OMG. Children, get over this OH MY GOD crap; in my world it means OLD…MOSTLY GONE. This acronym totally describes my dating life since I moved to Paradise, Somewhere In This World. Why has it not occurred to me to share all this fun & frolic with you in the past three months? What a selfish chica I must be. Never mind, move over, we gotta have some coffee talk.
Oy, gefilte fish, where to begin? First, dear female readers, those of you who dread turning 30? Oh baby, the best is still ahead. The 30’s are when your superpowers are red hot and you are gorgeous and too fab NOT to be worshipped and adored. Problem is, at 62 I don’t feel any different than I did in my 30’s, when I could have fueled a nuclear power plant single handedly. The only time I realize I am no longer that person is when I have that dreaded daily encounter with the mirror, otherwise, exactly the same. Seriously girls, this should be heartening news indeed!
That being said, it should be clear that the desire for dating and letting the colts out of the stall from time to time (or possibly even 3 times a day!) is still quite intact, which has resulted in some howlers regarding senior dating. Allow me to ruminate. In the interest of full disclosure I must tell you that these encounters all result from on-line dating (yeah, yeah, I know, but I am now poor and have nothing left to steal!), or are acquaintances of my hippie friend Mentah, who is determined to dance at my wedding, one which she and only she will arrange. The day we met she told me, “You will not be out there long; somebody is going to snap you up in a nano-second. You are so vibrant and full of life. I have dozens of guys I want to fix you up with.” Hysterically, here are my results to date.
All names have been altered to protect the perpetually stupid, the droolers, and the socially autistic. Just saying.
First there was Rich, who said he was 66, but was at least ten years older. (Insider secret: they all lie by 2″ and 8-10 years). Met him on July 4, hold the fireworks. He looked like a sad Bassett hound, minus the soft floppy ears. At the end of our date he said, “If we went out again, I’d be dead within a month! You are too vibrant, vivacious, and energized for me”. Translation: you’d want sex 3 times a day and my Viagra RX doesn’t extend out that far. NEXT
Then there was Chuck. Cute as a button, rocking bod, dumber than a brick. It took me 20 minutes to guide him 2 miles to our meeting location, despite his possessing a GPS, which he couldn’t seem to operate. Within 10 minutes, he was seeking advice from ME about how to fix three major problems in his life. Don’t date guys whose chandelier is short multiple bulbs. NEXT
Then there was super wealthy Ed, who arrived wearing a pink and white gingham shirt and looking so much older than his photos I totally ignored him for 15 minutes, fully thinking he was a pleasant elderly grandpa waiting to meet his little family for lunch. Three hours of listening to his accounting of every possession he owned and exactly how much it cost, followed up by an after-dinner drink of how all women are gold diggers, yech. I think he should be dating Price Waterhouse and Cooper instead of mere mortal women. NEXT
And then there was one of Mentah’s specials, The Giraffe. I know this statement goes against the grain of most females on the planet, but I don’t favor tall men, despite having been married to two of them. Give me 5’10” and mirroring my size. Keep the beefeaters with the tree-trunk legs and wrists at bay please. Also the super hirsute gorilla boys; yech. So my darling friend Mentah tells me Giraffe Boy is 6’4″. I protest; that’s waay too tall. “No, really, he’s lovely. Give him a chance; you’ll see!” She is quite persuasive, so off I go. Sitting with him at the bar I realize this could possibly be the shyest man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. He can’t look directly at me for the first hour. Looks like Clint Eastwood 15 years ago and then he announces that he can only be involved with women who do not work as he leaves the island every January-February, due to the tourist overwash. A requirement for any girlfriend of his was that she not be employed. Well Mentah, since my existence on Planet Earth requires 2 jobs, this match makes perfect sense, in an alternate universe. As we were leaving the restaurant I realized my shoulder came up to his belt, probably making him more like 6’6″. He thought we were a match made in heaven; I promptly went home and blocked his number. NEXT
My next one is so super special, he can’t fit in a synopsis; he deserves a blog of his very own. Look for “Dr. Prepper” coming next!
I really do place the blame for all these dating difficulties on my ex-boyfriend. It’s extremely challenging to stomach anyone age appropriate when you have spent two years with a younger man who has the body of a 35-year-old. While being a cougar certainly had its purrfect moments, I am now suffering the repercussions. Perhaps a voodoo curse should be placed on his head? NEXT
Oh ladies, so many horrible dates, so little blog space…to be continued
Feature image courtesy of http://www.teamjimmyjoe.com