A friend of mine found my rantings about trying to find a date amusing. I hope you do too. I suffer for my art!
Perhaps you could create a new blog to chronicle your robust nightlife. Cruising for blondes but settling for the [Pittsburgh] Penguins is excellent commentary on the mating dance of the middle-aged single professional in Central Pennsylvania, which resonates well with the milieu. Your photojournalistic [Rutgers] game post simply begs for a spin-off!
Creating a whole new blog is just too much work. It’s not really. But I am that lazy.
Do you remember The Dating Game?
Things were much simpler then. Everything was black and white!
A contestant, male or female, would ask a series of questions to three members of the opposite sex and at the end of the show, he/she would pick one of the unseen wooers and they would go on a date.
The potential mates were hidden from view, so you only got to pick based on voice and responses. No one knows how any of that turned out. Maybe they never even went on a date.
Have we come much further since then?
The Bachelor or The Bachelorette? A rose is a rose is a rose. By any other name. It’s still a game.
But now the contestant can see what the other person looks like.
I am over 50. Divorced after 25 years of marriage. My “rebound” relationship lasted three years, which I’m told is pretty good, until I got the “it’s me not you” speech as she was headed out the door, already having signed a lease to live elsewhere.
It’s funny . . . I would not choose to be where I am right now, but strangely enough, it is my choices that have led me here.
So I find myself back on the dating scene. This is not a torrid sex scene from Debbie Does Dallas. This is not a romantic scene from a Meg Ryan movie. It’s not even close to a rom-com.
No. This is a crime scene. An accident scene, horrific, but you just can’t help but look. This is a scene in a macabre mystery, that even Columbo or Agatha Christie cannot fathom.
I joined a few dating sites.
Why?
I am apparently insane. Lonely. Desperate. Surely misery loves company.
I am an eye surgeon who predominately does cataract surgery–hence the Eye Life. Get it? High Life? Eye Life? (There’s probably a reason I am alone.)
Anyway, in the course of most days, the average age of the women I meet is probably in the eighties. I am a real hit with the over 85 crowd. If they can still see, they love my dimples. If they don’t see well, apparently macular degeneration makes me look more attractive than I really am. They want to hug me. One gives me a back rub when I turn to face the computer. One woman came up to me–I was wearing scrubs without an undershirt on–and rubbed my chest hair, while saying “I just had to do that!”
I’m not really looking for an older woman–at least not twenty years older. I may be over 50 but I still feel like I’m 39. Apparently 39 isn’t what it used to be. But I have a job, and my own car and house. I am reasonably attractive (I think), in good health (I take no medications), I run almost five miles a day, and I have all my own teeth (I was told by a local woman who is also in the dating scene–who wouldn’t go out with me– that that is a rare thing in Central PA.) I also don’t need a blue pill to have fun.
I’m not looking for a happily ever after to fit a glass slipper. I would like someone who looks good in running tights or yoga pants though. With the Internet at my fingertips, I should have no trouble finding an attractive woman, closer to my age, but preferably a little younger.
Perhaps that is where I went wrong in my thought process. I thought the Internet would solve the problems I had with dating in high school and college.
One site actually lets you know when people you “liked” are on-line. There is an option to instant message them.
“Hi! Bachelorette #1! If you were an animal what would you be? Would you like to chat?”
The profile disappears. They are not on line anymore. Just one click that quick. It’s like some kind of freakish super power. I can make attractive women disappear just like that. Tired of your girlfriend or spouse? I can take care of that for you. One click that quick.
On this same site, a woman wrote in her profile: Not looking to date but to find someone to do outdoor fun!
Have you tried a dog?
This is a dating site. When you google it, it actually says: the world’s largest online dating site for runners, cyclists, triathletes, bodybuilders, or any type of active singles.
I wonder if she’s even single?!?
Another site let’s you swipe left or right like Tinder–which I have not tried yet–but once you reach out to that person, they disappear from your list of likes. You don’t know if they ever saw the message–they will be notified of your message when they like you back. How am I supposed to wear these women down if I only get ONE shot?
I might as well be throwing a message in a bottle into the ocean.
Who designed this game show?
Why do we have to make something that is already uncomfortable for most people that much more complicated and uncomfortable?
One woman–a very attractive one I might add, as in OUT OF MY LEAGUE and probably not only not in the same ball park, but we’re probably not even talking the same sport here like horse racing versus soccer but I digress–did actually message me back.
My intro made her laugh. I joked about only seeing older women because of my work and how I am a hit with the over 80 women, and then I complimented her on her eyes. She has gorgeous eyes!
So, you’re popular with the older ladies, huh? Lol Your message made me laugh. 🙂 I’m more popular with my little Yorkies. They just can’t stop giving me kisses. I do feel pretty special getting an eye compliment from you! Lol
OK. Now I am like a dog chasing cars here. I am running around with my tongue hanging out like a madman salivating all over the keyboard, but I never expected to catch one.
