On Line Dating in the Golden Years
by Nancy Smiler Levinson



At seventy-five, I am not so old that I should accept living the rest of
my years confined to a narrow world of widowhood.  While I’m no Mrs.
America, neither am I toothless, face-lifted, or Rubenesque (only sporting
a muffin-top mid-section which can be tamed by squeezing into a Spanx).

I can sit comfortably with a snowy-topped, slightly stooped date,
over a tuna melt in a delicatessen booth and converse on numerous
topics – politics, literature, art, theater. . . medicare, trustworthy auto
mechanics in town. . . as well as ask thoughtful questions, yet not ones
requiring TMI  (too-much-information) answers:

    Would you be comfortable talking about your wife?
    When and how did you recognize your interest in: civil engineering?
    teaching folk music?  competitive Scrabble? exploring caves?
    collecting miniature ceramics? learning Pashtu? decorating cakes?
    Do your Siberian Husky and angora cat get on with each other?
    How long do you leave your turkey in the oven?

So, a few months ago I steeled myself and bravely put myself out there.  
Without a playbook on septuagenarian dating, I did it. I went online. 
A dating site.  A hoot, if you will.

Friends warned caution.  Yes, I am of sound mind enough knowing
never to give out my social, bank or credit card information to anyone.
No money lending either. Not under any circumstance. Ever!
No leaving my purse unattended, and no mention of my mother’s
maiden or first pet’s name.  

Admittedly, I felt uncomfortable at the thought of kissing a strange
man.  I began in the direction of expecting to simply meet an honorable
interesting, fun, humorous, in-fair-shape companion, or what is known
in the golden years as an “activity partner.”  Oh, and preferably a
widower who also had a happy marriage and knew the anguish of
lost love, the life spun upside-down, and then the human need
to live it forward. 

One by one the wizards behind the site’s curtain offered that I
“find [my] magic” with Phunnyguy, SparkyD, Victor4107226,
MensaMan, Naturelover, Caretodance, RUlonelytoo, Dragonslayer. . .
widowed and divorced men behind those user names, marketing
themselves as sincere, sunny, big-hearted, love to laff,
highly-educated or not. . .and at varying ages. Caution was required
here, too.  Ages can be true or false; photos dated, careers enhanced.

Then, how to consider men who “wink” or “favor” me, when
aged 35, 42, 51. . . a young saxophonist in Shrevesport, Louisana
“willing to relocate;” a 49-year-old in Pittsburgh seeking a “slim, attractive,
redhead between 37 and 80?”  Joke? Desperately lonely?  Perverse?  Very
perverse?  OMG.

Shapes and sizes across the board fluctuated from “trim ‘n athletic,”
to “a few extra pounds,” with several additionally boasting “excellent health,”
(lest a woman fear caretaking at this stage in life), while a handful
candidly revealed prostate surgery, hip replacement, or trying to
quit smoking. 

Interests?  Bridge, fine dining, motor home travel, beach walking,
golf, fly fishing, museums, movies (old and new) music (listening and playing),
antique shopping, swap meets. . . and an occasional individual wishing
that some woman would believe that he water-skiis, sails, climbs
rocks, plays tennis, and works out five days a week.  One said he’d
forgive a woman if she is “not a rocket scientist as long as she is intelligent.”
Another put-it-out-there-elder admitted being “thirsty to love.”

An 88-year-old man, having read on my profile that I am a writer,
wasted not a moment of his ticking time, emailed that his deceased wife
had been a poet and proposed that I “relocate” to his home
where I would be provided a writing room of my own.  (You know,
like Virginia Woolf wanted.)

Another wrote that he still mourned his wife and desired
merely a compassionate woman for nightly phone (not pillow) talk.

Yet another, a retiree with whom I spoke seemed smart and
politically liberal enough for me. posted his history as having been
a public health professor, a thoracic surgeon, dean of a medical
school, and founder of a women’s clinic in Ethiopia. What!
Not just red flags, but an entire parade full!  After spending
an inordinate amount of time piecing together his real name,
googling and making far-off phone calls, as anticipated, each and every
contention indeed was a disconnect. 

To be sure, I broke the ice first with a few women-seekers.
A Parisian (born), photographed appropriately in beret, with dimpled,
beguiling smile, and a come-hither look in his twinkling eyes,
entitled his response to my query about corresponding: 

     “Life is a great Art, the supreme art is to live it.” 

Then, “Thank you, Madame, for your  kind comments and most
specifically about your interest in the crown of my favorite books  list.
I wonder if could find the glue that ties most of them together,
the theme that unites.  The only one seemingly outside the realm
is ‘The Little Prince.’” 

He signed off by copying and sending two Paul Eluard poems,
“And A Smile” and “Good Justice.”

Despite no mention of meeting Madame for café au lait,
I printed the poems for myself because they are beautiful
and touching, then sighed, Au revoir, Monsieur, you arrogant bastard.

Another man, age 72, a retired executive, replied, “I can’t wrap
my head around dating an older woman.”  (That’s the thanks I got for
being age-honest).

