The Adult Dating Scene Is Awkward

This whole dating scene as an older adult is awkward and intimidating and sometimes, not very much fun. It's almost intimidating enough to make me want to stay home alone with Miss Kitty and my books.  Of course, that's one good thing about marriage … you don’t have to date (yeah, I know, some of you still do, but that’s a topic for another day).

There’s a different feel to the whole game now. When I was young, it was “in” to go to single’s bars, like “clubbing” is today, I think. It was THE thing to do: get all dressed up, grab a few friends, go drink and dance at very loud places … see and be seen. It was fun, it was exciting,  and it was never serious. Few people ever scored a big romance let alone a marriage partner from this scene, but then again, no one I knew really expected to find that someone who would be special for a lifetime. We all just hoped to find someone who would be special for a weekend. Well, maybe some people lied to themselves about their intention, but I don’t have that ability. I calls ‘em as I sees ‘em.

It’s the same game for the single-over-50-crowd today, except we now have the Internet to help us. We have “meet-ups” and speed dating and a huge variety of online dating sites, all geared to help us connect with each other. We seem to need these, otherwise the danger is we might all just stay at home with our computers and our Kindle’s and our TV’s.

We don’t take chances because we’re all grown up now, and we don’t have the luxury of time. We no longer have a “no sex on the first date,” rule, but we do have a “safe sex” rule. We don’t worry about getting pregnant, but we do worry about disease. We don’t go on a discovery mission to find out who someone really is, we check credit scores and criminal history. We have all these magnificent tools to help us connect with a person appropriate for us, someone who’s been pre-screened and vetted and found to be in harmony with our deepest core values.  Apparently, this is what passes for romance nowadays.

Are all those tools really all that precise? I don’t think so.  I dated someone recently ... and briefly ... I really thought he would be interesting.  He was charming and handsome and popular with the ladies.  It didn't last long—my interest in him dropped sharply the moment he first stepped into my living room.  He looked around at all my books, stacked lovingly into neat piles with Miss Kitty sleeping next to one pile, and asked, “Just how smart do I have to be?” I asked him what he meant and he replied, “I haven’t read a book in years. I don’t really need to; I learn all I need from watching people and watching TV.”   

Fail. Epic fail.

He didn’t get a chance to use his charm and good looks past the living room, because, really, as it turns out, for what he was offering, I’d rather stay home alone and read a book. 

How smart does a guy have to be? Well, if you have to ask ….

The Secret To Being Happy

Giving brings happiness, that’s what I've always been told.  But how can that be?  I mean, it isn't easy to give, I have a house payment and car insurance and all these things that demand my money, and if you throw “giving” money to someone else into that mix, what’s left for me? 

It is possible, and it doesn't have anything to do with money.  It’s something else entirely.

A friend of mine, who lives in a rural community, wanted to start a “community dinner” for the poor in her area.  She mobilized the church ladies from several churches to purchase the food and prepare it.  She planned the dinner for the last week of the month, the week that improvised families are running out of money.    She arranged to have the dinner is a central, easy-to-get-to location.  And the dinner was a huge success, but not in the way she envisioned.

She told me that the first couple dinners were full of guests, poor people sitting by themselves or their families, eyes downcast, minimal talking, with the church ladies who were serving the meal maintaining a loud and cheerful banter.  It was the dinner my friend had envisioned creating, and she felt good about it all.  She created a place where people were being fed when they most needed it. 

But then, it changed.  One of the guests brought a jar of homemade blackberry jam to share, a treasure made at the height of summer when blackberries grew everywhere and could be collected free.  The next month, another person brought a pie, someone else brought homemade bread.  My friend said she told her dinner guests, “No, no, please don’t bring anything.  We want to give to you.” But still they brought stuff.  And they shared.  The ones who didn't have something to bring got there early to help set up, and others stayed later to help clean up.  And they no longer sat silently alone with their eyes downcast, but they greeted each other as friends, and they talked and laughed and shared.  The community dinner no longer belonged exclusively to the church ladies.  It belonged to the community.

