The Dating Pool: Part Two, Swimming at the Deep End

After I posted last week, I received questions regarding whether I had ever made use of the suggestions on that list. Full disclosure: only one. I met my (now late) husband Jerry through mutual friends who were sure we'd hit it off. Obviously, they were right.

Most of those items listed and the ones below resulted from your emails or blog comments. So although I can't rely on a huge body of personal experience, I've got great connections who are willing to share. Thanks everyone. Here are six more.

1. Class Reunions. From Phyllis: "My suggestion for meeting men is 'Go to your class reunion.'  You might see your first crush there...and he might still see you as a 16 year old cutie. Having said that, I do know several people who reunited at their reunions and others who were so sad that the cutest guy in the class is now bald, overweight and really boring." 


Campus Erasmus Hall High School,
Spring Reunion. Photo courtesy Les Baum

The opposite situation is the nerd who turned into Prince Charming in the intervening years, remembers you as the girl he adored from afar and is thrilled to reconnect.  

Searching for Mr. Right among the alums should never be the primary reason to attend a reunion, but strange and wonderful things can happen when the band launches into the slow-dance songs of our era. Caveat: be sure your partner is available. For all you know, the wife could be home babysitting the grandkids.

2. Online Dating Sites. Yes, I know, you'd never descend to that, but this is the twenty-first century and it's beyond acceptable, it's a rite of passage for singles. My podiatrist is on JDate. My tax preparer (male) is on Match.com. And a lawyer friend met a great guy on Ourtime.com

My favorite response is from Deb. "An online dating site (Matchmaker.com)  is how I met my current husband, 13 years ago, when the online dating forum was not as mainstream and socially acceptable as it is now. It was a real leap of faith (and some other things!), but it paid off for me. I would never have found him otherwise, and I know that---and thank God for him each and every day."

Lovely. And encouraging. Sure there are horror stories, but usually even bad dates make for great anecdotes. Caveat: take his posted info with not a grain but a shaker of salt. As one woman wrote, "Mentally add ten pounds to his weight,  three years to his profile photo, and deduct two inches from his stated height." We'll devote an entire column to online dating soon, but why not begin your research now? You can browse for free on many sites.

3. Facebook and other Social Networking Sites. 'Fess up. Who hasn't looked up an old boyfriend on FB? Then sighed and moved on. Because he's married. Or he lives cross country. Or you remember why you broke up in the first place--that hyena laugh and the way he held his fork like a shovel. When old flames reappear, embers are stirred, and you can get warmed or you can get burned. You may have background in common, but foreground?...not so much. Proceed slowly. No flights to Bermuda for a first time meet after a few postings. Common sense above all.

4. Conferences. You attended them for work and it was all business. Now, they can be sources of something more. You're into genealogy? I know of a professor from D.C. who'd been on  dating sites for months but found his perfect match at a conference in Oregon where he and a likeminded woman were both shaking their family trees. Turned out she lived only a few miles from him back East. Common interests make for great conversation which makes for connections which may lead to, well, dancing.

5. Hardware Stores and other emporiums like bicycle shops and boat dealerships attract men in their most helpful mode. See comments on last week's posting.

6. Fly fishing. A new one for me. But my brilliant, beautiful cousin submitted: "Try fly fishing. Every fishing lodge is all men, all wealthy, educated and mostly single." Also golfing brings out fit, active dudes. Sports attract men. So If you have an interest, take a class, or hit the links or the courts, you may realize a bonus.

Speaking of bonuses, that adds up to one more than the originally promised ten. Nor is the list complete. If you continue sending in suggestions, I'll keep posting them. 

And, most important--as I was reminded by a thoughtful reader--sometimes the best way to look for your match, is not to look at all. If you're occupied  with activities you enjoy, and focus on being your best and happiest self, love may just find you.

Diving into the Dating Pool: Part One

"It used to be so easy to meet them, but now..." my friend said at a singles (all women) cook-out last week. Over burgers and the last of the summer wine, we were talking about men. Lack of good ones. "I've given up. So many of us, so few of them." She shrugged. "Besides, who wants to cook dinner every night or pick up tossed socks...and where do you meet them anyway?"

Not where you used to. When we were young, it was raining men. In class, at dances, the boy next door. They worked with us on the college newspaper and later on the job. They were driven to mate by testosterone and mothers who wanted grandchildren stat. Back then, you had your choice: younger, older, same (choices males of every age have). But for midlifers, men are no longer low fruit on the dating tree. Sometimes you need to stretch to pluck them. Sometimes you need a ladder.

