Somewhere on Craigslist

So it's 10:06 PM, somewhere in the Near Valley, and a tallish, “some say attractive,” woman sits down to make an honest plea for an honest man. Sure, she's doing it on Craigslist, with it's clientele of men unwilling to take the time and/or money to invest themselves in a more traditional online dating service. CL is easy, quick, very cheap, which is good because that's what most of them are looking for in a woman.

This woman sits at her screen, in a dimly lit room. It's warm tonight in the Near Valley, and she's wearing her comfy sleep wear, maybe a tee shirt and panties, maybe sweats and bunny slippers. She's weary from the search, from the wanting for what she has always wanted, for what most of us have always wanted, but which now is, in our "middle" age, so elusive -- someone to love. It's very quiet now. She has turned off the TV or the stereo, which is her usual prairie home companion, and has decided to tell her truth to an anonymous group of strangers, most of whom will not even click in to read anything that a 57 year old has to say tonight. For some reason tonight is different. She's more than a little angry about the shallow men who are looking for women too young, too gullible, and too easily impressed by lies and half truths. But as I said, tonight is different. Tonight, she will speak from her heart, without anger, as much to herself as to the CL audience that isn't there.

She pours out her plea for honesty, for substance, for reality based self-appraisal, for a man of passion who, like her, is looking for a friend, partner and lover. She doesn't care if he's won the lottery (although that would be nice). She wants to hear from a person who, like her, is more than a little disappointed in the race for love, now that it's in the home stretch, but still willing to put himself on the line and say, "Here I am. Take a good look at me the way I am (although it would be ok if you don't wear your glasses). Listen to my story, look in my eyes, take my hand, my body (including the 20 pounds too much of it), and my heart. Maybe you and I can be a we."

Tonight is different. It's 3:00 AM in a mobile home right above the beach in Pacific Palisades, and a shortish, intelligent, hard working, and pee in your pants funny man sits at his computer and decides not to go back to bed. He has been sleeping, but as men of his age tend to do these days, gets up now and then to pee, maybe drink some cold milk from a chilled glass bottle, and give a quick look into his cyber window to check for that one email which could lift his spirits and set his heart stirring. It's not there. He's written more than a few women of Yahoo, women his age, who say they are seeking a man like him, but do not respond to his contact. Ok, his white horse limps a little. Some of his once thick, curly hair has moved on to wherever hair goes when it tires of life at the top. The ones left behind wave the white flag. But the person he once was, still is, and he wonders why these women aren't at least a little curious.

He sits on his Swopper, listening now to the waves down below, on the beach where he actually does take walks, although not as many as he would like to. He is also wearing his comfy sleep wear, his furry skin, which keeps him warm and has, on many nights, done the same for another. These days, it's a dog who shares his bed, but the dog understands that he's only holding her place. Whose place, who knows? And on this different night he goes on Craigslist. He's looking for a small dresser to put in his guest room closet, and maybe some bargains in potted plants. Oh, and as long as he's there, he might as well shop for love. This won't take long. Nothing much in the way of drawers and pots, and only young and younger women, who still believe they will find Mr. Right on Thursday, just in time for the weekend.

And there she is, this woman of the valley, and he reads, and doesn't go back to sleep. It's 3:30 now. He writes slowly and carefully, because he wants to answer her well, to let her know that there is at least one man, probably not even the right one, who understands her. And so he does. Sleepy now, he finishes by tellingl her that if she wants to know the details of whom she is hearing from, she should go on Yahoo and search the personals. He won’t be hard to find, he’s 60, his name is Milt, and the lead line of his personal profile is, “Still Frisky After All These Years.”

Two days later she writes back and thanks him for his kind email, but declines the possibility he offers. He sits there shaking his head.