Author | 1 Year of Online Dating at 50
The other day I got a text from a friend:
“Just went to the blog. Are you taking a break from writing?”
Fair question and I rationally replied:
“WHO are YOU, the literary Gestapo?”
I know it’s been a loooooooong time since I’ve written and I would love to tell you it’s because
Ran into Tarzan at Sundance.
I’m having a crazy, lust filled romance with an age appropriate version of Alexander Skarsgård.
Sadly that’s not the case.
I’ve been struggling to come up with something to write. Although I don’t have writer’s block, per se, my love life hasn’t given me much material to work with. It’s quite yawn inducing even to me—can’t imagine how boring it would be to everyone else.
I had a date with a nice enough guy. He showed up thirty minutes late after multiple text apologies as he made his way to the bar. I find tardiness off-putting and on a first date, it’s downright rude. Although apologetic, his words had a practiced feel to them and I’m not down with someone who’s decided that his time is more important than mine. I also quickly learned that although separated he was not yet divorced. Ugh. We had a drink and I was ready to end our evening. There was definitely not going to be a second date and I offered to split the bill. I had two margaritas, guacamole and chips. He had a few chips but told me he wasn’t a fan of guac.
His aversion to a significant part of my favorite cuisine—Mexican–was reason enough to hand him walking papers. I mean really, who doesn’t like guacamole? I’ll tell you: A person with a serious character flaw OR a picky eater–which is even worse. OK, perhaps I’m a little sensitive with the current political climate, because I wanted to ask, “Does your disdain begin and end with fare? How do you feel about walls?” Probably a silly question because I’ve amended my profile to state, “If you’re voting for Trump, we would definitely not be compatible.”
My date also looked at the bill and commented on the TWO margaritas I had consumed. He had only been there for one. What I could’ve said was, “Call the police. I’m a middle aged white chick and don’t fear law enforcement.” Of course that would’ve been silly because he was a cop. I reminded him that I had been waiting a half an hour for his arrival and wasn’t going to be sipping water. He agreed to split the bill, btw. Not quite what I expected and if I had arrived late, I promise I would’ve insisted on paying the entire tab. Then I got up from the bar and realized I was taller by at least two inches. I know, who cares, right? That night, I did.
I had another date recently with a Brit who’s visiting NYC for the summer. When I arrived at the bar, he was sipping water. I ordered a glass of Rosé and he ordered a Coke. No big deal if he’s a teetotaler, but then he proceeded to tell me about a bar he frequents each time he visits. The establishment offers free refills. He told me about how he’ll sit for hours, using the free wifi and watching TV, while sipping on one Coke that is refilled without charge. Lots of “free” in his vocabulary and as my grandmother would to say, “That Cheap Charlie has the first
nickel he’s ever made.” I realized I was absolutely paying for my glass of wine and decided to order dinner. I made sure to tell him we would have separate checks. He didn’t order food but I shared my steak because I hate to eat alone and his frugality had to be on high alert after Brexit. There’s nothing that gives the thrifty greater anxiety than the threat of truly being broke instead of just living every second of their life that way. Do I even need to tell you there would not be a second date? Didn’t think so.
BUT, I did have an awesome date a few nights ago. The man is a widower. We’re definitely going out again. I have no urge to write about it.
That’s about all that’s happening in my world. I hope you’re having a fabulous summer filled with adventures.
If you aren’t following my Facebook page, I would be over the moon if you could click HERE and show me some love.
“Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.” Oscar Wilde
My friend Tracy said that my willingness to to put myself out there, via digital dating, was an admirable trait. The fact that I had SO many awful experiences and didn’t quit was a lesson in tenacity that others (herself included) should follow.
I was mortified.
Was it desperation? Wouldn’t a normal person quit? Seriously, what kind of maniac continues to be tortured and goes back for more?
The following wise words have been attributed to Einstein, Twain or occasionally Franklin, “Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
According to Albert, Mark or Ben, I surely have bats in my belfry.
BUT, not so fast, iconic dead guys. Along came the right man on Tinder and I am officially off the market.
You read that right.
We’ve been together for a couple of months and I’m happy–maybe even blissful. Being with him is easy and has been from date one. To have instant ease was at first scary but I did my best to avoid overthinking our connection. Surely a peccadillo or ten would surface. If nothing else, our cultural differences would be challenging.
He’s French. Very French.
Beyond two debates on World War II and wine, we manage to agree on most things. He’s hilarious and unfiltered. I’m impressed with his quick wit given that he’s translating the humor into a language that’s not his own. Maybe it’s the accent but I crack up all the time. When I repeat something, he asks (with annoyance), “Why do you make me sound like Inspector Clouseau?” I laugh some more.
Chance and Kate
We spend weekends at his rambling home in Chappaqua. He’ll cook dinner as I sip wine and keep him company in the kitchen. His dog and my two get along—the only family blending we have to worry about with adult children. He works in the city so during the week we spend time in my neighborhood.
I recently passed a test, though unaware it was being given. He was entertaining friends from Paris. Dinner began at 7pm and we didn’t finish until 2am. We ate, drank, listened to music–discussed everything from politics (French and American) to pop culture. We also danced. Often. He said that although a lengthy dinner with many courses was typical in France, he’d not found it to be common in America. Maybe so but I’m a continental chick and, duh, if the music includes “La vie en rose” I’ll be charming all night.
His friend decided I was “sexy with class.” Oui!
He is in Europe now on business and will be gone for two weeks. I would’ve joined him had I not lost my passport. Next time, for sure.
It feels good to miss him; safe in knowing he will be back soon.
France is the most civilized country in the world and doesn’t care who knows it. John Gunther
The following essay was a Modern Love submission that was rejected. I heard the editor was looking for more humor pieces so I gave it a shot. I didn’t do anything with it for about a year and then entered it in Solas awards for Best Travel Writing. It just received an honorable mention. I thought you might enjoy reading it and I’ve added some photos.
