So, the beat goes on. Day in and day out you are contacted by the “swimming fish” – or the "marching matches". Their approaches are as varied as their user names. The more they are different the more they are the same -- a cute opening line and a request to view the profile and see if there is any interest. Let’s get real. The first thing you do is look at the picture, for the profile is irrelevant if the picture shows peculiarities. And there are no shortages of peculiarities:
Take for instance:
My friend - let's call her Charlotte - called me the other night. “Samantha, I’ve been contacted by a pianist!” she said excitedly. “You know I always was soft on musicians – particularly pianists – they have wonderful hands, so expressive, so talented, so dexterous”, she cooed. “You must look at him, you must… He’s more Harry than Trey and well, there is something peculiar, but I’m not going to tell you…just look at him and see what you think”.
Now, I must admit that I am not very observant. I remember going to business events with a group of colleagues and afterwards we would decompress with a drink or two. They would be dishing about this one’s dress and that one’s shoes and how her lipstick clashed with her blouse. As far as I was concerned everyone was dressed alike – I wasn’t even sure that I had been to the same event. I saw none of it. So, if there was something wrong with him it would have to be very evident or I was sure I would miss it and Charlotte was counting on that.
So, she gave me his user name (MrSudz) and I clicked. There sat a slightly beyond middle aged man (what did you expect? Adrian Brody in that Polansky movie? – dream on, dream on). He was a pleasant looking guy. He sat facing the camera on the edge of the bench in front of an upright piano. His fat, stubby, knurled fingers resting on his knees. (Hmmm, pianist huh? – more like a lobster fisherman). He had scraggly graying brown hair, except at the very top of his head where he worn what looked like a curled up red fox tail -- a toupee – yes, a redheaded toupee. Oh, boy, that was too obvious. It was hideous. How could Charlotte think I could miss that?
I called her back as I gazed at him, quickly trying to find some encouraging words. “Well” I said, “it’s a very nice piano – not a Steinway, but walnut, I think. Looks like an older model and they don’t make uprights …
“No, no, no” Charlotte screamed into the phone “stop talking about the piano. What did you see, what did you see?” she demanded.
“Ok, Ok", I answered. "I see the red toupee, it doesn’t match his hair, but well, once you got to know him you could….”
No, not that,” Charlotte replied. “I can take care of that with a little Clairol. What else? Did you notice anything - well - peculiar?
I stared hard at him trying to will myself to see the details that others see so clearly. “No, that’s it” I said. “Well, just his hands. They don’t look like a pianist’s hands – they are red and ruddy, like they spend a lot of time in water. More like a man of the sea rather than a pianist. In fact, I think they might be wet in the picture.”
“Oh” she sighed, “yes, they do appear wet…Look around the room in the picture, Samantha - look”, she suddenly sounded defeated, resigned to the evitable. I shifted my gaze to the top of the piano and a bottle of Tide and behind it a laundry basket came into focus. And then I raised my eyes and they collided with --- a washer and dryer!??
Did he keep his piano in the laundry room or did he keep his washer and dryer in the music room? Did he tinkle the keys while he presoaked? Did he have recitals where one could bring a small load – delicates got Vivaldi, cottons called for Wagner!? What possessed him to use this tableau as his entry into the dating game? Oh, the mysteries of the human mind!
“I love a man who does his own laundry” Charlotte whispered. But we both knew he would never get a response to his inquiry.
It’s ok, Charlotte can always fall back on the email she got yesterday:
“I want to be honest”, he began. “I have served time in prison for 10 years. I’m out now and working on getting my life back together. Don’t have a job yet, looking for a place to live. I need a compassionate woman"…NO KIDDING!
You can’t make this stuff up - and you don’t need to!
See you next time.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Sex and the 60 - The Fishing Guy
“You're traveling through another dimension -- a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's a signpost up ahead: your next stop”*: Dating at 60!
Yes, much like the Twilight Zone, dating at this age is a trip across dimensions. The last time we were doing this we were at least 30 years younger, 30 pounds lighter and 330 times more likely to spend the night. Now the encounters are an exercise in sucking it in, sucking it up and trying not to make sucking noises when you eat.
