Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘lifestyle’

I have had an epiphany.

As I (over) analyze my dating failures, I have come to a sobering realization . . .

I am more Sheldon Cooper than Bradley Cooper when it comes to interacting with beautiful women.  I’m actually frighteningly closer to Rajesh Koothrappali, but that doesn’t compare well with Cooper (or Bradley) and I could not come up with a pithy title that plays on the word Koothrappali! (I am so Koothrappalled!)

Coopers

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

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?

the-dating-game-set

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.

wth

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.

goodnight

“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.

never

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?

Read Full Post »

Apparently a guy in The Netherlands is trying to do just that sans a fountain of youth or a Cher song.

age

Instead, he has petitioned their court to legally allow him to change his age from 69 to 49.

“We live in a time when you can change your name and change your gender. Why can’t I decide my own age?” he said.

Ratelband says he wants to change his age because he feels discriminated against on the dating app, Tinder.

“When I’m on Tinder and it says I’m 69, I don’t get an answer. When I’m 49, with the face I have, I will be in a luxurious position,” he told the Dutch newspaper Algemeen Dagblad.

Ratelband also argued that doctors say he has the body of a 45-year-old.

He said he would renounce his pension if he is legally allowed to switch his birth date.

I am so there bro.  I feel like I’m 39.  I look in the mirror and I spy with my little eye . . . okay, it’s a well worn 39–a 39 year old that must have had way more fun than I had in my first 39 years . . . but hell yeah.  Make me 39!

He lost his bid to be 20 years younger.

I am so sad.

Of course, at 39, with the face I have, I still won’t get an answer.

Maybe I should petition the court to change my face!

deppage

I’m going to petition the court to be this guy!

 

Read Full Post »

Fool me once . . .  shame on you.

Fool me twice . . .  shame on me.

I ran my second marathon today in Pittsburgh.  If you have never been to Pittsburgh, let me sum it up for you in one word:  HILLS.

There’s a Hill District.  There are the North Hills.  There are the South Hills.  Here a hill, there a hill, everywhere a hill hill.

I know it’s not possible to start at one elevation and end at the same elevation without equal amounts of going up and going down.

But I went up hill a lot more today than I went down.  I broke the laws of physics.  I don’t know how.  But I did.

Why did I run a second marathon?

Runners

The origin of the modern marathon is rooted in ancient Greek history.

In a nod to Greek history, the first marathon commemorated the run of the soldier Pheidippides from a battlefield near the town of Marathon, Greece, to Athens in 490 B.C.

Apparently stupidity “ran” rampant even in 490 B.C.  (See what I did there?)  And history apparently repeats itself.  I ran a second marathon.  Shame on me.

What is often forgotten in that historic legend is this:

Pheidippides ran the approximately 25 miles to announce the defeat of the Persians to some anxious Athenians. Not quite in mid-season shape, he delivered the message “Niki!” (Victory!) then keeled over and died.

He DIED!  I obviously trained better than he did, as I have survived.  Barely.  I am walking with a limp.  I’ve been having some Achilles tendon problems (another Greek myth/legend!  Damn those Greeks!  Damn them all to Hades!)  And like any obsessed devoted runner I more or less ignored it.  Most days the discomfort went away after 1-2 miles.  I didn’t rest, ice, compress or elevate.  I ran through the pain.  I loosened it up!

It does not feel loosened up after 26.2 miles. What the Frick in Pittsburgh was I thinking?!

My heel is angry with me.  It is punishing me.  I would kick it if I could but it hurts too much to do that.

Notes from the race:

Despite the pain, I finished in 4:17:59.  Good for 52nd place in the 50-54 division.  For what it’s worth, I ran in the Asics Gel Nimbus 19 today.  I ran in the Brooks Ghost 9 in Philadelphia.  Think I preferred the Brooks, but the data may be complicated by my Achilles issue.

There was a threat of rain but it never rained.  With an average temperature of 55 degrees and no burning sun, it was actually a great day to run.

With the threat of rain, however, I thought the crowd turn out was a little less than in recent years.  I didn’t actually count them, but it seemed like there were fewer people cheering me on.  The energy level just seemed more subdued.  Maybe I was distracted by my pain.