The first time a new widow has sex will probably be memorable. When it’s in Milan with a beautiful waiter, sixteen years her junior, it is indelible.
My friend Jeanne and I boarded the plane in Philly and would spend three weeks traveling the boot from top to bottom. Neal, my husband, was supposed to be my companion. He wanted to introduce me to his favorite country. His death, six months before, changed everything. Life without him was so unbearable I often wished for an accident or terminal illness of my own.
“Aren’t you excited?” Jeanne said, as the plane took off.
“I hope we plummet into the ocean,” I mumbled as I looked out the window and it was then that given my desire to buy the farm, Jeanne realized separate planes might’ve been prudent. She internally acknowledged her risk of becoming collateral damage.
On our first night the hotel concierge booked a table at a swanky restaurant. It was an effort to put on mascara. I wore sensible shoes.
“Our waiter’s flirting with you.”
“Please, I could’ve given birth to him. I mean, if I were a slutty fifteen-year-old,” I said, discretely tucking my clodhoppers further under the seat.
When he returned to our table I asked, “Were you smiling at me because I mispronounced the dish?”
“No. I was smiling because you’re a gorgeous woman.”
Jeanne grinned which prompted me to remind her of the facts. He was a handsome waiter in Italy. It was his job to flirt with middle-aged women.
When he deposited the check he also included his card. If we needed anything during our trip, we shouldn’t hesitate to call. As we walked back to our hotel, my friend repeatedly suggested I phone. After a couple of drinks at the hotel bar, beyond the bottle of wine we shared with dinner, I was properly liquored-up and I did. Salvatore invited me for a nightcap and I quickly changed into preposterous shoes, put on makeup and fixed my hair.
Entering the pub a few blocks from the hotel, I came to my senses. Surveying the crowd it was apparent that the only appropriate role for someone my age was as a chaperone to rowdy high school kids traveling abroad. Feeling foolish I turned to leave and there he was.
“Bella, let me get you a drink.”
Perhaps it was his unlined and glorious face or the impeccably tailored clothing that hugged his long lean frame but one drink became two and an hour passed as we sat on the patio and chatted. A light rain began in what was surely a cue that our evening should end and Salvatore ceremoniously opened his umbrella, placed his arm around my waist and pulled me closer to him and the protection of cover (of course he did).
“May I drive you to your hotel?” he asked.
“No. You can take me to your place.”
The next morning I expected the sick feeling to hit, one that occurred when a monumental mistake of the floozy variety was made. It never did. That night was like an IV drip of narcotics after months of acute appendicitis. I planned to exchange airy “ciaos,” the requisite cheek kisses and proceed to day two of the vacation with the big event being “The Last Supper.” Instead, a second evening with Salvatore followed. “Some widows drink to numb the pain,” I told myself, “I have sex with random waiters in foreign countries.”
The clear conscious was brief, though, as even an agnostic should not forget she’s in the land of saints and
popes. As Jeanne and I waited for the train to Florence I noticed a group of people staring at my diamond and ruby wedding band. When we squeezed aboard the overcrowded, standing-room only car they did, too. The next hour we were surrounded by a band of professional pickpockets who strategically, with feigned casualness, placed their hands on our suitcases and handbags as the train bumped along. We eventually locked ourselves in the lavatory, removed all jewelry and buried our wallets deep in our American-sized luggage. I winced at the reminder of my marriage as I slid the ring off and then glanced in the mirror. I was sweating like a criminal.
“A stolen wedding ring seems appropriate,” I thought, yet was also relieved to see that Jeanne—who started the day with her naturally curly hair straightened like a board—was equally sodden and had morphed into Chaka Khan.
Arriving in Florence I had several missed calls from Salvatore. As I imagined our interlude was complete it was confusing and I called him back. “I’ll come to Firenze, if you want,” he suggested, and I did. Later that afternoon while sightseeing my lips began tingling. I asked Jeanne (a nurse) if she noticed anything unusual about my mouth. “Nope, looks normal to me,” she said as we began to climb the 463 steps of the Duomo. At the halfway point we were breathing hard and I was certain I felt my lips bouncing. Once at the top I turned towards my friend and she jumped. I was having some sort of allergic reaction as my lips and tongue were swollen and my limbs were covered with walnut sized welts. Running down the steps to find a pharmacy for the Italian equivalent of Benadryl I asked for directions from a tour guide.
“Pharma-see-uh?” I gasped, as my throat tightened.
“It’s pharma-CHI-uh,” Jeanne corrected, in what had to be a shout out to her Italian heritage. Obviously, even when things were dire, proper pronunciation was paramount. We eventually called the hotel doctor who gave me a shot of medication which quickly began working. My lips no longer brushed against the tip of my nose and end of my chin. The doctor asked what I was allergic to and I told her to my knowledge, nothing.
“This isn’t nothing,” she said tersely.
She was correct and I concluded it was the pox of the merry widow.
Swollen face, days later.
Later that evening Jeanne casually mentioned that for someone who wanted to die I certainly rushed to the pharmacy. I rolled my eyes and stated the obvious: I didn’t want to die a heinous death, gasping for air with a gargantuan tongue and distorted face. She could be such a stickler.
The next day I called Salvatore and told him Florence was out. My face was puffy and I’d spent too much time thinking about him. What began as an escape from grief had transitioned into something more complex. I’d started to care. The futility of a relationship with a much younger man and guaranteed hurt when it ended—and I knew it would end–had snapped me into survival mode, a place where any potential pain was to be identified and avoided.
“It was fun! Arrivederci!” was my new attitude.
Salvatore was not so flippant.
“I want to see you again,” he repeated during multiple calls and by the time we arrived in Rome it was, “I must see you.”