But before you even go out on a date you have to endure many ridiculous encounters. Like, for instance, the Fishing Guy.
Let’s call him William. William is a uniform guy (think policemen, fireman – not MacDonald’s hamburger flipper – we got standards you know). But, William is not very discerning – he has scant opening criteria – she just needs to be female, and respond to his light and breezy email - “Hey, William here. How’s it going?” His profile says nothing of substance. He has no past and it is clear, with him you will have no future. But he’s the dangerous guy you craved in your 20’s, the guy who broke your heart, but obviously could teach you no lessons.
Here he casts his net wide and targets the new entries on the scene and those that have not yet succumbed to his charming smile. Hauling in his catch every few days, throwing back the too little, too big, too needy, too inquisitive, too serious and those that remind him too much of himself. He skims the best of the catch for the next step. These he contacts with another say nothing email “What have you been up to? Want to get together for a drink?”
WHAT??? What happened to the emailing, the phone calling, the getting to know one another on a deeper level - the contemplating, the conversing, the contrasting of him against the others? Willie will have none of that. He wants face to face, mano-a-mujer and he wants it now. Why waste time with all of the preliminaries. In a few months you won’t remember each other’s existence much less whether he had children or your favorite color is green. But, you’re not that kind of girl, any more. Hell, haven’t you learned anything in 40 years!! No
Perhaps William is misunderstood. He’s shy, doesn’t write well or is just a man of few words. We’ll ask him to call. We’ll take control of the situation - assert ourselves. So, you compose a breezy email of your own: “Hey you”, you start ridiculously. “Sounds great but why don’t we chat on the phone and learn a little about each other first? My number is …” Looking forward to talking with you.”
Weeks later, after never getting that phone call and the mesmerizing effect of the uniform, that “tall drink of water” and that devilish grin wear off, you realize you’ve acted like a woman of your real chronological age. You are your own hero. You have not succumbed to his magnetic charm.
Then, a few months later, another email…”Hey, William here. How’s it going?”
Sometimes you have to pass the sign post more than once to realize you are going in circles.
See you next time.
Twilight Zone opening…by Rod Serling.
Yes, much like the Twilight Zone, dating at this age is a trip across dimensions. The last time we were doing this we were at least 30 years younger, 30 pounds lighter and 330 times more likely to spend the night. Now the encounters are an exercise in sucking it in, sucking it up and trying not to make sucking noises when you eat.
But before you even go out on a date you have to endure many ridiculous encounters. Like, for instance, the Fishing Guy.
Let’s call him William. William is a uniform guy (think policemen, fireman – not MacDonald’s hamburger flipper – we got standards you know). But, William is not very discerning – he has scant opening criteria – she just needs to be female, and respond to his light and breezy email - “Hey, William here. How’s it going?” His profile says nothing of substance. He has no past and it is clear, with him you will have no future. But he’s the dangerous guy you craved in your 20’s, the guy who broke your heart, but obviously could teach you no lessons.
Here he casts his net wide and targets the new entries on the scene and those that have not yet succumbed to his charming smile. Hauling in his catch every few days, throwing back the too little, too big, too needy, too inquisitive, too serious and those that remind him too much of himself. He skims the best of the catch for the next step. These he contacts with another say nothing email “What have you been up to? Want to get together for a drink?”
WHAT??? What happened to the emailing, the phone calling, the getting to know one another on a deeper level - the contemplating, the conversing, the contrasting of him against the others? Willie will have none of that. He wants face to face, mano-a-mujer and he wants it now. Why waste time with all of the preliminaries. In a few months you won’t remember each other’s existence much less whether he had children or your favorite color is green. But, you’re not that kind of girl, any more. Hell, haven’t you learned anything in 40 years!! No
Perhaps William is misunderstood. He’s shy, doesn’t write well or is just a man of few words. We’ll ask him to call. We’ll take control of the situation - assert ourselves. So, you compose a breezy email of your own: “Hey you”, you start ridiculously. “Sounds great but why don’t we chat on the phone and learn a little about each other first? My number is …” Looking forward to talking with you.”
