With more time under my belt as a single woman, the odor of my difficult divorce dissipated, and I was ready to show my kinder, gentler side. I revised my dating profile, cutting and pasting until the final version felt like a blurred photo suddenly coming into focus:
I'm a straight shooter who is what she seems--no games, looking for quality vs. quantity. My photos are all recent. I'm educated and self-supporting and you are as well. If you're curious, smart and funny (David Sedaris, dry-witted funny), you're a triple threat in my book! If you love to travel (I'm vaxxed and boosted, and you?) and like to experience new places and things, we may be a match. Or maybe we'll take a leisurely hike, practice our pickle ball shots, or settle in with the NY Times on a Sunday.
I widened my search radius and I got responses from San Diego to Los Angeles and points in between. I dove into the dating pool of men between 55 and 70 and tried to swim.
In real life, I never go into water over my head, and this pool felt just as deep and scary. I continued to jot down notes about my virtual dates and called it The Audit, numbering each guy according to the order we met: #2, his three daughters don’t speak to him; #11, has had all his joints replaced; #12, two grown kids and a dog; #18, wife died three years ago; #21, his ex ran off with the orthopedic surgeon she worked for … yada yada.
I've practiced yoga for 30 years and work out with a trainer. I've had a corporate career, have owned a business and now I'm a freelance magazine writer. I often visit my daughter and her family who live in Kansas City (and where I grew up), but the CA desert is my full-time home.
When I analyze The Audit, here is the breakdown of my decade of dates:
Total .............................. Dates with 29 men:
Only one date ...................... 11
Widowers ........................... 6
Fix-ups via friends ................ 5
Never married ...................... 1
Canadian snowbirds ................. 3
I show the Canadian category since it adds an international flair to my list, and to see if what I've heard is true--that Canadians are very thrifty. It was one in three. After he chose a nice restaurant to meet me on a Friday night, Canadian #1 showed up in a faded, untucked flannel shirt and wrinkled jeans looking like he'd just cleaned his garage. As we perused the menu, he asked if I'd "feel more comfortable going Dutch, since I was an independent woman."
I told him I was independent, but where I'm from, when a gentleman asks a lady to dinner, he's paying. If I'd asked him, I'd pick up the check, and did on a number of dates with other guys.
My ideal someone smells good when I lean into the curve of his neck, he enjoys a great indie movie, al fresco dinners, the beach or a boat ride, the theater or a concert, he has an interest in current events and is plugged into his community. My guy may identify with any political party, but he's not about to question the results of the presidential election or vote for anyone who does. The guy I date wants to know what I like but will share his interests and hobbies with me as well.
The guy who had never been married? I've never seen a grown man talk baby talk to cats like that. Ever.
It’s no wonder I'd get discouraged and let my Match membership lapse for months or a year, take a whirl with Tinder or Bumble, and after no luck, end up back on match.com and think, “Maybe my guy is still out there."
He's someone who holds hands, who's comfortable in his own skin and who can plan a date without being asked. And when he walks into a room, I want my first reaction to be a big smile--and vice versa. If you're looking for playful and cerebral all rolled into one, we may be a match. Does this sound like a fit? Please drop me a note and tell me about YOU and let's explore the possibilities!
What kind of profiles did I see among my online possibilities? Some guy named Rob in southern California wrote this:
"My role model: Cary Grant
Things I like: Witty conversation; weekend getaways; a good meal; kids; animals; affectionate women; westerns; people with a sunny disposition; positive reinforcement; Ike
Things I don't like: Bickering; loud people; not thinking things through; women who think of men as their projects; men who think of women as conquests
Things I can't stand: Debt; drama; hypocrisy
Things I have: Common sense; an education and intelligence (there's a big difference between the two); shoulder to cry on and words of encouragement when life throws stuff at you; an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon
Things I don't have: Tattoos; a pony tail; a Harley; a criminal record
What I'll do: Open doors for you; what I said I would do; say "please" and "thank you" even after the honeymoon phase is over; let you finish
What I won't do: Whine; get all drunk and stupid on you; bail out at the first sign of trouble; embarrass you; embarrass myself; embarrass my family; post a picture of me without a shirt; post a picture of my car; compromise on the one percent of life that really matters."
It was one of my favorites. Who wouldn't like good ol' Rob? His picture was boyishly handsome and his words depicted him in an intelligent, witty way. He was in his late 50s at the time and I was in my early 60s--certainly age appropriate for me, but he wasn't interested in long distance dating, he wrote me. According to his profile, he wanted to date women aged 39-59, and my gut said age was the real issue. Like a lot of guys I saw on the sites, he's down for dating women who can still be baby mamas, and that's why I had a handful of dates with grandpa guys who have young kiddos at home.
Thank you, next!
The rudest and last match date I had penned this charming profile:
"I'm a word maven and grammarian...I do NOT hunt, fish, ride motorcycles, watch NASCAR, smoke cigars, own guns or gamble...we will each understand the other's needs, including the need to do his/her own thing, but being apart only makes our mutual attraction stronger."
Wow, he had me at word maven--until he brought up sex, including his expertise in oral sex, several times during our one and only date for drinks. The guy was at least ten years older than his profile photos, and on my way to meet him, I followed his filthy car up the drive to our destination. It looked like he'd driven it through a mud bath. We went to my favorite bar at the Ritz, a place he approved in advance, yet he showed up in a flannel shirt (again, with the flannel shirts!) that looked like it had been through a war paired with a tight, stretchy cyclist jersey to prove, I guess, that he's a bike rider. His jeans were unremarkable.
For the record, I have nothing against flannel shirts. They're warm and in the right circumstances, look stylish on a guy paired with jeans and boots. But for a first impression at an upscale restaurant or bar? That tells me, "I haven't done laundry in two weeks," or "I don't care what you think of me."
For years, I collected sentimental stuff and kept old love letters, dried and crumbling corsages from high school dances and pictures of people, some of whom are no longer living. I combed through those boxes before I started my life over in California, wanting a clean slate and enough room for new memories and people to come into my life.
I whittled my memorabilia down to one drawer here in the desert, where I stashed notes, and seashells and Valentine cards from potential partners I've dated these past 10 years. Before I turned the calendar page to 2025, I emptied that drawer of everything I've received from those guys--except for one.
It's reserved for Keith's cards, the guy I went to high school with and hadn't seen in 50 years before we started dating. The one who signs cards with his angular engineer's script, where he tells me, "I'm so proud to be seen on your arm," or that he will "forever cherish the day" that we re-connected. He has a habit of letting food remain in his fridge far past the expiration date--so one card said that his love for me "has no expiration date attached."
He definitely meets my humor requirement.
For the last two years, he rarely goes a day without saying "I love you," or "You're gorgeous."
The irony that we found each other without an app or a profile doesn't escape me. To think Keith and I actually went to second grade together, of which the only evidence is a class photo from, you guessed it, my box of stuff I went through before I moved, and decided to keep.
So do I regret those dates with the other 28 men I met during my journey? Not for a minute.
They became the yardstick by which I measure and compare what I have with Keith.
But there's really no comparison.