I love dating. No, seriously, I do. There’s an excitement, an energy, a sexual tension that happens when you meet someone new. Lots of smiling, a bit of flirting, a few double entendres thrown back and forth. (“What’s your favorite thing to do?” “Standing up, or lying down?”) There’s the exchange of personal tidbits (“I have an older sister, I went to Hofstra. I procrastinate.”)
Often, the conversation revolves more around the man and his life, than it does around you. That’s something men do. They like to talk about themselves. It’s a definite plus if the guy actually asks about you and bothers to listen to the answer.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. First you have to actually meet someone, which is much easier said than done. Oh, of course you run into the guy with the creepy smile who follows you through Barnes and Noble, and wants to talk about this new book he found on empowering his inner winner. And the one with the wrap-around hair who asks you how to choose produce while squeezing mangoes in the vegetable aisle at Fairway.
You could go to singles events, but I have this fear that some shlub is going to latch onto me and I’ll be stuck with him for the evening. I never really learned how to say, “Thanks, but no thanks,” or even, “Buzz off, I’m not interested.” I just smile and nod and pray for a fire drill.
Oprah magazine told me to put myself out there, TALK to people, make connections. Now, my kids already accuse me of being that crazy lady who talks to everyone whether she knows them or not. I talk to people on elevators, on line at the deli counter, in the bathroom at Fridays’, and I like to be funny, so half the time I say something that strikes me as witty that no one else understands, and they just look at me with this combination of discomfort and pity. But I was in Costco a few months ago, and this great-looking guy and I kept making eye-contact, and smiling and saying, “Hello” as if we already had some kind of prior relationship. Aisle after aisle we kept bumping into each other and I thought, “Hey! This is what Oprah is talking about. Put yourself out there, make a connection. So I did, I said, (trying to be funny), “You’re really going to have to stop following me.” To which he replied, “But you’re such a nice person to follow!”
Bingo!! Oprah, you’re a genius. So we get to talking and make that connection, and I end up giving him my number (not that he asked for it, but I was all gung ho at this point), and when I get home I’m so excited because there’s a message on my machine from him saying hi and he’d like to talk to me some more, but he doesn’t leave a number and the caller id says, “Restricted.” This happens once more and I’m getting a little frustrated. I mean, how am I supposed to call him back. . . unless. . . and the thought creeps into my head that there’s a reason he doesn’t want me to call him back. And sure enough, the next time he calls, we connect, and he admits that he’s married. MARRIED! I mean, what the hell?? Connection schmection! Great advice, Oprah.
So I’m back to trying to meet men. I’ve been online, on those dating services. There are so many of them. I started on JDate, but I think I used up all the jews in a twenty-mile radius of my neighborhood, so I moved on to another service, a nonsectarian one. It took me three and a half days to fill out their in-depth questionnaire and then it took them three weeks to send me the names of two guys they believed were my harmonious matches. One if them was 62 and lived in Connecticut (I’m 50 and on Long Island), and the other was a motorcycle enthusiast (I’m terrified!) from New Jersey. So that was great. I waited another three weeks and they sent me the name of a guy with two cats (I’m deathly allergic) who was also a cigar aficionado (P. . . U. . .) All that in-depth research certainly paid off.
Onto another dating service where I went through search after search of all the criteria that interested me: good-looking, not-too-tall, around my age, no boat, rich . . .
Each profile has a banner, one line that sums up that person’s outlook on life, or dating, or occasionally, inexplicably, boating. Mine says, “Sanity is overrated.” I came across a member whose banner reads, “You are my density.” Hmmm. He’s either dyslexic or suffering from osteoporosis. I mean, I’ve heard of looking for someone to fill you up before, but that’s a bit ridiculous. I contact another man who interests me because his profile says he’s Native American. We chat. Turns out he’s Portuguese. From Brazil. So that’s almost Native American. Not.
I’ve been contacted by 26 year olds. I’m fifty. Seriously, what’s the point? I know Demi and Ashton are having the time of their lives, but exactly what will we talk about? I’ll quote Dylan, he’ll rap a little Fiddy – where do we go from there? Anyway, I’ve noticed the young ones are only interested in sex. I guess they figure since I’m so old, I know what I’m doing, and I’m probably desperate to do it.
And some of the men choose to wink at me. They send me a virtual wink to let me know they are interested -- so interested they don’t have the ability to string together a couple of sentences to send me an actual email??? Yeah, THAT’s the guy I want to go out with.
So here I am, stuck in this conundrum: I love dating, but can’t get a date. I guess I shouldn’t complain -- I’ve been married twice. The first was a psychotic episode I don’t care to talk about. The second was an amazing relationship with my soulmate, whom I met through the New York Magazine personal columns. (He passed away six years ago). So, you CAN meet people, true love IS out there, you just have to keep trying. Maybe I should walk around Barnes and Noble carrying that book on finding my inner winner. . .
No comments:
Post a Comment