Determined to erase our encounter, Jeanne and I filled our days with all Rome offered and my amnesia
appeared acute until we reached the Vatican. I planned to light a candle in memory of my very Catholic husband even though his upbringing, which included daily mass as an alter boy, seemed like serious overkill. In his eyes my dogma-free childhood was parental neglect but I often pointed out the residual effect: I wasn’t ruled by shame. He usually countered that a little contrition never hurt anyone and as I walked through Saint Peter’s Basilica, surrounded by tangible icons of good versus evil, I flashed back to my indiscretion. It was as if the environment pulled it from where it was buried in my brain and I wondered how many “Hail Marys” a priest might assign me.
My susceptibility to vicarious Catholic guilt was horrifying.
Sorrento
As we moved south the opportunity to meet faded. By the time we were in Sorrento and soon headed back to the States I knew the memories of my vacation fling would quickly wane.
Salvatore had a different plan.
He called regularly and our conversations would end with him asking me to return or allow him to visit. I would point out the obstacles of geography and age and he would reply, “Bella, there is no age in love.”
We became friends on Facebook and I watched as he opened his own restaurant. He invited me to the opening night party but I declined. In the event photos lovely, dewy girls surrounded him and although we’d never talked about anyone we were dating, his options seemed greater than mine.
“You belong with someone your age,” I told him.
“Every man in my family marries an older woman,” he said. “My mother is older than my father, my brother’s wife is older. It’s what we do.”
Although I wanted to believe there was a genetic marker portending a happy life for us, I doubted the scientific backing of our May/December pairing.
Jeanne and Tom’s wedding
But, much can change in five years and I gradually became stronger–the ache of loss transitioned into gratitude for what I once had. I was ready to take risks and when Jeanne announced plans for her upcoming wedding in Tuscany I knew I would see Salvatore. I even daydreamed about living in Italy part time, but didn’t share my impending visit. He’d been disappointed more than once with tentative plans made in moments of weakness or too much wine that always dissolved when I came to my senses.
I visited his Facebook page daily and allowed myself to recall touching his taut stomach and the feel of his legs entwined with mine as we talked. I didn’t worry that he’d grown even more attractive, while that same stretch might not have been as kind to me. During one of those times there were new photos of Salvatore that reflected a palpable bliss.
His bride wore a white lace gown that hugged her lithe, narrow frame. Salvatore held her against him while they danced, so perfect they could’ve been on the cover of a bridal magazine. He would have the life he deserved with a partner his own age and the children I knew he wanted. I would never forget those two nights that soothed my pain but there would be no reunion for us, only friendship.
I don’t agree with Salvatore. There is absolutely an age in love. He was exactly where he belonged and finally, after five rough years, I knew I was, too.
“We all become explorers during our first few days in a new city, or a new love affair.” Mignon McLaughlin
Will talked often about future plans in a way that I’d normally find presumptuous, especially at the beginning of a relationship. Instead his desire to be included in my inner circle was comforting. He was sticking around.
He said he looked forward to meeting my daughters and mentioned that he’d told his entire family and friends about me. He wanted to meet my friends, too.
Karen
Those around me had normal concerns.
“Take it slow, no need to rush,” said Karen, my surrogate mom. “How do you know he’s who he says he is?”
“He’s got crazy eyes,” said my daughter Morgan, while studying his photo. Several days later, we were on the phone and his battery died. Morgan said that was “shady.” It wasn’t as if she had anything to go on beyond what I’d told her but when I begin a new relationship Morgan’s first
reaction has always been to dislike the interloper threatening to upset the normalcy of our lives. When she was a teenager and I told her about Neal she became hysterical and screamed, “You’re ruining your life!” then stormed towards the front door yelling, “I’m telling Papa!” Papa is my father—another person who’s been consistently suspicious of the men in my life. My dad asked for Neal’s Social Security number so he could do a background check. With one final shot before heading to get my dad involved, Morgan howled, “And what about Howard?” Howard was someone I’d had an on again off again relationship with for quite some time. Morgan couldn’t stand Howard in the beginning, either. It was nice to see that as an adult she’d toned down the hysteria.
Will was just a shady psycho.
Will’s family, (one brother in particular), had reservations, too, and advised him to date lots of women in the beginning of his new single status. He said his friends were happy, though, as he told them about me and shared my photos.
I wasn’t ready to meet his family. I wanted to cement our relationship in familiarity, spend time together, before we complicated us with our tribes. I told Will about my complex brood. When he described his, it often sounded like the plotline to Leave it to Beaver, and it seemed he grew up in the Rhode Island equivalent of Mayberry. I figured it was probably bullshit. A wise yogi once told me, “I was embarrassed to talk to people about my family but once I did, they did, too, and I realized we’re all one big Jerry Springer Show.”
Two days after our date I was heading home to Las Vegas for ten days and Will had a week of golfing planned at his family’s summer home. I was staying with my father while his wife was away.
Those who’ve followed the blog know my father hasn’t been well. He’s fallen and broken both his hip and femur. I’ve told you about those maladies. What I haven’t told you is a year ago he was diagnosed as having Lewy Body Dementia (LBD) symptoms. It is a disease often misdiagnosed as Alzheimer’s and one that can’t be confirmed until an autopsy is performed. It mirrors Alzheimer’s in many ways as people with LBD also have disorientation but they also are afflicted with balance and mobility issues. A definitive diagnosis really doesn’t matter, as Alzheimer’s and LBD are equally awful and this manner of slowly, tragically losing my father has left me heartbroken.
My dad raised me and I lived with him after my parents divorced. Though I’ve written much about my father, I haven’t done so with my mom and although many blog followers have asked, I’ve remained vague. My relationship with my mother has been complicated for as long as I can remember. As a child she told me, “You rejected me from birth.” Adults know that babies don’t reject their mothers. But we also know the opposite is possible and that was the case in my life. As stunning as it was to know my mother felt that way, I knew my dad adored me with every parental fiber possible and that was more love than many have from two parents.