Weeks later, after never getting that phone call and the mesmerizing effect of the uniform, that “tall drink of water” and that devilish grin wear off, you realize you’ve acted like a woman of your real chronological age. You are your own hero. You have not succumbed to his magnetic charm.
Then, a few months later, another email…”Hey, William here. How’s it going?”
Sometimes you have to pass the sign post more than once to realize you are going in circles.
See you next time.
Twilight Zone opening…by Rod Serling.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Sex and the 60 - The High Talker
In love it is essential to have a confidant, a teacher, a coach. Someone wise, someone experienced who can bring her vast knowledge from years of disturbing encounters to the task of guiding you through the dating game. My Maharishi Mahesh Yogi is --- well I cannot use her real name here so let's call her --- Carrie.
Carrie and I (let's call me Samantha) spent our wanton youth in bars and clubs throughout New York City. She was there when I met Kevin and there when I met Kevin once again. She was even my maid of honor when Kevin threw me and I sought the arms of a nice Jewish boy (and he was) and marriage number one. Carrie studied online dating like a cookbook. She could give you chapter and verse about how to seek out, filter out, eke out and cross out possible prospects and losers. She tried a few on, picking "nice" guys who could buy her cupcakes, lunches and dinners and whose hearts she would wrench out of their chests with a firm - thank you and good-bye!
Now on this particular day, I had an internet encounter with my first prospect. I was thrilled, excited, yet frightened --- I hadn't shaved my legs since Kevin died!!! Did that matter? Could he see? But he was charming, handsome even, age appropriate and he was interested in ME. I was rushing down the hill -- through with dating, right into the safe and strong arms of a new lover -- and I couldn't believe my luck. I'd met him in the first week online. Wow this online dating thing is great.
Now, Carrie had told me -- first, email a bit, but not too long, as you need to move on to the phone call to determine if they were not just literate but entertaining too. Then, if that works a short date in which you determined if they are repeat material. Yes, this was the correct protocol - the method, the proper procedure to assure a successful progression from picture and profile to a deep meaningful relationship.
But I was so excited, so anxious, I forgot the order of things and moved from email to agreeing to the date. OMG, I had forgotten the phone call. Oh, so what I said. He seemed nice, was interested, how boring could he be if he liked me? "Samantha, you fool", Carrie chided, "Now you've gone and done it". "What will happen if he has a ghost writer, writing his witty and intriguing emails?" "You may have to spend an hour, filling the silence with chatter as he stares blankly at you." But I was determined. I couldn't go back now. It was done.
I picked my clothes carefully, even spritz my make-up with Evian water to set it and used my best perfume. After all this would be the first of many dates with my new man. I wanted him to remember this moment forever. I drove to the restaurant he selected --- Fridays!!! What? Fridays? Ok, it's a first date. Perhaps he is saving that secret little bistro he knows for when he is sure we are a match. It doesn't pay to peak too soon.
And then he was there. I saw him striding toward me. He looked exactly like his picture. Handsome, well dressed, leaving his Lexus parked in the shade. He was tall. I stood and he took my hand and said...Well he didn't actually say anything. What came out of his mouth was a high pitched shriek that pierced my eardrums and stopped the wait staff in their tracks. The entire restaurant turned in our direction. It was like chalk on a blackboard, many octaves above normal; similar to the voice of one who breathed helium, but more grating. He smiled a dazzling white tooth smile.
Carrie was right, I talked incessantly that afternoon -- I gave him no opportunity to get a word in. The few times he did speak a seeing-eye dog began to howl and small children clasp their hands over their ears and began to cry.
And so I ended it quickly, slugged down my drink, checked my watch and bolted. As I left, he shrieked that he found me very attractive, and would give me a call. Over my shoulder I pleaded...no, email me, please email me!
See you next time.
Carrie and I (let's call me Samantha) spent our wanton youth in bars and clubs throughout New York City. She was there when I met Kevin and there when I met Kevin once again. She was even my maid of honor when Kevin threw me and I sought the arms of a nice Jewish boy (and he was) and marriage number one. Carrie studied online dating like a cookbook. She could give you chapter and verse about how to seek out, filter out, eke out and cross out possible prospects and losers. She tried a few on, picking "nice" guys who could buy her cupcakes, lunches and dinners and whose hearts she would wrench out of their chests with a firm - thank you and good-bye!
