Lookin'

During the 11 years since the end of my marriage, there came a time when I decided I needed to date. That word still doesn't sound right to me. A man of middle age shouldn't "date," anymore than he should have a "girlfriend," unless of course she happens to be 19, and is totally smitten with you in spite of all your money. Even if I was a gazillionaire, I don't think I could have anything more than a one nighter with anyone who didn't even exist when JFK was shot. In fact, after two or three hundred of them, one night stands probably wouldn't be all that satisfying anyway. If I win the lottery, I'll get back to you on that.

So how does one go about finding a grown woman to go out with in this day and age? I guarantee that there are no singles bars just chock full of attractive, intelligent, and witty babes between the ages of 50 and 60, and blind fix-up dates are likely to be just as disastrous as they always have been. (I'm embarrassed to say that I actually had dinner with a woman my ex-wife fixed me up with. She was nice enough, but I couldn't handle the implications and ramifications of what continuing to see her would be. I mean do you really want your ex giving your new prospect inside tips? Is to shudder.)

These days, it seems we all eventually find our way to the internet and the plethora of dating services. I’ve used at various times Yahoo Personals, Match.com, AdultFriendfinder, and Jdate. All of these services suck. They lie, they match you with women too young, or too old, or too fat, or too tall, or all of the above. Worst of all they match you with women who haven't been on their service for "more than 60 days (which means anything from 61 days to deceased). But once in a while, one of them doesn’t suck. It all depends on if and where you find that actual, living, breathing, and hopefully loving match. I have had two “relationships” from the internet – both from Yahoo. The first turned out to be, what younger people call, “a friend with benefits.” When I initially heard that I thought it meant a partner with a great health plan. Then I found it meant a partner with a great plan to make you feel, for want of a better word, healthier. Big difference. I knew pretty early that I was not going to fall in love with her, but stuck around too long. It’s hard to say “no more” to those damn benefits.

The second relationship was a comet that burned hot and fast, and lit up my heart like I never thought could happen again. I jumped in with both feet, believing the Zen saying, “Leap and the net will appear.” Wrong. She not only cut the net, but then made sure to throw an anvil in after me. Picture this: We’re laying in bed after sex (ok, you don’t have to really picture that, especially if you’ve just eaten). Our sex life, which started off wonderfully (don’t they all), had now deteriorated to the point where I was considering faking orgasm. So we are laying there and she places her hand on my midsection and says, “You know, if you’d lose that you might get a lot more sex.” Nice, huh? I should have just walked out right there and then, or maybe come back with some childish retort like, “And did you know that sweatpants are not supposed to fit like pantyhose?” But I didn’t do either. I was in love, and let me tell you that love is not only blind, but also deaf, and dumber than a sack of hammers. I stuck around for a couple of more weeks to soak up some more abuse and then, still wondering what happened to us, pulled the plug. I should have known that a woman who writes a blog about middle-aged internet dating, would have too much invested in having relationships fail, the better to keep her in the game.

On the other hand, I have come to realize that after being married for 30 years, and single for 11, that I don’t do alone all that well. I mean you get used to it -- living alone with a dog or two, seeing friends, getting wrapped up in work, shopping, cooking and cleaning (or not), to the point where you have pretty much forgotten that feeling of loneliness that lies dormant way down deep. Except sometimes, just before you go to sleep, while nuzzling a dog or two, that feeling rouses from it’s slumber and whispers softly to you. “Don’t drift off yet,” it says, “You need to hear me before you put us both back to sleep. Schmuck, you are lonely and you need to do something about that. You need to find her, win her, and hold her close to you (ok, I don’t know who she is yet, but work with me on this). You need someone who fits into you like the last piece of that 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle of the Sunset over the South Pacific, the piece that fell off the table and bounced under the couch, and that you looked everywhere for and found years later, covered with dust but still gleaming with promise (no, I don’t mean literally bucko, it’s a tortured metaphor for attractive maturity). And as she completes your puzzle, you complete hers, and you both know this as she snuggles in your arms, where of course she fits, as you both drift off to sleep. Do that please, so we can both move on. You’ve let me hang around way too long.”

So here I am again, sitting at my computer, going online looking for love. I wonder if I can find it on Google. Now THAT would be some kind of search engine.