My grandmothers also filled the maternal void and both loved me fiercely. I did not have an unhappy childhood, though sometimes confusing. I managed to sort all that out years ago when I was able to look at that relationship through a grown-up lens–with the help of therapy, of course. My dad was it and I considered myself lucky.
My two Grams giving me my first bath.
I told Will this in bits during several of our marathon telephone conversations. As it appeared he’d been raised by June and Ward Cleaver, it was a rather embarrassing, but also necessary. I was heading to Las Vegas and it was going to be painful. I needed Will to understand why I might not be myself—at the very least, distracted. It was also important that he was cognizant of the situation as I wouldn’t be so readily available for lengthy conversations or rapid response texts. A couple of times he’d seemed perturbed when I didn’t answer the phone or respond quickly to his text messages. He expressed this in jest with statements like, “If you didn’t call me right back, I was going to be so mad!” He would sometimes text when I was out with friends or my daughters and, again, joke about being ignored. He pressed for my undivided attention, despite his jovial approach and I didn’t mind. Perhaps it’s a personality type I’m drawn to, but I can’t remember a man I’ve been with who didn’t expect the same thing.
Will and I spoke on the morning I flew to Las Vegas. I also sent a text that I’d landed and he called again. We talked as I drove to my father’s house but once I got there my dad would be the focus. I loved my time with him and made sure he understood my undivided attention was all his. With the disease he’s often impatient, demanding and argumentative. He doesn’t have a filter anymore and says some horribly shocking things, too. Growing up he was always easy going, fun and brilliant. Nobody could make me laugh more. The stranger inhabiting my father’s body appears more often now and it’s gut wrenching. I keep it together when he’s awake but after he’s gone to bed I cry like a child who’s homesick. I miss my dad so much, yet he’s asleep in the next room.
Will and I talked in the evenings and I would give him the rundown. He was supportive as he reminded me this was the disease. He would find a way to make a joke about certain situations and the levity helped. He was having fun golfing with his family but they were giving him a hard time about how often he was texting and talking. One early morning he even asked me to text
with his brother—the one he mentioned wasn’t thrilled about his new relationship. I think he wanted to prove how clever I was but given the pressure I was under, it seemed rather insensitive. I felt like a performing seal but did it anyway and even overlooked the caustic undertone of his brother’s texts barely hidden behind what he pretended was humor. Texts like, “Are you a ballbuster?”
Hmm, would Theodore Cleaver ask Wally’s girlfriend that question?
My dad had lost contact with many friends since his diagnosis. One buddy, John, called near the end of the week and said he’d been trying to reach my father for a year. I explained what had happened and he asked if we could to go to dinner. I was hesitant because this would take him from his routine but I asked my dad, and he was excited to see his old friend. The plan was to eat early and John made a reservation at Hugo’s Cellar in the Four Queens Hotel/Casino, downtown.
Hugo’s Cellar. Photo courtesy Las Vegas Review Journal
It’s a fancy place, my father wanted to wear sweatpants and got mad when I asked him to change. Sweats it was. He uses a walker and it was an arduous trek from valet parking to the restaurant. Once there and with his friend I began to relax as he ordered a glass of wine. It was a great evening. My dad and John talked of old times and I couldn’t believe the fine points he recalled. His short-term memory was gone but long-term was amazing. They laughed and talked as they always had, both having fun. When my dad ordered a second glass of wine it made me nervous since he was unstable enough on his walker. I didn’t want to say anything, though, he was so happy. Then he ordered a third, which I knew was a mistake. Once dinner was over we got up to leave the then-crowded restaurant and my father began to sway, tipping the wheels of one side of his walker, then the other. I held onto the front to steady it and my dad yelled at me to take my hands off. Everyone turned to stare. I quietly explained that I was helping because he was tipping over and he yelled again–this time screaming the F-word. In my entire life I’d never heard him use that word. The maître d’ walked briskly towards us and asked what was going on. I discreetly explained my father had Alzheimer’s and I was trying to steady him. My dad loudly told the maître d’ to get out of his way and started pushing forward. And then he fell and yelled, “What the fuck are you doing?” A woman at a nearby table screamed as his leg hit her chair on the way down. I hurried to help him up but he began flailing his arms and yelling. He was completely disoriented, didn’t know who I was and refused to move, bellowing at me to leave him alone while shooing me with his arms. His hand grazed my mouth and when I told him to stop yelling he grabbed my upper arms and roughly shoved me away. I could see in his eyes I was a stranger. Someone obviously called hotel security, and they arrived a moment later. As three big guys walked towards us one was holding handcuffs. Having worked in the gaming industry for most of my adult life I’d like to clarify that hotel security guards don’t always make smart choices and certainly handcuffing an eighty-two-year-old man confirms that. I stepped between them and my dad and told them to stop. Then I explained my dad had Alzheimer’s. We didn’t need handcuffs but a wheelchair and help to the car. Thank God they listened.
On the drive home he asked what happened. I told him he fell and Security helped us to the car. He called himself “stupid” for drinking wine and said he was sorry. “No big deal, Dad. Everybody drinks too much sometimes and we handled it.”
That sort of episodic break is symptomatic of Lewy Body Dementia and alcohol can be a catalyst.
I got him from the garage to his bed, helped him into his pajamas and gave him a sleeping pill. He told me I was the best daughter a father could hope for. I told him he was the best dad ever. Then I shut his bedroom door and fell apart.
The first person I wanted to speak to was Will. I called his cell but he didn’t answer. The cell service was sporadic at the vacation home so he’d given me the landline number. I called that, too. Again, no answer. I called his cell a second time and left a message letting him know I 
needed to talk. At that point I was angry. It was a combination of what happened that night and the fact that I’d always been available and accommodating when he called. Even during the difficult week with my dad—because I knew it was important to him. I performed on demand, first with his business partner, then his brother (Angry Bird). Was expecting the same too much to ask?
