After a long hiatus from men, I returned to the dating scene. Online dating sounded wonderful. I put together a bio that painted a clear picture of who I am, and included that I was not interested in a committed relationship. That, apparently, appealed to most men because I was flooded with responses.
I learned that two weeks of daily correspondence with a person can offer more insight than a dozen traditional dates. Intellect, sense of humor, goals, tolerances, passions, politics, prejudices, and countless subtleties are rapidly revealed both in and between the lines.
I learned that time hadn’t changed men’s primal urges. The only difference now was finesse and patience were lacking. Men had the notion that divorcees should be grateful for attention bestowed upon them after long years of neglect by their husbands. Sadly, in many cases their assessment was accurate.
Lying is rampant online; mostly regarding age and marital status. The fact that I trusted no one didn’t ruin the fun I was having.
Good looks and chemistry matter to me, but chemistry is the sum total of a person; not merely an attractive face. Monty’s photo was not particularly appealing to me, but our conversations were fascinating. He won me over with his sense of humor and intelligence. I doubt I would have given him a second glance had we not first experienced hours of riveting conversation that revealed his brilliant personality.
Henry worked in an abbey. I had no idea what he did there since he was intentionally secretive. I agreed to meet him out of curiosity and because he only lived eight miles away. His claim to fame was he fed squirrels without benefit of heavy gloves.
He showed up in rumpled bib coveralls, a dingy undershirt, and dirty work boots. He looked at me and said, “You’re fatter than your picture.” I resisted saying, you’re more revolting than yours.”He sprung for a coke and a bag of Ruffles potato chips. It was the only time I did not offer to share the bill.
Frankie and I had just one lengthy online session. We shared many interests. After about an hour, he wrote, “How old are you? I’m 12.”
"What? I’m considerably older than you,” I gasped.
“Wait, wait, don’t sign off,” he typed. “I love older women.”
Dick was an ophthalmologist. He was well-traveled and, as I came to discover, a snob and a moron. He found fault with his salmon, the tinny silverware, the wait staff and my shoes. He blamed his ex-wife for his estranged relationship with his sons because she allowed him to play golf every spare moment during their marriage.
“She should have insisted I stay home,” he growled.
I laughed. “You’re joking, right?”
“Hell no!”
Dick’s last name should have been Head.
After months of delightful online conversation with Brent, I took the train to meet him. I entered his condo and found the dining room table beautifully set with china dishes, silverware and crystal goblets. He said his table is always set. A closer look revealed an inch of dust on everything. And, when Brent shopped, he bought two of everything; from shirts to can openers to televisions. His entire diet consisted only of pizza and burgers.
I was wearing a skirt when I met Alan. He complimented me on my lovely, slim calves, which is all he could see from below my hemline.
“I bet you have beautiful legs,” he said.
“You might be disappointed,” I admitted, with candor. “My thighs are not nearly as slim as my calves.”
“I’m not an idiot,” he shot back. “Do you really think I thought those piano calves had the strength to hold up that large ass?”
And finally, I met Marc. He lived in West Virginia. I lived in New Jersey. He had been sole caretaker for his wife of 47 years, who had Alzheimer’s. He was looking for happily ever after. I was looking for something to do Saturday nights. We exchanged lengthy e-mails, which evolved into six-hour phone conversations, during which he asked if I curse.
“Is this a trick question?”
“No.”
I paused. “Well, sometimes, Oh darn just doesn’t do it.”
It turned out he wanted a woman who knew how to spice up a conversation. He told me he had performed off Broadway, when he lived in San Diego. I explained that while San Diego certainly was off Broadway, it was too far off Broadway to be off Broadway. He had thought that anything not on Broadway, was classified as off Broadway.
He suggested visiting me. I suggested he was crazy.
“If you come here, where will I run if you’re an axe murderer?”
We decided to meet in Baltimore, which is fairly central to us both. He learned I favor linebackers. He isn’t. I discovered he prefers petite. I’m not. But after three days and nights of divulging, evaluating, analyzing, sharing and laughing, he decided his search was over and I discovered he filled gaps I never knew existed.
He asked if he could go home with me. I flatly refused. “I’m not that kind of girl. What would my neighbors, my children and my parents think?”
Then I remembered I didn’t know my neighbors, my children hadn’t always been prime examples of propriety, and my parents had passed away.
So, I jumped into my car. He jumped into his and he followed me for four-and-a-half hours, to my home, where he remained for 10 weeks, during which we discussed growing feelings, and future plans.
Friends tried to dissuade us from moving so fast. We checked our birth certificates and determined that waiting wasn’t an option.
We’ve been happily together for 14 years, and married for 12. We discovered that we grew up seven miles from each other, and I had dated boys from his high school, while he was there.
Laverne H. Bardy transforms life’s adversities into hilarious adventures that boomers and seniors relate to. Her book, "How The (Bleep) Did I Get This Old?" is available at Amazon.com and other online bookstores. www.lavernebardy.com or email: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.