Looking for Love (Or Not) at 50

For the last several years, I considered myself a reformed (or better yet, retired) lifetime dater. I’d like to take full credit for this brave and late-coming choice, but a complete surgical hysterectomy pretty much took the wind out of my social sails, at forty-five. After spending the better part of my life single, childless, and continually chasing my own version of the perfect romance, it was actually a bit of a relief. For the next few years, non-dating felt somewhat lonely and strange to me.

But by fifty, my interior life had settled down considerably, allowing me the opportunity to pursue a second college degree, take up a hobby I longed to pursue, and adapt the persona of a mature woman with a real life. Gone were all the awkward first-date insecurities and jealous confrontations of paranoid, new love. Gone, as well, was a lifetime legacy of dear John/dear me notes, delivered all too often as phone or email messages.

So, when the slightest urge to couple resurfaced in my long-hormonally-vacant heart, I first suspected my pharmacist of a serious estrogen switch-a-roo. All of the sudden, my social butterflies were hovering around me like a reverse romantic force-field. What fateful force could possibly induce my leap from the comfort of the celibacy wagon? In a word: Yet-another-dating-site.com. Overwhelmed with curiosity, and, dare I say it, hope, I perused the site for ten or fifteen minutes, then bit into the Internet love-bullet. For those of you whose hands sweat at the thought of taking such a drastic step in the name of new romance, I’ve returned from the cloud with some good news, and some bad news.

The good news is, nothing’s changed since high school. The bad news is, nothing’s changed since high school. In the romance-on-steroids pace of cyber space, dating site members expend their online energies in one of two major ways: The pursuit of ASAP sex, or the practice of serial flirtation. It’s as if the Internet has opened a portal to the generalized pubescence rampant in all of us at age seventeen. My first invitation to participate in an instant messaging chat arrived as soon as I posted my new profile and least-damaging photo. This might not be so bad after all, I thought. What began as a friendly conversation with a nice-looking, fiftyish IT guy, rapidly deteriorated into a fly-swatting fest with what turned out to be a disgusting, online porn talker.

And that was day one. I managed to cut off access from the potty-mouthed creep with the convenient, parasite-blocking functionality offered free on the website – I’ll bet it’s their most utilized feature. I avoided visiting the site for a few days, and then jumped back on for another try. I also decided to take a new tactic, and make first contact with some potential mates of my choice.

An hour of browsing turned up three distinct possibilities, based on pretty much nothing but handsome photos and charming online profiles. I emailed the trio with crisp, non-committal notes of introduction, and bided my time. Bachelor number one replied within minutes, and offered a similarly staid greeting, but closed with a twist. “Could I handle a bad boy?” he ventured. A bad what? This guy was easily sixty-five. How much ‘bad’ could he possibly have left? ‘Bad boy’ struck me as a man who asked for an attitude for Christmas, but got a Viagra prescription instead. Delete.

Bachelor number two came off sweeter in his initial response. Much sweeter.   He then proceeded to email me day and night, attaching cartoon hearts, balloons bouquets, and every other gooey, lovesick messaging icon dating sites provide to induce additional panic in potential mates. And all of this before he shared a single detail about himself. I daresay he was banished to the land of lost socks, as it became clear that his affection, or affliction, in this case, was here to stay.

Bachelor number three responded with a rare combination of tact, kindness, and better than average writing skills. He was easy-going and very nice looking. He also found me “funny, attractive and intriguing.” Would I like to meet him for coffee tomorrow morning?” Now this was my kind of guy! Imagine my delight when he appeared (on time, mind you), looking even better than his dating profile photo. He was a dead ringer for Jeff Bridges. We enjoyed a good chai tea and a solid hour of light-hearted, comfortable conversation. About fifty minutes in, I began to silently entertain notions of movies, dinners-in and baseball games, all in tandem.

Then the sky fell. He asked that absolutely-don’t-ever-ask-a-woman-this-on-a-fist-date question. “How soon do you think we might start having sex?”

Sex? Sex? How did we get on sex? I had just finished delivering the abridged version of my last divorce. He picked up immediately on my unglued look, and proceeded to press further still. “Look,” he argued, “It’s just that I’m a really sensual, sexual guy, and the last thing I’m looking for here is another friend to see a movie with.” I was instantly transported back to high school, and imagined myself in the passenger seat of ‘Jeff’s’ Vega hatchback, fending off his passes while trying to watch ‘Jaws’ at the drive-in.

And so goes the tale of my brief, but seemingly familiar foray into the world of middle-aged cyber-romance. I should be relieved that the face of dating hasn’t changed much since I was a youngster. I could hop back in the saddle tomorrow and navigate my way through the usual fray of meaningless sex, secret agendas, and sudden break-ups, changed little with time. Or I could curl up with a good book, and leave the drama to those who still have the stomach for it – or the writing chops.