Texts go through at the vacation home even when calls won’t so I sent him a text. “Answer the fucking phone, goddammit! I had a crisis with my dad and need to talk.” And I waited. Nothing. I finally called my friend Jeanne. Once she helped me calm down, I sent another text letting him know he should disregard the previous text, I was with my friend and OK.
The next morning I got up to a text from Will sent several hours before—given the three hour time difference. He said he was “confused” by my texts. He also said they had an early tee time. I figured that meant he was unavailable to talk while playing golf, and still miffed, I replied there was no need for confusion and then gave him the awful details of the night before. I assumed he would respond by telling me he’d call when they were done playing, but I heard nothing.
By late afternoon I had a bad feeling and checked my email.
There it was, a message from Will.
I’m paraphrasing but it’s pretty close.
He was sorry for the ordeal but my angry text really set him back. He was at a loss to even discuss it and was rattled all day. He wasn’t in the right place to deal with that kind of drama with all the issues on his plate. When he resolves his issues perhaps he would feel differently and we could explore getting to know each other. He closed by asking me to respect his decision.
Drama? Wow.
I wrote back (paraphrasing, again) that I would absolutely respect his decision and my reply would be the last time he heard from me. I apologized for the inappropriate tone of my text but explained that I had just been through a traumatic experience and trusted him enough to talk me off the ledge. I assumed he would understand as I’d told him about what was going on, as he knew about my close relationship with my father. I wished him well in finding someone better suited for him, and added I will be cautious with the next man in my life. I said I would never again be so quick to trust in the infancy of a relationship no matter how close I think we are.
So there you have it.
Jeanne
I never had any intention of telling this story and I’m well aware of the irony: Will asked if I was on the site for writing material, I told him I wasn’t and yet here I am sharing. It was my friend Jeanne who pushed me. She explained that doing so was an opportunity to be vulnerable—something that does not come easy for me.
It has been a couple of months since this happened and it’s god awful to relive. I buried the Will sorrow for a time after returning from Vegas. The reality of how far my dad has gone away was all I could handle. It eventually bubbled up, though, as tamped down feelings usually do. There are lots of things that are troubling, but most of all his delivery method. I deserved to hear it from him directly, either by phone or in person. He didn’t think a text message was the proper way to ask me on a date so surely he knew sending that email was even worse. And if he had many things on his plate why push for an exclusive relationship and talk about a future? I would’ve happily dated Will and continued to date others until his plate was emptier. Why say you’re “baggage free” when you’re obviously not? And why ask to meet my daughters and friends? Perhaps one day I’ll run into him and we’ll finally talk.
My girlfriends bolstered me up.
“You’ll hear from him again.”
“His loss.”
“He’s not for you.”
“Now he has things on his plate?”
I have lots of male friends and asked them how they’d feel if they received the crazy text I sent Will.
“I’d apologize the next day for not being there when you needed me.”
“I’d be frantic to reach you.”
“I might be surprised but would understand once I knew what happened.”
“He’s weak. Move on.”
Morgan’s reaction was my favorite.
“The first thing that came to mind is, are you strong enough to be my man, and the answer is no.”
As hard as this was, something good happened. Finally I have confirmation that I can love again—in that big way. I wanted to believe it was possible but sometimes wondered, especially given the number of dates I’ve been on with many decent men. It even feels good to hurt over Will, as odd as that sounds. I wasn’t sure I could feel loss for anyone but Neal.
I’m back online again and dating. Not much has changed with that process, but I have. I have a new outlook and can thank Will for that, too. It was exhilarating to feel deeply and I want more. Gone is the mantra of “I had a big love once and if it never happens again, I’m luckier than most.” Instead I now say, “I can and will love again.”
Two quotes today, as I couldn’t decide which I preferred.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Ernest Hemmingway
“When I’ve shown you that I just don’t care. When I’m throwing punches in the air. When I’m broken down and I can’t stand, would you be man enough to be my man?” Sheryl Crow, “Strong Enough”
PS-I’m going to take a break from blogging for the remainder of the summer so I can focus on finishing the book. Whew, these last three posts have been rough. If you don’t want to keep checking back I hope you’ll subscribe to the blog. Who knows? I could meet Mr. Right in July or August.
Also, if you aren’t following me on the Melani Robinson Facebook page, I hope you will. The conversation is always interesting and I’ll be posting on Facebook throughout the summer. Click here to Follow.
Once finished with class I checked my phone and faced the truth. I would never hear from Will again. I deleted my profile and headed to Trader Joe’s for groceries.
On the walk I got a call…
It was Will but you already knew that, right?
He apologized for not getting back to me after he processed the information, as he was away on business and very busy.
It was strange to finally hear his voice. Sure, we had numerous text conversations but this was intimate, serious and real–two hours of real. Then he called again that night and we talked for three hours.
AND several times the next day.
AND every day after that.
We also continued to text multiple times each day and raucous laughter was automatic. Will was away for two weeks on business but I don’t think he got much work done. I know I didn’t do much writing as my head, normally filled with my current work, was full to the brim with him. He asked me if I would like to go to dinner a day or so after he returned. He first sent a text and then called to apologize for asking me out in that manner. There are some things that should be done with a phone call, he explained.
During one of our typical days of texting I was surprised when his business partner responded. Will was driving. I wanted to be a good sport so we went back and forth for a short time and then he called.
“Will has a girlfriend,” he said. I could hear the teasing tone in his voice accompanied by Will’s protests in the background. “He’s in love. It’s Melani this and Melani that. All he does is talk about you.”
As much as I hoped to be Will’s girlfriend, I didn’t bring it up. After all, we hadn’t even met.
BUT, he did.