Now on this particular day, I had an internet encounter with my first prospect. I was thrilled, excited, yet frightened --- I hadn't shaved my legs since Kevin died!!! Did that matter? Could he see? But he was charming, handsome even, age appropriate and he was interested in ME. I was rushing down the hill -- through with dating, right into the safe and strong arms of a new lover -- and I couldn't believe my luck. I'd met him in the first week online. Wow this online dating thing is great.
Now, Carrie had told me -- first, email a bit, but not too long, as you need to move on to the phone call to determine if they were not just literate but entertaining too. Then, if that works a short date in which you determined if they are repeat material. Yes, this was the correct protocol - the method, the proper procedure to assure a successful progression from picture and profile to a deep meaningful relationship.
But I was so excited, so anxious, I forgot the order of things and moved from email to agreeing to the date. OMG, I had forgotten the phone call. Oh, so what I said. He seemed nice, was interested, how boring could he be if he liked me? "Samantha, you fool", Carrie chided, "Now you've gone and done it". "What will happen if he has a ghost writer, writing his witty and intriguing emails?" "You may have to spend an hour, filling the silence with chatter as he stares blankly at you." But I was determined. I couldn't go back now. It was done.
I picked my clothes carefully, even spritz my make-up with Evian water to set it and used my best perfume. After all this would be the first of many dates with my new man. I wanted him to remember this moment forever. I drove to the restaurant he selected --- Fridays!!! What? Fridays? Ok, it's a first date. Perhaps he is saving that secret little bistro he knows for when he is sure we are a match. It doesn't pay to peak too soon.
And then he was there. I saw him striding toward me. He looked exactly like his picture. Handsome, well dressed, leaving his Lexus parked in the shade. He was tall. I stood and he took my hand and said...Well he didn't actually say anything. What came out of his mouth was a high pitched shriek that pierced my eardrums and stopped the wait staff in their tracks. The entire restaurant turned in our direction. It was like chalk on a blackboard, many octaves above normal; similar to the voice of one who breathed helium, but more grating. He smiled a dazzling white tooth smile.
Carrie was right, I talked incessantly that afternoon -- I gave him no opportunity to get a word in. The few times he did speak a seeing-eye dog began to howl and small children clasp their hands over their ears and began to cry.
And so I ended it quickly, slugged down my drink, checked my watch and bolted. As I left, he shrieked that he found me very attractive, and would give me a call. Over my shoulder I pleaded...no, email me, please email me!
See you next time.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sex and the 60 - Introduction
So who could have guessed that at 57 1/2, Kevin, the wild bronco I had ridden for nearly 35 years (twice thrown), would finally leave me in his dust…for good. He was a wild and frequently a hurtful ride, but boy it was worth it. Eventually, after many bruises (figurative, not literal) he became a great steed, capable of taking me places I did not know I wanted to go. But, his life, his luck brought us to a new place together --- Cancer --- and then 9 short, agonizing and dreadful months later…puff --- You’re a Widow! Wow, this sucks. And now nearly 2 1/2 years later, as I have slowly come out of the blessed grief coma, I see the real “Kevin-less World" and learn what "Wow, this SUCKS" really means.
But this blog is not about Kevin or our wild ride, although our fractured love story would have made for a great blog in and of itself back in the day. No, this blog is about (drum roll please) ... DATING AT 60! OMG if it wasn’t so funny it would be as tragic as Kevin’s death. But honey, let me tell you. It is the only thing that has given me some good laughs since he died.