I doubt if a single guest at that dinner had a mortgage payment to worry about, although some of them may have had rent payments.  But they still found things to give to each other, and as they shared with one another, they made friends, they laughed, they found joy.

See?  It’s not really about giving money.  It’s really about sharing, and in that sharing is a magic that creates joy, creates community. 

I now pay attention to see what I can do.   If I made blackberry jam, I could share that, or if I had money, I could share that, but for me, most frequently I have time to share.  And when I do, I find joy in the sharing, and I meet new friends, and in all of that, community.

Try it.  It works.  

I enjoy living alone, stop bugging me about it!

I was talking to this guy at a dinner party. We’d just met. He’s already told me that he’s been happily married for a decade or two or three, and he’s just figured out my single status.

He hasn't asked how long I've been single (thank goodness!) or how many times I've been married (thank goodness again!) or even if I’m dating or in a relationship. I don’t expect those questions from him, after all, he’s happily married. I also don’t expect what he asks instead. He sort of tilts his head back and with a smile (or is it a smirk?) asks me if my last experience at marriage was so bad that I decided to swear off men.

I don’t know what to say … I’m flabbergasted. The arrogance of this idiot! As I sort of stumble around trying to figure out how to respond, he reaches over and pats my hand (PATS MY HAND! Can you believe it?) and tells me it’s all right.

“What’s all right?” I ask. 

“Well, that you’re single. You’ll find someone when you’re ready.”

I’m speechless. I’m shocked. I’m angry. He’s insulted me by inferring that there’s something wrong with me because I’m not married. I stifle an impulse to punch him in the nose. I would have, if I’d been assured he wouldn't punch back. Or have me arrested. “Why do you assume I need to be married?” I finally ask. He stops smiling. I’m not playing the game by the rules, his rules, and he doesn't want to talk to me any longer. We are in agreement on this … I don’t want to talk with him either. We move apart and I head for the buffet table. Eating soothes me when I’m angry. Okay, now, that was a lie … I went to the buffet table to get another glass of wine. I was plenty annoyed.

So here’s the deal: I’m a single lady, slightly older single lady, living alone with a dog and a cat. One … and only one … of each. I’m happier than I've ever been before in my life. Sure, I want that special someone, but I don’t want that special someone to live with me. I want him to live in San Diego or Portland or Denver. Someplace cool enough that I’d want to visit him there. I know that I live someplace cool enough that he would want to visit me here. We can get together every other week or so to love and laugh and preen and thrill and have fun, but then I get to be home alone. I could be very happy for a long, long while with that guy.

Know of anyone?

The Homeless Guy In The Park

I've become friends with this homeless guy, Bob, I see every day when I walk my dog in the park.  Bob’s  home is an ancient van, and I find him in the same spot in the park every day.  At night, Bob moves his van outside the gate when they lock it, and moves it back in the morning when they open it again.  There’s quite a thriving homeless population (can I use the word “thriving” in this context?) who gather in the park in the early morning, but disappear shortly after dawn.  Bob seems to be the Elder Statesman of the group, maybe because he’s the only one with a vehicle.

When I stopped to say hello to him the other day, he told me that he now realizes that he has become the man he always wanted to be.  I wasn't sure how to respond … I mean, the man is homeless!  He’s sitting in his van, and the seat beside him and dashboard are piled high with all his possessions, mostly books.  It doesn't seem to me that he’s achieved anything that anyone would consider worthwhile. 

He explained it like this:  “Every afternoon, I have time to play my guitar, and people gather around me and listen and enjoy my playing.  And many of the people who come by, like you, stop to say hello and see how I’m doing.  I talk to happy people all day long, and everyone is interested in what I have to say and I’m interested in them.  I have this beautiful view (the lush green landscaped park grounds, surrounded by majestic trees).  And the people round here (the other homeless guys) come to me for help sometimes, and most times, there is something I can do to help.”

I can see what he means.  I want the same things:  having a talent, something I can do that brings enjoyment to other people, a community of people who care about me and respect me and my views, beautiful surroundings, and the ability to help others. 

Bob, the homeless guy in the park, has the same goals and life dreams as I have … only he’s got them all in order, and I’m still working on mine.  

I've got a ways to go yet.