He asked me if I was dating other men and I told him I was not. He said he’s always preferred to focus on one person, dating multiple women was not the path he chose and he’d like to focus on me.
So, after hours and hours of talking, never ending texts and just about any over-sharing one could imagine, it was date night. I wasn’t even a bit nervous. I knew this man and was comfortable being myself. I also have (cough) a few first dates under my belt.
Pour La Victoire
I took my time getting ready and since Will chose a restaurant one short block from my house (my favorite neighborhood bistro, by the way), I decided to wear a dress and serious heels. The kind that might get a girl in trouble—or at least accentuate her calves. Shoes of the impractical variety.
I was serene as I rode the elevator down to the lobby, “Lookin’ hot, Mel!” Said my doorman Rich. I strolled around the block and did notice a man or two checking me out. I’ve got this, I thought smugly. When I arrived, the hostess told me Will had already been seated so she showed me to our table. He saw me coming and stood up.
I took one look at him—all 6’3” perfection, wearing a beautiful suit to match his gorgeous face and I’m sure you know what was going on inside. You’ll be happy to know that I maintained my dignity, greeted him warmly with a big smile and gracious, “Hello!” as I effortlessly took my seat across the table from him.
OK, that’s how the scene would play out in the movie version. Let’s try again.
Will stood up, smiled as I walked his way–and I lost it.
One look at him and my face flushed bright red, my legs stopped cooperating so my walk got a
little hitch-y, and my eyes widened as I stared at him, a shocked expression on my face. I awkwardly took my seat, never taking my focus from him, and although my brained screamed SAY SOMETHING, YOU IDIOT, my mouth refused to work. I couldn’t find my words and at the same time I felt beads of perspiration forming on my upper lip.
Will spoke first. “Are you OK? Do I disappoint you?”
Did he disappoint me? Probably in the same way the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel let me down or Versailles seemed like just another big ole house.
FINALLY, I found my voice.
“Oh my god, no, not at all. I’m choking under pressure here because you’re so much more than I expected. Your photos don’t do you justice and I came here tonight, full of myself and confidant and took one look at you and I’m a total idiot. I need a drink.”
Will looked relieved as he smiled, and then motioned our server and I ordered a martini.
And after a couple of sips you’ll be glad to know I rallied.
We talked and laughed. He teased me mercilessly about my entrance—we laughed some more. Once I paired the voice I knew and trusted with his face it was effortless. I also knew, without a doubt, I was falling in love. Close to two hundred dates and almost seven years alone, it was quite clear.
After dinner he said he wasn’t ready for the evening to end so he suggested a nightcap. After attempting one neighborhood lounge that was not what we were hoping for, I knew exactly where we should go:
If you followed 1yearofonlinedatingat50.com you might remember the sexy bar. It’s a secret underground paradise in my neighborhood. As we made our way from Broadway to Columbus my feet were killing me. I didn’t think we would be walking or I would’ve saved those stripper heels for another date. I told Will I had made a bad footwear choice and we slowed our pace to a stroll as he held my hand and guided me towards our destination.
And that, my friends, was a very good thing because if he hadn’t been firmly holding my hand I would’ve fallen flat on my ass. As it was, the heel of my shoe got stuck in a sidewalk crevice and my ankle turned. That led me to stumble in that incredibly alluring manner—first the ankle turns then
the knees buckle followed swiftly by the badonk slamming to the ground. Will held on and was able to steady me enough that once all motion had stopped, I found myself squatting on the sidewalk. It looked a lot like this.
That’s right, I’m bringin’ sexy back.
He pulled me up and all I could do was laugh. What other option did I have?
We managed to get to the sexy bar and he was impressed.
Shalel’s almost hidden entrance
“How did I live in the city for all those years without discovering this place?”
We ordered drinks and soaked in the sultry vibe. Then he leaned across the table and kissed me.
Now that was a movie moment.
An hour later he we were headed to my place but neither of us wanted the night to end. We sat on a bench near the bar and talked for another sixty minutes. The date had lasted six hours by then.
He walked me home and I was tempted—oh so tempted—to ask him inside, but I resisted and instead we gave hormonal teenagers a run for their money with the passionate kisses in front of my building.
I think I floated to the elevator (the only graceful moment all night) and by the time I was in the apartment and getting undressed, Will called. I know, we’re ridiculous. We talked as he drove back to Westchester and then for another hour.
I have never made a bigger fool of myself on a date. I was Mary Katherine Gallagher. None of it mattered, though.
The magic was there.
To be continued…
“We were together. I forgot the rest.” Walt Whitman
Last Saturday I used my first Cheek’d card.
It took me a while. I know, I know, I’ve had them for a couple of months but I’ve not felt physically attracted to any men I’ve encountered.
OK, that’s kind of a lie.
I’m attracted to lots of men, they’re just too young. I’m having a bit of a crisis because I am consistently drawn to men in their early forties. I’ve concluded that males are at their physical peak at that age and I chronically have to remind myself that I’m fifty-two. I guess a ten year difference isn’t that awful but there’s that voice in my head whispering that a decade WILL matter when I’m eighty.
There’s nothing sexy about a chick with a walker.
SO, I’ve been scouring the crowds in my fair city to find a fifty-something man whom I can imagine cozying up to. Physical attraction is always the first step quickly followed with an assessment of just how fucked up he is. Seriously, we all are (to some degree) with a half-century of living behind us.
Back to Saturday.
I spent the day with my surrogate family—Karen and Mark, my neighbors. It was a sweltering afternoon–Finnish saunas have nothing on the NYC subway system with the soaring temps coupled with humidity. We had just returned to our neighborhood after seeing the micro-living exhibit at the Museum of the City of New York, followed by lunch at the Red Rooster in Harlem. We surmised two things: living in the tiny apartment on display might be doable if we weren’t claustrophobic AND my fried chicken kicks Red Rooster “Yard Bird” ass.