"I'll date if something wonderful comes along," a twice divorced woman declared." Trust me, " another answered, "at this age nothing, wonderful or not, just comes along unless you're extraordinarily lucky. But there are ways and means." And so the talk turned practical and produced a list of ten suggestions (in no particular order) for where to meet men at midlife, a precious list which--in the public interest--I'm passing on to you.

1. Fix-ups. The good news: they're your friend's brother-in-law or her husband's golf buddy so they're vetted. The bad news: ditto. Therefore, if on the first date he kvetches about hip pain or uses a toothpick or brags about his collection of Russian semi-automatics, it's going to be tough to tell the fixer-upper that this "wonderful man who's just perfect for you," well, just isn't. Solution: do a little pre-meet triaging. View his photo. Chat him up via phone. Check him out on the Net. I saved a BFF from disaster by Googling the guy who'd been referred by her cousin. I found him. On www.dontdatehimgirl.com which is real website and he was a real loser.

2. Classes/interest groups. The trick is to enroll in activities that attract males. This means No to "Crafting with Lace and Sequins"  and Yes to "Elementary Auto Mechanics." No to Zumba dancing, Yes to Civil War reenactment. But do you really want to brush up on rebuilding a Corvette engine or dress up as Mary Todd Lincoln? Compromise. Take a writing course. Nonfiction. "Writing the Memoir" workshops are overpopulated by men who believe they've lead fascinating lives. It's a male ego thing. At least they're literate and you'll have background. Photography classes are largely XY. Also history of WWII, "A Guide to Fantasy Football," and cooking classes, especially barbecuing and, oddly, Asian wok cuisine. Men go for fire.

3. Fund Raisers. This is advanced technique. Single men, especially older widowed ones, attend fundraisers alone because they want a party for their money and it's not the right venue for their thirty-something sometimes-girlfriend (the one they can't introduce to their kids). Benefits: You'll know these guys are not down to their last dime, they're altruistic, and you share an interest in the orphaned alligators of the Everglades. Caution: Beware of black tie affairs. King Kong would look stunning in a dinner jacket. Don't get carried away by appearance. Tip: if you don't own real pearls, wear good fake ones.

4. Political campaigns. Lick stamps, make calls, compare bumper stickers. It's an election year for heaven's sake! Debating political issues makes men hot. Take care not to hook up with someone to the right of Limbaugh or the left of Lenin. Fanatics of any stripe are--according to the group's informal survey--lousy in bed.

5. Ballroom dancing. There are classes solely for singles. Benefits: You're learning something together. You're in his arms. If he has rhythm vertically, he just may have it horizontally. Caution: oh, the hell with caution, you're tangoing!

Now you have the first five and we haven't even gotten into the perils and pleasures of Online Dating. Tune in next time for more of the list in: The Dating Pool: Part Two -Swimming at the Deep End

Add to the where-to-meet list? Share your most horrendous/hilarious dating stories? We're all breathlessly waiting to hear from you.

Gravity Wins

Gravity wins, hands down

also boobs down,

jowls down,

eyelids in perpetual droop.

Here's the latest scoop:

what doesn't go down and out

(knee caps, belly buttons, derrières)

goes down and in

(wrinkles at the mouth, crinkles near the eye,

thigh flesh that sags first, then

makes little pockets

each big enough to fit a jelly bean in).

There are tricks to shoring up this sliding off:

aerobics, diet, avocado facials,

toxins injected into the skin, Pilates, swimming laps,

Oil of Olay.

But it's all a sleight of hand, a grand illusion--

in the sun, you're fifty-one

in the unforgiving bedside light

when the flying buttress bra is on the floor

or the froth of lace and chiffon gown is hanging on the door

you are what you've become

And if you're lucky and he's nearsighted or he loves you

it doesn't matter. Much.

Marriage is better that way

I've heard a husband say,

"For me, I'll always see the woman I first saw thirty years before."

For those of us without that all-redeeming memory

just do the best you can

work on the inside

which time improves

and as for the outside

be grateful you were never absolutely gorgeous

or you'd be really devastated now.

                Copyright ©2012 Toby Devens

I mentioned this poem in my last post about the Olympics and got some requests on the blog and via my email at readers@tobydevens.com to post it. Love to hear your comments!

