OLD DATING

ENTRY 1:

Getting started on a dating site may require a nap (SEE NAP). First, visitors fill out a long form, asking primarily for a credit card number and then, secondarily, for superficial things about the person joining.

Then, “Describe Your Ideal Mate” takes hours, days, and involves flashing messages from the service: “Time elapsed. Our patience is finite” or “Malfunction. Come back when you have some blood flow.”

After I personally described my ideal mate as a saintly man, in the prime of his life, I tried again. After I’d described Jesus, I tried again. After I’d described actor Simon Baker and only Simon Baker, I tried again. After confessing I had impossible standards and would reject anyone on the site, I tried again.

ENTRY 2:

Days later, I was rested and returned to the form’s questions. These questions help to reveal compatible areas or frightening warning flags before matches send messages or meet each other.  (If a man’s photo echoes The Shining, most people can make an informed decision.)  

It was good to know when someone sixty-three had joint custody of six children under ten years old…or that one person’s political affiliation was the Communist Party, with the added note “as practiced under Stalin.”

The Pets category was helpful, too, but one gentleman just put names: Violet, Sadie, and Betsy. What did this mean? Would he add me to that list?  The fellow who mentioned “two dogs” realized he needed to add a photo. The two Great Danes ripping up a leather sectional did paint a more complete picture.

Even without a photo, if the Pets space was completely filled and spilled into other categories, I eliminated the match.  There was something disturbing about reading “A blonde, bubbly cocker spaniel” under the “Describe the Person You Would Like to Meet” category.

Kind of Body was supposed to indicate whether the individual was thin, stocky, athletic or a few extra tons.  Desired Relationship asked whether someone wanted a marriage partner, a casual friendship, a fencing companion or a nanny.  After reading dozens of forms from potential matches, my favorite one looked something like this:

Kind of Body:   Minimalist
Education:   Amish
Children:   Couldn’t
Occupation:   Aspirational
Religion:   Druid
Political Preference:   Papal Rule
Hair Color:   Skintone
Ethnicity:   Easter Islander
Eye Color:   Pastel
Pets:   Arachnids
Desired Relationship:   Financier, Mother Look-Alike, Housekeeper

I considered corresponding, but his only photo was a sunset (the view off Easter Island).

ENTRY 3:

I joined this service to meet people near my age; therefore, it shouldn’t have been jarring when old faces showed up in my Inbox.  These men were within five years of my age—reasonable, regardless of the bodily wear-and-tear that made them ineligible for extended warranties.  (Visual acuity was not helpful in browsing the site.)

It was an ego boost when I got six messages within an hour of uploading my sufficiently blurred photo…from people I wouldn’t date for any reason. One person was far outside my age range on the younger end. If I’d known his mother, I might have remembered his birth, but my forties were a distracting time.  After declining nicely, I got a second message, saying that he “really really liked older women.”  I wrote back that I really really didn’t see myself going to a frat party.

One man about six years younger wrote that he “liked much old women.  Obviously.” I wrote a polite reply, instead of “Your social skills need work…obviously.”

ENTRY 4:

A few weeks later, I began getting messages from “men” (at least, I think so) considerably older, shorter, wispier.  Though I’d put in my preferred age range, the service viewed this as a naive request. Their rationale was that once I’d dated someone twenty years older, I’d never go back to seniors my own age.

Men in their eighties sent me “flirting” phrases, like “You caught my eye, babe. Let’s boogie” or “I’d like to be on an island alone with you. Think of the fun.”  It was hard to wash those things out of my brain.

I’ve yet to grasp the romance in truly ancient bodies.  For instance, some photos had to be postmortem shots; yet, I’ve received a surprising number of messages from these particular men.  It’s a bit disappointing.  I prefer lung and cardiovascular action in a date.  It just feels more right somehow.

ENTRY 5:

I’m getting many messages now, from distant lands, even though my requested distance is within 100 miles. Being on the East Coast means that a casual movie date in Wyoming includes months of pre-planning. Also, instead of a real name, many men have Usernames—meant to describe the actual user while still remaining anonymous. I’ve learned that these names have no connection to reality.

One fellow called himself “Fullafun” but had a tortured expression and clearly couldn’t remember what a smile was. The photo taken in a mausoleum didn’t convey joy, either. Another profile stressed the importance of humor. He “loved to laugh,” loved seeing the “hilarious side of life,” but had a slightly murderous expression. His eyes looked as guarded as a penitentiary, and I was sure that mouth hadn’t laughed since Howdy Doody went off the air.

It also surprised me that a substantially overweight man was “MisterSmooth.”  He must have meant smooth adipose tissue or the smooth way he levered up his Lazy Boy.  I asked myself aloud, “How far will you stretch for companionship?”

ENTRY 6:

My standards are loosening. It was inevitable. When someone decades older flirts, I still draw the line at viability, but I’m reading all these messages with interest now.

Even men who breathe on their own do have dating restrictions that I hadn’t considered, however.  If my match is in a facility, our dates are a bit predictable. First, I might join him in hand aerobics, to loosen up. Then, it’s usually fantasy time at the center.  We might put leis around our necks; drink pineapple juice (with meds); and sit under a large photo of Hawaii.  It’s a laugh a minute.  Card games are fun, too, and serve a dual purpose: recreation and coherence testing.

In messages, some of these men try to sound more vibrant than they actually are. Their usernames might be TriathlonDan or TyrannosaurusRex; but photos suggest they’d need help to the mailbox.  I’m more impressed by names that are honest about dwindling strength and testosterone, like Lil’Puppy and Cuddles. These names have a warm appeal and make me remember my schnauzer as a child.

Others are honest and believe in efficient dating. These men want women browsing to know who they are immediately. The usernames are long: Hunterfishermanlikescountryoldcarshasdogs… or Beenmarriedtwochildrenonehomeonlake. By the time I type in the name, I realize there’s nothing new I want to learn about that person.

ENTRY 7:

Profile photos are meant to be appealing or warmly virile; they shouldn’t make the viewer cringe or laugh too much or shiver or experience GI distress. One exception involves humor. I personally find humorous profile photos to be a wild card that can work to one’s advantage…or not.

One fellow chose a photo of himself as Santa. This was appealingly comical, until I flipped to his only other photo: Santa again, standing next to another Santa.

Though I, too, was enthusiastic about Christmas, I wondered what it would be like to date this happy, rotund fellow. I pictured waltzing around a ballroom with Santa; watching The Maltese Falcon with Santa on my couch; or riding whirling teacups with Santa at a state fair. We would, undoubtedly, draw a crowd and need to protect our privacy.

Would it ever be a normal life? What a shame. He had a jolly face, but I had to respond that I didn’t date celebrities.

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