Dating at 60 – what are you thinking girl. In your 20s matches were easy – he’s male, she’s female - Puff, it’s a match. - didn't work?...NEXT! When did it get so difficult, so complicated? When did you have to fill out a 50 question questionnaire that detailed all your strange and secret phobias and compulsions like:
Where on the bathroom counter do you prefer your soap – left of the sink? - right of the sink - or - what is soap for? Or my favorite part of the questionnaire -- What body type do you like? They give you several options: Slender, Athletic and Toned, Average (whose average are you talking about here? - those in danger of diabetes, stroke and heart attack?), Stocky and A few Extra Pounds!!. So, I really see it as a choice between -- Athletic and Toned or Too big to put your arms around…..Hmmmm let me think, which do I prefer? I eat nothing but celery sticks for 5 days so I can fit into my slinky jeans but he can carry around 85 lbs of lard on his mid-section and write how he wants a sexy and sensual woman, who takes good care of herself (read: diets and exercises) and who will love him for himself! All of himself! You’ve got to be kidding me. Do any women check off they want “A few extra pounds” really? I am afraid there is a good reason these men are single again. I am afraid, very, very afraid!
There are so many stories to be told - the high talking guy, the serial dater guy, the favoriting guy, the sports guy, the mother loving guy, the sensitive guy, the tanned and tightened guy, the ready to get married - my laundry basket is full and refrigerator empty - guy, the controller guys (yes, plural!), the pitying guy, the Aidan guy, the piano guy and many, many more. Gosh it's only been 4 months since I started dating and already I have enough material to fill a blog for an entire year.
So, as the mood strikes me I will write about my experiences and that of my 2 divorced girlfriends who have also entered this new and disturbing world of dating at the uncomfortable age of 60. But, determined to prove to myself that there is life after becoming a widow, I will forge on, never discouraged by the men who look like serial killers, the 70 year olds seeking 35 year old (keep dreaming, unless you are Daddy Warbucks), the multitudes who now say they just want to cuddle (when did they start wanting to cuddle?) and those with an unhealthy fascination with tantric yoga. I swear I will survive, and laugh to tell about it.
See you next time.
But this blog is not about Kevin or our wild ride, although our fractured love story would have made for a great blog in and of itself back in the day. No, this blog is about (drum roll please) ... DATING AT 60! OMG if it wasn’t so funny it would be as tragic as Kevin’s death. But honey, let me tell you. It is the only thing that has given me some good laughs since he died.
Dating at 60 – what are you thinking girl. In your 20s matches were easy – he’s male, she’s female - Puff, it’s a match. - didn't work?...NEXT! When did it get so difficult, so complicated? When did you have to fill out a 50 question questionnaire that detailed all your strange and secret phobias and compulsions like:
Where on the bathroom counter do you prefer your soap – left of the sink? - right of the sink - or - what is soap for? Or my favorite part of the questionnaire -- What body type do you like? They give you several options: Slender, Athletic and Toned, Average (whose average are you talking about here? - those in danger of diabetes, stroke and heart attack?), Stocky and A few Extra Pounds!!. So, I really see it as a choice between -- Athletic and Toned or Too big to put your arms around…..Hmmmm let me think, which do I prefer? I eat nothing but celery sticks for 5 days so I can fit into my slinky jeans but he can carry around 85 lbs of lard on his mid-section and write how he wants a sexy and sensual woman, who takes good care of herself (read: diets and exercises) and who will love him for himself! All of himself! You’ve got to be kidding me. Do any women check off they want “A few extra pounds” really? I am afraid there is a good reason these men are single again. I am afraid, very, very afraid!
There are so many stories to be told - the high talking guy, the serial dater guy, the favoriting guy, the sports guy, the mother loving guy, the sensitive guy, the tanned and tightened guy, the ready to get married - my laundry basket is full and refrigerator empty - guy, the controller guys (yes, plural!), the pitying guy, the Aidan guy, the piano guy and many, many more. Gosh it's only been 4 months since I started dating and already I have enough material to fill a blog for an entire year.
So, as the mood strikes me I will write about my experiences and that of my 2 divorced girlfriends who have also entered this new and disturbing world of dating at the uncomfortable age of 60. But, determined to prove to myself that there is life after becoming a widow, I will forge on, never discouraged by the men who look like serial killers, the 70 year olds seeking 35 year old (keep dreaming, unless you are Daddy Warbucks), the multitudes who now say they just want to cuddle (when did they start wanting to cuddle?) and those with an unhealthy fascination with tantric yoga. I swear I will survive, and laugh to tell about it.
See you next time.
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