No really memorable signs along the way.  May the Course be with you.  Liked that.  The “If Donald Trump can run so can you” signs were out in full force.  It was funny.  Give it a rest.  Maybe you should tweak it . . . “If Donald Trump can WIN, so can you!”  Also, the “This is the worst parade ever!” and “Did you think they said RUM?” signs are a little passe.  One lady who I kept passing for some reason on and off–one of us was time warping–had a shirt that read “Have you hugged your lawyer today?”  I have not.

I’m not saying I will never run another marathon, but I may need to be senile to do that.

Read Full Post »

You would think that with those long legs I would win every race!

Shadow

Read Full Post »

My track record with dining out at restaurants is not impressive.

I once tried to order a 99 cent Whopper at Wendy’s.  I had it in my mind–I saw the advertisement for 99 cent whoppers and had to have one–but apparently Wendy’s won’t let me have it my way.  I paid more than 99 cents for a burger that was NOT a whopper.

I ordered coconut shrimp and lobster at Outback–and ended up with an empty lobster tail.

I once paid $48 for a coke.  The drink–not the drug.

And there was a “fine dining” experience (you know, you go to a place where you can’t wear blue jeans and they require a tie) that involved bok choy, enoki mushrooms and consommé.  I still think they were making that shiitake up.

Today we were meeting my daughter at TGI Friday’s even though it is Sunday.  I’m sorry.  It throws me off balance as well.  It’s like going into Five Guys, and there are aren’t Five Guys behind the counter.  (I’m pretty sure one of them was a woman!)  But I digress.

She had given me a list of restaurant choices that she would be happy with and asked me to pick one.  I specifically picked Friday’s because they serve Kona Big Wave Golden Ale.

So when the waiter took our drink order, guess what I ordered?  Well he brought the other drinks out and said he had to get my Heaven in a glass from the bar.  Minutes later, he appears without my Golden Ale.  They are out of it.

I should have got up and left right then and there.  But I had already looked at the menu and saw a new Philly Steak Burger.  It comes with an egg roll on top!  I kid you not!  Someone asked themselves how you could make a burger even more unhealthy than it already is, and somebody came up with the idea of tacking on extra stuff outside the bun.  Brilliant!

SteakBurger

I want that!  So I ordered it.

THIS . . . is what I got.

MyBurger

Do you see an egg roll stapled to my bun?  Dude?  Where’s my egg roll?  Is this going to be like Outback all over again when the waiter argues that I already ate the lobster even though the tail shell was clearly empty!

He informs me they don’t have the egg rolls in stock.

I am so bummed I ended up drowning my sorrows in a half piece of Tennessee Whiskey Cake, because quite frankly, paying $8 for the full piece just seems like highway robbery.

After I got home, I was still stewing over not getting my Kona beer and then not getting the sandwich that was advertised.  It was then that I wondered if perhaps I paid for the sandwich with an egg roll but did not get the egg roll?  I also thought it might have been nice if the manager would have comped my dessert in lieu of payment for an egg roll that didn’t exist.

That’s when I discovered that CORY–our waiter, bless his little heart–had actually comped me my burger without telling me.  For the record, I did tip him well–I rounded up the 20% recommendation to make the number come out round, but that was based on the adjusted bill.  After all, it wasn’t his fault the bar was out of my beer and someone in purchasing forgot to order the egg rolls.

And now I feel worse.

I should have gone to Denny’s.

Oh wait,  That didn’t work out well for me either . . .

CoffeeCup

That’s my coffee . . .but that’s NOT my lipstick!

Read Full Post »

So I was waiting in the waiting room (well, what else would you do in a waiting room?–it was done in the Waiting Room, by Colonel Mustard, with a Wrench . . .) and saw that the establishment was kind enough to offer coffee to their waiting patrons.

Alas,

Addwater

Where am I going to find water?

I turned around . . .

Aquarium

Voilà!

Alas . . .

fishinpot

The coffee looks a little weak.  I think Dory forgot something!

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: