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.

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.