As we exited the subway station at 72nd, a mountain of a man (at least 6’4”) approached and asked for directions. He was looking for a specific shoe store in our neighborhood, one that carried footwear in larger sizes. Karen, Mark and I looked at his feet and, yep, they were massive. “What size are they?” Mark asked and he replied, “Sixteen,” with a grin.
I admit that got my attention. Ladies, my brain went where yours would, too. You know you were thinking–big feet, big…..
I noticed he had an accent but I couldn’t place it. Let’s see: tall—check, age appropriate—check, accent—check, handsome–check and the potential foot correlation was a bonus. Mark gave him directions to the shoe store on 72nd and he plodded away but not before we had a moment. You know what I mean–that thing that happens when eye contact is made and held a couple of seconds longer than necessary.
As I watched him go I remembered my Cheek’d cards and started the awkward and annoying task of rummaging through my handbag to find them.
UGH.
I fumbled endlessly until I eventually located the cards but not without puncturing my hand with the bristle of a vent brush and dirtying my fingernails with the crumbs of god-knows-what from the bottom of my bag. Next I had to choose the appropriate card and by then he’d crossed the street and disappeared. Mark and Karen had an errand on 72nd Street so I gave the card to Mark and said, “If you see him, tell him it’s from the blonde.”
Who the hell says that besides Mae West?
I walked home wondering how long it would take for contact.
Perhaps I was being overconfident as I checked my Gmail account minutes after walking in the door. Cheek’d will send a message when someone has logged on using a card.
Nada.
I assumed that Mark couldn’t find him until he sent a text letting me know he’d given Paul Bunyan the card and also confirmed he wasn’t married.
Well, maybe he was busy with shopping and I’d hear from him later.
Nope.
Perhaps, because he’s foreign, he’ll wait until he’s returned to his hotel to use their computer so as not to rack up international charges on his smartphone.
Naw.
Still nothing by the next day.
AND every day after that.
A person can only make excuses for so long before facing the harsh truth—he wasn’t interested. I wasn’t deterred, though. I took the rejection in stride and faced his lack of interest like a big girl. “Who cares that he didn’t like me.” I muttered, “We could never slow dance with those clodhoppers all up on me.”
“I’ll be better prepared next time,” I thought as I cleaned out the chasm of crud also know as my purse. I put the cards in a strategic pocket, easily accessible the next time I found myself attracted to a handsome stranger, one with normal feet, mind you. I wasn’t going to let one tiny hiccup discourage me, no siree! There was no need to spend another moment looking back or deliberating (ad nauseam) as to why he didn’t make contact. And as I gathered the unsightly pile of pocketbook debris: gum wrappers, receipts, political flyers, a golf tee, a wine cork, half of a doggie chew stick, a broken rubber band, seven paperclips, two empty bottles of hand sanitizer, a used up tube of lip balm and the pile of crumbs of unknown origin and made my way to the garbage can I knew I’d put the unfortunate incident behind me.
Almost.
As I stood over the trash receptacle brushing the crumbs from my hands I had one of Oprah’s Aha! Moments.
“OF COURSE,” I yelled, without, um, delusion. “He must be gay.”
“I really wish I was less of a thinking man and more a fool not afraid of rejection.” Billy Joel
Neal’s plane from Toronto was delayed several hours. I hadn’t checked the flights before leaving the house so I was at McCarran Airport two hours ahead of schedule. It was rare that I had nothing to do with raising two teenagers and a demanding job. I meandered through the stores looking at stuff that visitors bought last minute to commemorate their trip to Sin City.
As I picked up Las Vegas shot glasses, flipped through racks of cheesy T-shirts and caught up on celebrity gossip in the magazine section, I thought about luck.
Many previous V-days were spent with a man I’d been with off and on for several years. Our relationship was far from perfect—some might say even toxic—but I was worn down and tired of hoping for something better. He loved my daughters and me and I wanted to have a partner.
BUT there’s nothing that illuminates a bad pairing more than meeting the Yin to one’s Yang.
Earlier that day a ridiculously large box of tulips was delivered to my office.
My favorite flower, and there were dozens in that package direct from Holland. There was also a note:
We’re so lucky to have found each other. Some of the women you work with won’t receive flowers today. Please share these with them. I love you forever, Neal.
Waiting just outside of Security I saw him approaching before he saw me. No matter how many times I watched him head my way I still couldn’t believe he was with me.
He always carried on his bag—not trusting baggage handlers in what he called “cowboy country.” By then it was almost midnight and we decided to drive until we got tired. We’d booked a room for the weekend in our destination, but we weren’t going to make it there that night.
By Barstow we were bushed. A bedraggled motel was the best we could do and Neal chastised me for walking barefoot from the shower to the bed as he brushed his teeth—wearing only his loafers.
Waiting for me on the pillow was a card and my favorite holiday sweets. Neal was a Godiva Chocolates sort of guy but that box would be for some other chick. I’m vintage and get an unnaturally large kick out of these.
Come on. If my candy’s saying:
“Cutie Pie”
Purr Fect”
“So Fine”
Or the best:
“Cool Cat”
It can’t be wrong.
The next morning we grabbed a McMuffin, and hit the road. A couple of hours later we’d arrived. I’ve been to lots of romantic spots but there’s something about Laguna Beach that’s especially magical. This was not a new experience—I’d been there multiple times since I was a child–I’d also visited with other men. The difference that weekend was that Neal and I were so in love. We could be anywhere and immersed in each other, but given that setting that exuded eroticism and it was almost overwhelming. It wasn’t that we did anything different than I’d done previously but it was the ocean, the way it looked, the salty scent and feel on the skin, the relaxed beach town vibe that encouraged the tactile.
We stayed at the Surf and Sand Resort and slept that Saturday night with the door to our balcony open.
