So I have been on dates recently. Like, old fashioned dates, not hook-ups or ONSs, but dates. Two dinners, one walk and one sort of late night picnic. That’s the advantage of internet dating, I guess, is that the difficult part of figuring out where someone is in their head and what they want is often already established before meeting face to face.
I sometimes go out of curiosity, just to see how the electronic and the real personality mesh.
For example, the Catalan. In pictures he looks like someone who loves dancing and parties, into his clothes and his look. Maybe not my type on paper, but potentially someone fun to hang out with. And I find, in person, a very sweet person who’s just a tiny bit slow, a bit bear-like (in a positive way) but potentially clingy. We walked, hung out, had a nice time, but in the end it was a no.
Then, well, I’ll call him the Anarchist. Sort of a two-bit leftie who was very enamored of the myth of himself. Which might have worked for him up until he was in, say, his 40’s, but at 50+, it just seemed like someone who never wanted to commit to anything. Didn’t stop him from having two kids who he probably never was around for much when they were little. I don’t need commitment from someone at this point in my life, but I only want to be with people who have done something with their lives. And with him, his intelligence showed through but his lack of education meant he couldn’t argue more than the guy in the bar down the street who’s an expert in everything but nothing with any substance. So a no, again.
The Sicilian. We’ve chatted for ages, three months off and on, and never could meet up. Finally we had dinner: pizza, fittingly. He was fun, dynamic, in a funk/jazz fusion band apparently. He’s going through a rather evil sounding divorce (why are some women so nasty? or is it just the culture of some women to want men to take care of them financially? I’ve never not worked or depended on a man, so I don’t really get that.) Him I could see again. I think he’d been fun to hang out with, and I could probably get him to climb some. A maybe.
And the Gigolo. That’s how he was selling himself, in any case. He’s five years younger, so I’m probably going to give that a pass. But I’m expecting this suave, get-me-into-bed personality, and I meet a very calm, charming man. We had dinner. A bit too much loneliness showing through the cracks. But a maybe, again.
I climbed with my Mr. Wonderful last week. He is confusing. We climbed and I sort of thought he’d decided we’d be just friends. But we were both tired, and after climbing took a nap in the sun together. You don’t do that with your climbing pals. Him I could be with, partly because we share the same passion, but also we share a lot of the same values as far as work and life goes. He’s a bit religious, though, which means he’s wracked with guilt about almost everything he does. He needs time, and I think we might wind up trying to see if it something would work between us, but later on down the road.
My ex-cop took off with his friends on vacation for two weeks, but we’ve been texting everyday. I’ve started following his kids a bit. Both are now playing for the same hockey team. His youngest joined last week, which is one of a dozen national teams in League A. So as high as you can get in my little country. I’m a sports teacher as well as an English teacher, so all sports interest me somewhat; hockey less than others but only because I never learned the rules, really. I still appreciate the ex-cop a lot. He’s been a good, solid person in my life and we’ve had great sex. He helped me move, hung out with me when I was feeling really low, been a friend. The thing I don’t like about him is that I’m not a priority in his life. He would never let me down, but he’s also not letting me in. I don’t see any reason to stop seeing him, really, but in the end that might kill us.
Last is my vertically challenged Marathon Man. I still have no idea what he’s like inside. He talks very little about anything, but he wrote me a long, very sexy series of texts about what he wanted to do with me, and they make me melt. I’m supposed to see him next weekend.
That’s the low-down from a freshly single almost fifty year old. I suppose I’m not doing too badly.