Remember
how awful junior high was? Well, dating in your sixties is worse.
Women complain of hoped-for princes turning out to be frogs,
mansplainers, or pervs, but, let me tell you, it's not so easy for
men either. After my wife of 30 years died almost 2 years ago, I
thought having a long successful marriage, plus still having my hair
and being in relatively good shape, would bode well for me in the
dating world. After all, I'm a nice guy, hard-wired for a long-term
relationship. Surely, some woman would see that, and the rest would
be history.
Boy,
was I ever wrong! Think something on the scale of Columbus believing
that bumping into a few islands in the Caribbean meant he was on his
way to China and mega-riches or working-class voters buying any of
Trump's flim-flam, faux-populist rhetoric. World-class wrong!
For
example, none of the dozen or so women I've dated have been my ideal
exactly, but I've always tried to see the good in each one. Some had
nice smiles, while others were good conversationalists. But women,
I've found, are not quite so broad-minded. They're like shoppers who
know exactly what they want, and it hasn't been me. I don't seem to
display quite the self-confidence of the narcissistic sociopaths they
divorced and are used to. For example, I've been dumped for rather
exacting reasons: not being able to salsa dance, not traveling to
the “right” places, and, my personal favorite so far, being too
intelligent.
A while back, I exchanged emails with an attractive
woman from Match.com. I learned she was Greek and a psychotherapist.
Of course, I didn't know then that she was crazy. But when we talked
on the phone, I ought to have figured it out. Enough red flags were
raised that for a moment there I felt like I was in the middle of a
Mao-era Chinese ballet.
After
she wondered how she would know me when we met, I told her I could
wear my baseball cap. “That's a deal breaker!” she exclaimed.
Taken aback, I explained I'd only wear it till she saw me, then
discreetly put it away. That seemed to calm her, for a while. Then
when she found out where I live, in a working-class, urban
neighborhood, you would've thought mi barrio was a slum known
for druggies and drive-byes, instead of great taco trucks and pho.
Despite
all the red flags, we met for lunch, and it went pretty well.
Afterwards, we exchanged hugs and agreed to a second date. Or so I
thought. But that night I got the “adios” email from her, which
happens. I've rejected women and been rejected, but you try to do it
nicely, not like a certain crazy, Greek psychotherapist.
She
wrote: I want to “enjoy the rest of my life with a romantic partner
who wants and is ready to focus on his last love. You are not him.
BTW, You are not the only one who
watches 'Friends' and borrowing their 'sometime' line. Not very
unique for a writer. LOL . . . I feel great to have said the Truth.”
I
had to ask my daughter about that “Friends” line. Who knew that
show had a copyright on the
phrase, “Let's go out sometime?” I sure didn't. But in the end,
the crazy, Greek psychotherapist, who seems like she might need a
little work upstairs herself, did me a big favor. Honestly, would I
have really wanted to go on a second date with that nut job, even if
she was quite attractive?
Undeterred I've gone on to date two other women. A
Brazilian who sent me tons of cute texts, until she broke our third
date. And I haven't heard back from her since. Then I had 2 dates
with a gorgeous 54-year old with a personal trainer, until she
regained her sense of sight.
Sure, I think about giving up sometimes, but then I
realize all of it – the crazy Greek psychotherapist, the Brazilian
addicted to cutsie texts, and la belle dame sans merci – are
just fodder for my memoir, tentatively entitled, Worse than Junior
High: the Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue Story.