The sound of the waves crashing caused me to fall into a deep sleep that would’ve lasted until morning had Neal not awakened me. Always a light and sporadic sleeper I would often find the space next to me empty but on that night he was there, his mouth next to my ear, repeating my name.
He took my hand and led me to the balcony overlooking the surf. He wanted to share the view of the deserted beach and the water lit up by the moon. We were alone.
The next morning we took a walk on that beach and I asked him to go barefoot. He protested, reminding me how much he disliked sand between his toes–so unclean, and all that. But he finally acquiesced and grimaced a little for effect.
I knew the truth.
Neal was so beautiful in (almost) every way but he had the most heinous feet. Large, wide caveman-like monstrosities with a big toe that was startling in it’s girth. The first time I saw those tootsies I winced and then insisted he put them in my lap for closer inspection. After a few minutes of silent observation while running my hands over every part I nodded and said:
“Yep, those are without a doubt the ugliest feet I’ve ever seen.”
After he died, when I needed to smile I’d simply put my hand into his shoe to feel the deep impression left in the lining by that toe. I’d remember my merciless teasing and his laughter that always followed.
So Neal took off his shoes, we walked on the beach barefoot and then asked a stranger to take a photo.
The drive back to Las Vegas (and to the airport for his departure) was a quiet but comfortable one. We were both smoothed out–mellowed by the experience. Neal told me that for the first time, in as long as he could remember, he slept for the entire flight back to Toronto.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
“I’ve been lucky. I’ll be lucky again.” Bette Davis
Welcome to the first post of the new blog!
For those who’ve been following my antics for the last year I say, “Hello, old friends!” If you’re new I’m happy you’re here and I’ll try not to shock you too much this first time as I’ve been known to have a bit of a cyber potty mouth.
Today my daughters and I appeared on The Steve Harvey Show. What an experience. A producer found www.1yearofonlinedatingat50.com and loved the blog–especially the relationship with my adult daughters and their advice during my year of looking for love. From some of the disaster dates I’d been on there was probably some things I was doing wrong and perhaps Steve could help.
He is kind of the Love Guru (cue porn music here).
They flew us to Chicago to tape the show. We felt very fancy as the driver picked us up at the airport.
He drove us to the Amalfi, a fantastic boutique hotel in downtown Chicago.
We had a few days of shooting video to tell the backstory. It’s strange because when talking about Neal, my late husband, I got quite emotional. It has been six years since he died and my reaction was surprising. I suppose there’s a prepared script in general conversations that one uses when describing the death of a loved one. The Things I Can Say Without Crying sort of thing and the producer asked questions that I don’t normally answer. Bottom line, I miss him terribly and probably always will. That longing for something that was is always exacerbated by circumstances both extremely good or very bad.
Being on the show was one of those extremely good things that I wished I could share with Neal. Yet the very thing that brought me there (the dating blog) would never have happened if he were still alive. Discovering my passion for writing wouldn’t have happened either since I wrote the book after his death as a way to honor him. There was a part of me that was unfulfilled, although I didn’t know it, and writing has filled the void.
I often wonder if Neal had lived would I have realized the need for creative expression? I thought my world was complete—he was all I needed. Not so.
Life is weird, right?
For instance, I’m an extremely private person. For most of my adult life I’ve only shared personal stuff with a small circle of friends and yet I’ve spent the last year putting the most private and intimate details of my world out there for all to see. Lately there’s been a lot said about the over sharing that’s occurred with the vast number of memoirs on the shelves and, gasp, Reality TV.
I get it.
BUT, I do think Jodie Foster should pick on someone her own size. “Leave Honey Boo Boo alone, Clarice.”
Come on. When you’ve invited your dear friend Mel Gibson to sit at your table when accepting the Cecil B. DeMille Lifetime Achievement Award at the Golden Globes, getting all judge-y is perhaps not the best plan. In my humble opinion, of course.
I guess Jodie wouldn’t approve of the dating blog. Darn, I always hoped we could be friends.
OK, now back to Steve Harvey.
The girls picked a guy for me to go out with. Now that was different. They are a tough duo. Generally, my oldest Morgan, hates every guy I date–at least in the beginning. Plus, I’ve been known to be a tad picky. I’ve got this aversion to excessive nose hair and with the over fifty crowd it’s a jungle up there. This was no easy task but they chose a very nice man, Denny. Was it a love connection? Well, no. He was a good guy but there was no spark.
There’s got to be a flicker of lust.
I need to feel that at some point I’ll want to take my clothes off.
What?
Even women my age and older still want to get naked.
After the date we exchanged a couple of email messages—the usual pleasantries. I thanked him for being a good sport.
He suggested I was a serial dater—several times.
I didn’t take too kindly to his assessment (might’ve gotten a little terse) but we reached an understanding and wished each other the best. He told me he’s met someone and is happy. I’m glad for him.
Being on the show was the highlight of our trip to Chicago. Steve has the most amazing people working for him. Every single one of them. From the producers to the cameramen, the sound guys to hair and makeup, they were all absolute professionals and just nice people.
It was the experience of a lifetime for the three of us and I want to thank Steve Harvey for allowing me to tell my story, calling me out when he thought I was full of shit, and for genuinely caring about my success in this search for love.
At the airport and headed home.
He’s even invited me back so stay tuned, there’s more to come.
Yep, that’s me under The Bean.
I’m trying something new. I’ve created a special video for those who’ve subscribed to this blog. I discuss the three questions my friends asked when I told them I was going to be on The Steve Harvey Show. If you’re interested, just subscribe—it is over there at the top on the right margin. You’ll be notified when there’s a new blog post AND you’ll be sent a link to the video.
Click here for the After the Show interview.
“I don’t like to share my personal life…it wouldn’t be personal if I shared it.” George Clooney
Meet Donna and listen as she talks about the circumstances led her to the second act in her life. One she never saw coming.