Sex and the 60 - Intervention

“Just today, I’ll just look today,” the little devil on my shoulder said with a sly smile.

“NO, DROP THE MOUSE AND MOVE AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER,” the logical me screamed.

“Oh, what’s the harm, a quick look, a couple of emails, you never know…,” the devil was so persistent.

“Stop it, stop it. I don’t need to do this.” I had promised I could have a vacation, a time to refresh, a few weeks of just putting everything in perspective, regaining my sense of humor.

The devil crooned, “But you know you love it, need it, just a little taste, just load it up in case you decide to take a peek. They’re there, He’s there, and He’s waiting for you, searching for you….”

OH MY GOD, I think I am addicted to the internet dating sites! Remember I said I was taking a break? I quit Match, got out of the fish pond and ducked those Cupid’s arrows” (ridiculous!). I was giving myself until after Labor Day, kind of a dating retreat without the vow of silence. But two weeks into this vacation I find myself wondering why things are so quiet. No winks, no emails, no bad phone conversations leading to the ubiquitous ‘snoozeathon’ date and followed by the creative writing test of making the kiss-off sound like you are just not worthy of him. I know I was exhausted by it, but now, now….I just miss it! It is beckoning me.

“OK, you asked for it,” logical me spat. “Let’s remember some of the most memorable shall we? The Munchkin, Sludge, The Screecher!

“Oh, come on, they weren’t so bad, just not ‘my type’.” I could see I needed an intervention.

“Oh yeah what about ---- The Shuffler.” …..OH!…the Shuffler….the shuffler….the shuf.

Have you ever wondered how perfectly good-looking, agile and energetic men become the feeble, bent over, hobbled guys you see in the supermarket? OK, OK, I know I’m not being kind here. I’m sure these are fine men, they’re good to children and animals and cry at sappy movies, but we’re not talking about their values or worth as people, we are talking about their physical suitability to date ME!

Ah, the Shuffler. He was separated when he first contacted me but I rebuffed him and told him to make contact when he was divorced - never expecting to hear from him again. But months later he did make contact. His divorce was final and we met at a nice “white table cloth” restaurant. He was already seated, not a great conversationalist, but looked good (at least seated) and brought a great bottle of wine. These days that is considered a home run!

I remember he was behind me all the way to my car when we left the restaurant and I didn’t see him walk that night. I just remember the peck on the lips, promise to call and him swiveling to get into his Beemer.

Date two was to a comedy club. Well, this was nice for a change. A man with multiple interests that did not include the Phillies! It was pouring rain. He picked me up - I was waiting on the porch (no need to get him wet – ahhhh, she’s so sweet!) And he, in kind, dropped me off at the club. I found a small table and before I knew it he was standing next to me – never saw him enter the room. The comedians were pretty good and after the show he suggested we stop at the disco for a night cap and a few dances.

Wow, I think I could fall for this guy….dinner, a show and now dancing. Now this was the kind of date I was expecting when I first signed up for Internet dating. Oh boy, I think I found the needle in that haystack. (OK, we are overlooking a few things, like he didn’t crack a smile during the comedy show – no laugh, not even a giggle – but said he thought the show was very funny – huh? Or that I had to fill the silence with patter as he seemed to have nothing to say – went nowhere, did nothing…how did he spend his days? Hey, I’ve met worse, much worse.)

So back to the date, I leave to go to the restroom and say I’ll meet him outside the disco which was in the same building. I get there first. Turning back toward the restrooms I saw him. He was shuffling toward me. Yes, you knew this was coming. He was shuffling like his ankles were shackled; taking tiny little steps as if he could not keep his balance without both feet on the ground. He was using his arms like a tightrope walker uses a pole to keep his balance. Yikes….and we are going dancing! He takes my arm and I help him into the club.

I probed a little to find out if he had recently sustained an injury….but alas no he said he was in fine health and, in fact, exercised everyday by walking 3 miles (well now we know what he does all day!) At the disco I did find one thing he could do really, really well – the Shuffle!

Epilogue: I asked around to those in the know – “What would make a man of 60 shuffle along like that?” Here are a few theories:

• Parkinson’s disease
• Traumatic brain injury
• Congenital malformation
• The tertiary stage of Syphilis (yeah, well look it up! It’s true!)
• Wearing a panty girdle

So our dates ended there. She’s sooooo shallow. Well, yes I am. You know, if I can’t have it all…I’ll have none of it. What would you have done?

Intervention --- Successful – at least for now. But, see you next time.

 There is a new post on my grief blog:  2-1 - click on the link to the right if you'd like to read it.

Sex and the 60 - Taking a break!

I woke up this morning feeling great! I’m somehow lighter, more buoyant and there was a new spring in my step. In the old days that would have meant I was in love, or in lust with a new, interesting, challenging man and it was “batter up.” But this morning it was the complete opposite. There is no new man in my life. No phone calls to wait for, no second guessing what he meant, what he said, why he said it and when will he say it again. No closet marathons finding something that doesn’t show the newest lump, bump or bulge that seemingly has appeared overnight. No tweezing, shaving, exfoliating, pumice-stoning. No, this morning Life is Good!