Derrière Sagging? Watch the Olympics

Just look at those Olympic contenders! As if anyone could turn away. We marvel at their skills. Also at the courage and grit written on their faces. And their bodies look like what they are--athletic and vigorous. Compare them with what passes for beauty in the media these days: thinness to the point of anorexia, figures sculpted by cosmetic surgeons going for the ideal of fashion magazines. These same magazines that, not long ago, touted the "heroin addict look"-- vacant, kohl-rimmed eyes, disheveled hair, spindly bodies with ribs that could be played like a xylophone.

In a culture that worships appearance, Olympic beauty is the kind we ought to be glorifying: healthy, strong, whatever the body type. And those types come in incredible variety, from the sleek but sturdy compactness of the gymnastics teams to Missy Franklin, the amazing 6 foot 1 inch Gold Medal swimmer. Though there are optimal (note that word--not "ideal") body types for particular sports, even within a sport they vary. Consider women's weightlifting champs China's Wang Mingjuan, a contender at 105 pounds, and Cheryl Haworth, a bronze medalist in 2000 at nearly 300 pounds. Such variety presents a clear message: in the Olympics, bodies are respected more for function--and how beautifully they execute their moves--than for intrinsic form.

Which is a notion we midlifers should celebrate. Of course we're looking a lot different today than we did at twenty-five. As I say in one of my poems, "Gravity wins, hands down--also boobs down." So our boobs may not be perky, but if our mammograms are clear, let's count our blessings. Our waists may be thickening, but we can still bend and snatch a six- month-old from her crib. Our thighs are webbed with spider veins, the flaps under our upper arms could lift us in a high wind, but our legs still get us through a bracing walk and those arms through a set of tennis. That's gold medal quality performance on my scorecard.

My daughter at 8 with Aunt Ruth at 88

At eighty, my great-aunt had a chinning bar installed in the bathroom of her miniscule New York apartment. Aunt Ruth exercised--pull-ups on that bar and sit-ups on a mat near her bed-- every morning, and walked brisk miles through Manhattan streets well into her nineties. She was determined to stay as fit as she could as long as she could. Now that's a winner. 

Almost every competitor at the Games is young. The most senior this year is a seventy-one-year-old equestrian Hiroshi Hoketsu. Dana Torres, the swimmer who almost made it to London, was considered way past her prime at forty-five. Of course youth reigns at the Olympics. But those kids are positive examples for our kids and grandkids... and for us. They're living illustrations of a maxim that applies to bodies of all ages: function over form. Keep that in mind, keep that in muscle memory, midlifers! 

Why do so many of us have body image issues? Beyond using the Olympics as a teachable moment, what can we do to reinforce positive body image in the girls and young women in our lives? And what about us...is it ever too late to appreciate our bodies for the work they do instead of focusing on the flaws we see? Let's hear from you.

  

Regrets...I've Had a Few

My parents' 40th anniversary

Recently, I attended a thirtieth anniversary party for close friends. After the cake and champagne, we watched a DVD chronicling the couple's marriage and the family it produced. The wedding, grinning kids, vacations, celebrations, photos of a blissful union on its way to forever.

I sat in the darkened living room surprised by a twinge of emotion rare for me: envy. I've never been much for envy. I mean, what's the point? But watching that montage of unrelentingly happy occasions, I realized that young widowhood and, later, divorce robbed me of a long and photogenic marital history. And as the schmaltzy background music--my favorite "The Way We Were"-- faded, I couldn't help thinking: IF ONLY. If only I'd made other, different choices early on, maybe it would have been me up there on the screen holding hands with a generic blue-eyed, dark-haired husband of thirty years, having that perfect life.

Then the lights came on, really, because the wife, a woman who never failed to speak her mind, stood smiling wryly to announce, "And that, my friends, is the edited version."

The edited version. Of course. What we see from the outside is life Photoshopped to erase flaws, nicks and scars. The inside truth is that no one escapes pain and sadness; or as my mother used to cheerily remind me as she combed tangles from my hair, none of us gets out of this world without suffering.

It occurred to me then, as it does to so many of us at our age, that decisions made when we're young spin off life-changing repercussions. The engagement to the med school suma cum laude that I broke because he wanted to settle down and I wanted to live it up...bad move? He's probably a top surgeon today and still a sweetie. Could be, though, he's running a meth lab up in the mountains. The three-book poetry contract offered by a major publisher after my first collection got a thumbs-up in People? The contract I turned down because...God knows why? Stu-pid decision. But maybe I wouldn't have gotten to write novels, which I'm sure is my true calling.

