sheets that look like they haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine since the first Bush was President, is not going to get you any action, which is why your feeble attempts at a come hither look to lure me into your lascivious lair of indecency (be still my heart and quivering loins!) just won’t work. EVER. No way in hell. See ya.
If you want to get lucky with me, don’t lead with what you have. Honestly, I don’t care if you own a Jaguar and are a physician, lawyer or venture capitalist. Don’t pose with your Porsche. It’s annoying and arrogant. And it probably indicates that you are lacking in other areas. Wink, wink. Just be a nice guy. Is that too much to ask? The rest of that stuff is just that – stuff.
I have no desire to meet someone. I am perfectly content living my life, writing my blog, and trying to forge a new existence in my new home. If it happens so be it, perhaps at the grocery store, at a community event, doing volunteer work, at a bar, through friends, during a fender bender which will not be my fault, walking the dog. But it’s not going to happen online. That is nothing but a shit show if history is any indication. Where are the good ones? I am not feeling lucky.