I admit it. I just can’t take it. It’s too much trouble. Too much work for too little return. I need a break and you know what….I deserve one. I’ve entertained and regaled you with stories of ridiculous encounters, unbelievable dialogues, absurd characters wearing preposterous outfits; men who could put Ambien out of business with just a few minutes of conversation. Men who are trying to be their sons but are coming off more like their fathers. From the geriatric players with their exotic sports cars and $10,000 watches who have turkey necks and hairlines that end at the nape of their necks looking for 30-year-old eye candy, to the sweetest guys who have never had an interesting experience in their 60 odd years and think you’re fascinating when you say you drive yourself into New York City.

I’m exhausted, I’m numb, and I’ve moved through all the emotions of Hope, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. If you see a similarity in these stages to those of death and dying….well there is good reason for that. Often, on a date, I would prefer to be dead!

So you ask – What happened? What could have finally caused her to run, screaming from the internet and shut all the windows? Well, the straw that broke the camel's back happened…and so, I will amuse you with this story and when you are done reading I want you to email me your permission to Take a Break!

He called himself a Mensch. Now for the record, Jewish men and I do not make a good couple. I was raised in a Jewish home and perhaps, just perhaps, I know too much! Yes, I did try it more than once and I even married a nice Jewish boy, but you know…it just doesn’t work - not for me not for he. But, because I have been coached to “be more open, experiment, don’t assume the past will repeat itself,” I decided to give it one last try. Oh yeah! Get me the Tums….I don’t want to kvetch, but oy veh is mir - es brent mir ahfen hartz (I have heartburn)!

So after a brief conversation on the phone – yadda, yadda (you’ve heard all of this before!) we agree to meet at a bar restaurant in Princeton. I scheduled it to be convenient to my hairdresser appointment that was nearby and mentioned this to the Mensch. We talked about the little street my hairdresser’s shop was on and how it has changed over the years. I go to Casa Aziz (http://www.casa-aziz.com/), which is, by the way, the best salon in New Jersey! and Aziz works on my color - foils, thick purple and brown goop all over my head and eyebrows to match the “better than nature” hair parfait. Thankfully, this is all washed off and Aziz is starting to cut when I see a man come up behind me and our eyes meet in the mirror. OH MY GOD – it is the Mensch. He smiles a toothy grin and says: “So, this is what I’m getting?” Yes, ladies and gents, he thought that it would be a good way to meet for the very first time. What Chutpah. OK, in my head I hear my friends say….be nice. He is obviously socially inept – a schmendrik. Perhaps he was an orphan or his mother did not live long enough to tell him about the taboos of meeting a woman for the first time as a reflection in a salon mirror with her hair wet and evil artificial lighting!

So I usher him out of the salon and send him off to the restaurant. Once I arrived, he was nothing but complimentary. Already taking the liberty of stroking my bare arm and telling me how beautiful my eyes were.

I tried, I swear, I tried very hard, but No, no I couldn’t take it. He was wearing shorts and a tee shirt on our first date, he had skinny, hairless legs and tiny man-child hands and they were touching me – within 5 minutes of meeting. He talked about his two master’s degrees, his ex-girlfriend who called him Mr. Big – Oy Vey! And then began to tell me a story about his youth. I, on the other hand, put on a jacket so he could no longer pet my skin and began to order the most expensive items on the menu – in abundance too.

He tells me that when he was 22 he had a 19-year-old girlfriend. She was a virgin and it took him a while but he talked her into “letting me put it in just a little bit.” Nice, huh, nice conversation from a Jewish boy on a first date! He asked if he was embarrassing me talking about sex. I am still laughing!

So, anyway, he did indeed get to “stick it in a little bit” and he duh, got her pregnant. I interjected my amazement about his stupidity at the age of 22 back in the 60’s when everyone knew about condoms – heavens we used to make water balloons out of them – didn’t everyone? He ignored me and continued.

Well, the girl’s father refused to allow them to marry (this was one very smart daddy!) and after the birth and eventual adoption of the little boy baby, they lost contact. But Mensch did not forget and told his subsequent wife and then their resultant daughters about their half-brother who was somewhere on this earth….

Ahhhh, I know you saps are falling for this guy, aren’t you? Well, I ordered an after dinner drink, coffee and a piece of cake for dessert.

So….his eldest daughter is now in her 30s and she tells her father she wants to find her half-brother. All are in agreement and within days she has spoken with him and a family reunion is planned. Apparently the son is married with child and the entire family would greet the man who had made this all possible with just “a little bit.”

As he tells it, the doorbell rings and enters his long lost son, the son’s “husband” and their adopted baby boy. The Mensch’s eyes slowly meet mine. He looks ver klempt. He is looking for some sign of sympathy at the outcome of his immature tryst. The accident of birth that instead of producing a man’s man, brought him instead a faygala - what a shanda – he thinks.

I lean toward him at the table…a look of earnest concern on my face and place my hand over his. His eyes soften and he is ready for me to give him the compassion he craves. I say: “Mensch (or whatever his name was). The problem is you put it in only “a little bit.” If you had put it in all the way he would have been straight!”

I finished my after dinner drink, checked my watch and made my excuses. I received his “kiss off” email when I got home. All I could think of was Mazel Tov.

So it’s not over….but I’m taking a rest. Don’t worry; I have enough stories to keep this blog going for years without any new blood…..so I will,

See you next time.

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