 Say I were offered the chance to rewind my life and I took the road not taken--then what? Then I'd have "different" at the very least. Not my family which is incomparable. Not my friends, ditto. Maybe I wouldn't have experienced the stuff that turned into stories filled with laughter and spirit, or the heartbreak that left me softer, the losses that left me stronger. The thing is, I'm much of who I am because of the choices--good, bad and you've-got-to-be kidding-- I made long ago. My life and I are far from perfect. Yet I wouldn't trade us for anything or anyone else. So, regrets--I've had a few, but then again--as the song goes-- too few to mention.

How about you? Did your life turn out the way you dreamed or planned it? If you had it to live over, would you do it differently?

On the Road Again? My Highway Driving Phobia

What did I know about driving? I grew up in New York City, which arguably has the best public transportation in the country. The subway rumbled beneath our living room window. A bus belched fumes at the end of our block. NY schools didn't even bother to offer driver's ed. Then, in my twenties, my husband and I relocated to the Baltimore suburbs where they served bread and butter in Chinese restaurants. I thought I'd moved to hell. No subways or buses. I learned to drive.

From the beginning, at the beginning I loved it--the freedom, the exhilaration of highway driving. In my thirties, I negotiated the hairpin turns around California's Big Sur in battering rain, the Baltimore-Washington Parkway in blizzards. No problem.

Problem. One afternoon approaching an exit on the Baltimore Beltway, my life crashed around me. I was a passenger, my seatbelt was buckled, it wasn't my friend's fault; his car was slammed from behind by an 18-wheeler--nearly totaled. I was sirened off to the hospital, head sandbagged. The docs thought I may have broken my neck. Turned out I was fine.

Well, not quite. A few weeks later, breezing along a different expressway, I got rocked by an unfamiliar jolt in my solar plexus, a cold stab of fear that sent my foot hovering above the brake. I gritted my teeth through the racing heartbeat, the dry mouth, the waves of nausea and dizziness, and managed to stagger my car onto an exit. Some never-to-be repeated quirk of nerves, I told myself. I tried again. And again. But the highway driving panic grew worse. Within months I was reduced to taking back roads and two-laners.

And that's the way it's been for more than two decades. As my world continued to shrink, I increasingly relied upon the kindness of family and friends and a network of detours. And though we highway phobics are a secret sisterhood, I began hearing about and from many other women--most at midlife--whose hyper-creative subconscious imagined the horrifying worst. These bright, otherwise capable women were ashamed of what they thought was their weakness. Me too. And yes, men can be highway phobic. But far fewer than women.

For a quarter century I've lived hobbled like a bird with clipped wings. Then a few months ago, something inside me rebelled and I declared " Enough! " Which is where my story really begins.

It will continue in future posts. If you're living with, have conquered a highway phobia, or just want to discuss your own particular fear, I'd love to hear from you.

Our Time, Our Place

Who knew when I wrote my novel, My Favorite Midlife Crisis (Yet), that the book would touch the hearts and engage the minds of so many women? They identified with Dr. Gwyneth Berke, a gynecologist divorced under (hilariously) awful circumstances after a long marriage. They empathized with recently widowed Kat Greenfield in her battle with serious health problems. They cheered on quick-witted businesswoman Fleur Talbot--never married but rarin' to go. And they laughed and cried along with these characters through their struggles and triumphs.

The response to My Favorite Midlife Crisis (Yet) was incredibly rewarding. "Thanks for showcasing women at midlife" was a major theme. "Why are we invisible? Why are we being ignored?" Also: "Wait until you hear my story." And they shared. Oh, did they share! Though my website www.tobydevens.com, at my book signings, on radio tours, in the Q and A's after speaking engagements, bright, energetic women like you shared their joys and heartaches. They also voiced their questions and complaints. And I had the privilege of talking with them and listening to them for which I will be forever grateful.

A consequence of those conversations has been my writing more stories about women in midlife. This blog is another. Welcome to Midlife Passions where we'll talk about topics we're passionate about--subjects that deal with our time and our place in a changing world. It's going to be interactive experience for all of us. So read on and write in. And let's have some fun.