Now what the hell do I do?
Instead of carefully thinking this over, maybe checking with some guy friends about what they think, collecting data, and crafting a witty reply, I whipped off an answer that probably was too truthful, but expressing how happy I was she responded. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that a lot of others hadn’t responded. It’s the truth, but goddammit, the truth has no place in human relationships apparently. I might also have mentioned I was alone on New Years.
Send.
I am a desperate loser. I didn’t type that per se but I might as well have. In capital letters.
Regret immediately washed over me drowning my soul.
Crickets chirping. Tuesday became Wednesday. Wednesday becomes Thursday.
I blew it. Or maybe I didn’t. Who the hell knows?!? Where is host Jim Lange when you need him? My rose is going to die before I can even give it to her!
I had to do something!
Don’t do it. Don’t look desperate even though I am desperate. She’s so beautiful. I’d give my left arm to get a date with her. (I need my right arm for bowling. And surgery.) Of course, with my luck, she wouldn’t date a one-armed man.
If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all . . . gloom, despair and agony on me.
So I sent her another text.
I can’t believe I’m jealous of a Yorkie!
I thought that was pretty good. She mentioned her Yorkies giving her kisses. I do want to be that Yorkie! That should have been the first and only reply. But I didn’t think of it fast enough. I’m under a lot of pressure here!
An hour and 23 minutes later, the longest hour and 23 minutes of my life–she responds!
Hi Todd. Thanks for the messages. Life has been crazy the last couple days while readjusting to work life. It’s tough when you get off your regular schedule for two weeks. 🙂 I hope you have a good night.
What. The. Hell.
You are killing me here. I’m dying. Myocardial cells will not be replaced. I am going crazy (and it is a very damned short trip!) and my neurons aren’t going to be replaced either.
Does she like me? She’s still responding, so that’s a good sign, right? An “Indicator of Interest”?
She doesn’t know how to tell you to hit the pavement without being rude about it. She’s nice. She just isn’t into you.
She gave me a smiley face. She’s happy, right? About going back to work, or texting me? I don’t know. I wouldn’t be wasting my time writing this blog if I freaking knew.
Maybe she really was busy.
She didn’t actually respond to anything in my messages. I got a fucking form letter.
Back when you had to actually walk up to a girl, ask her for her number, and then call her on a phone attached by a cord to a wall, if she said she was busy washing her hair, then you could pretty much figure she was too busy to ever, under any circumstance or fantasy, ever go out with you. Ever.
Is this the millennial equivalent of “you’re a nice guy, but I already have plans Saturday night. And next Saturday night. In fact, I have plans every night until Armageddon comes. Sorry.”?
Have a good night.
Have a good life.
Please don’t include me.
So what should I do. I’m defeated. Humiliated. I’m on a site with women who want to date (or are looking for a dog to go hiking with) and one who actually responded, sort of in a very non-committal kind of Charlie Brown wishy-washy way, and it would appear she has ended the conversation. Say Good night, Dick.
“Say Goodnight, Dick”
Game over. Game. Set. Match. There are no parting gifts. Do not pass Go; Do not collect a date. I am the weakest link, Good bye! Forget this ever happened. This was not the date I was looking for.
So I sent another message. Something about acknowledging how the holidays can be busy and it’s probably temporary insanity. I’m thinking humor is a better option than my unrugged good looks at this point. Just pretend the other texts never happened. She’s busy–she probably will forget them, right?
I asked her if she runs–her profile says she does–and I say that I would suggest a run date if the weather in Central PA were more conducive to running this time of year. And I joke that I’m probably going to get wet tomorrow as rain is in the forecast. I allude to asking for a date without actually asking for a date, and she has the opportunity to respond to said query without actually agreeing to a date. Am I brilliant?
Send.
The crickets are still chirping. Three days. The site puts a little green dot next to the profile picture to indicate if people are on-line. Her dot has been green. A lot. I know because I’ve been checking the damned site every half hour like a god damned monkey on crack. I wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and I check before getting back in bed. That doesn’t mean she has read my message. She probably has a billion messages. From other guys who are just as desperate as I am but SMART enough to not come across as desperate. Did I mention she was gorgeous?
When I first messaged her on New Years Eve–not sure what I was thinking–she was so far out of my league. But something inside me said just do it. Maybe it was her smile. Her eyes. Maybe it was a Nike commercial in my head. When she responded . . . such a bright beacon. “So shines a good deed in a weary world.” But the spark faded quickly, like a falling star. Plummeting to earth to become mere rock. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. “For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been’.”
I was a fool and you would think by this point in my life I would be smarter. There’s no fool like an old fool and I play the part well.
The gorgeous lady has sung. It’s over now, the music of the night. The game is over and in the books. I didn’t even know the rules. I presumably broke them. Or I didn’t get the hidden power up. Maybe there is a Gamer magazine with codes to navigate through this morass.
Or maybe I’m just a helpless romantic?
theeyelife 