I met Al for coffee in a public place, public being protectively important,
along with a friend being apprised of the place and time.  I’d searched him first,
reassuring myself that as professed, he indeed had written and published
several biographies, including one on a Supreme Court Justice.  Not bad.
But he was inches shorter than the short height he’d claimed, and despite my
recognizing Mickey Rooney with multiple wives and Tina Fey inches taller
than her husband,  I couldn’t find a mature-enough comfort zone
to accept such a height difference for me.

While sipping cappuccino foam, Al dived right into relating his
lifestyle —a first marriage ending in divorce, a second that
became an open marriage until it exploded, and a third wife dying and
leaving him a widower.  Wait. There’s more to this checkered scallywag.
Since her passing he’d had three serious relationships but they, too,
had dissolved.

True or not, I thought only OMG what stuff goes on, what stories
people have to tell, what lives human beings live!

After briefly sharing the short story of my long union, my husband’s
protracted illness, and my struggle caregiving, we talked a bit about
history and biographies, however, he didn’t appear particularly
interested in the books I’d written for young adults 
(one each on Columbus and Magellan).  Nor did he offer to buy 
a Starbucks croissant or cakepop for me to enjoy with my tall decaf cap. 

A handshake departure and a nice to meet you clinched a strong
mutual non-interest.  Not a match.

I met MartinT for coffee   Was his online photo photoshopped?
Now, don’t rebuke me. I am not judgmental.  I don’t seek gorgeous
or even good looking. This man simply was not appealing.
He was unattractive from top to midriff (above the table line),
revealing a saucer-sized stain on an ill-fitting houndstooth 
jacket.  Hair was combed down over protruding ears.

At some point he complimented me, gee I’m a good listener,
of course, unaware, that I could barely force myself to talk at all. 
Mostly, I nodded, a live bobblehead.

It’s hurtful to label anyone a loser.  The word itself disheartens
me. Sadly, though, I realized that essentially he’d been rejected his
entire life.  On his profile he’d checked his status:  divorced.
I learned outright without a blink that he’d been in a marriage
of thirty-some years, but his wife had never really loved him.

I felt like crying for MartinT, especially when he spoke of next time
showing me some of his paintings rendered in a community art class. 
With sincere pity for someone else, rather than my ongoing self-pity
at missing my husband, I responded that I’m sure his paintings must be
lovely, but I wasn’t comfortable, not ready for a relationship,
only relearning how to date.  Crestfallen, he shuffled to the parking lot
and drove off.   I wept (inside) for the poor misbegotten thing.

Well, I’d put myself out there, and with hope fading, I decided
to step up my adventure, maybe go a little wild, and I answered
a message from Cowboyhank.  Pictured in a ten-gallon hat
and with a horse.  Posted: age 78, six-two, one-eighty pounds, blue eyes
(it’s a category, but does anyone care about eye color? ), and lives
on a ranch a couple hours from L.A.

This could be a true hoot!  And what a kick it would be to crow about
dating a dude!

Cautiously, not giving out my phone number or real email address,
I called from my cel phone, so he’d not catch my home caller ID.
He was living on his family-owned ranch, then up for sale.
Meanwhile, he was involved creating a software program having
something to do with agriculture, not a word of which I understood.

A week later he emailed through the online connection
that he was coming to the city on Saturday and why don’t we meet
for coffee mid-day. (Not Starbucks) With that arrangement confirmed
we exchanged real names, which then gave me the gunshot to google.

Wide-eyed at my computer screen, I gasped.  There appeared
a document,  “Review Department of the State Bar Court. 
Public Matter Designated for Publication.”

Cowboyhankpanky  had been an attorney practicing law many
years in the past. The document exposed the story of how he had been
disbarred after misappropriating clients’ funds. Many clients. Big funds.  
On another matter, he had even been incarcerated, although he didn’t
serve his full 180-day sentence.

Seemed that he long had a money-management problem and
all these decades later was likely looking to manage mine. 
With my heart forgetting to beat, I said to myself, “Well, little lady,
you surely did get yourself roped in.”  Regaining a pulse,
I struck the keyboard with force.  Coffee meet cancelled.  Not
comfortable.  Not ready.

A friend wondered why I hadn’t told him the truth, that he
had been found out, that I had the goods on him, that he ought to be
reported to the site.  Ever cautious and prudent, I screamed Never!
He could find and lasso me, then bludgeon me to death.
So— my nearly wild ride with a cowboy/dude/jailbird rode
right off the dusty trail before the sun set.

At this moment, sitting alone in a museum café with a paper pad
and pen (no, I don’t have an iPad or laptop) I’m thinking that
writing, or the art thereof, actually is my closest, my best companion.

Then I sigh.  Is remaining online worth it?  If I do, I’d have to
meet my match soon. Time is ticking.  Even as I write, I am aging.

But, then, I review my brave escapade so far, cringe and think:
if only I could be introduced personally to a gentleman or meet one
in the library or inadvertently bump shopping carts with one at
Trader Joe’s, I’d be rid of this sad, demoralizing quest.

Meanwhile, I haven’t shut down my membership yet. (You know
what Emily Dickenson said about hope.)