I’m done. Finished. Kaput. Had it. No more looking for a new father for my kids. I’m totally over it. Finito. That’s because I’ve finally discovered something more worthwhile to pursue for them – a new grandfather.
Yep. That’s right. This past week I decided I’m officially going all Anna Nicole Smith on my ass. Looking for a mature man. (Actually, they come looking for me, but that’s beside the point.) One who can construct a sentence that doesn’t begin with, “Hey, beautiful,” and end with me blocking him from all contact. A man I can lean on when I need to, a man who will make all that ails me disappear with something other than his magic wand, although I am very much a fan of magic.
I’ve dated older men before and like it. There’s something to be said for a man who actually remembers what it is like to date. To “court.” Who understands exactly what a date is. Who doesn’t ask me to chill, hook up, hang out, connect (Is that literal?), or meet up. Is that too much to ask? I may read Elite Daily, but I’m in no way its target audience. So, why the hell am I so easily able to relate?
Houston, we have a problem.
That’s why when I received a well-written email from a more “mature” man on JDate I was intrigued. Though he had no photo (a big no-no for me), I emailed him back and requested one. After a few more email exchanges he sent me five, each with a description so I could get a general sense of him.
He had a bit of a Kris Kringle thing going on, but without the Santa physique. So maybe more like a Colonel Sanders type. No, I’m just kidding. He happened to be a good-looking man. But, admittedly, I am not a fan of facial hair, so the little bit he was sporting would definitely have to go. I agreed to speak while reserving my right to not pursue anything further based on his numeric age of 61 (I’m 42), with which I wasn’t altogether comfortable.
During our conversation, he told me that he split time between his various homes, spending most of the year at his island house.
“You mean like Richard Branson?” I joked. But he wasn’t kidding, as I saw from the aerial shot he later provided of his mansion that was situated on a private island smack in the middle of a picturesque lake.
“Hell,” I thought, “I can be the Ginger to his Professor.” But that image quickly turned to one of me running through the jungle in Lord of the Flies, and I imagined yet another call to my ex-husband, this time to the tune of: “I’m in trouble again. I need you to send a helicopter. ASAP.”
We spoke on the phone for over an hour, most of the conversation spent with me educating him on today’s dating etiquette or lack thereof. Apparently, I didn’t do a very good job because he wanted to speak again the next night, ad nauseam.
“No can do, buddy,” was the general crux of my next email. “I’m actually busy shuffling my kids (perhaps his future grandkids) back and forth to evening activities in between working.” In actuality, I spent the last part of the night catching up on Girlfriends’ Guide to Divorce, happily enjoying the solitude.
Emotionally unavailable? Or was I just not that into him?
Bueller?… Bueller?… Bueller?
As the week wore on, I became increasingly ambivalent, if not unenthused, about our upcoming date while he, I would later learn, got a haircut (hope he didn’t shave on my account) and purchased a small gift for me.
Reminded me of that scene in Must Love Dogs when Sarah Nolan, played by Diane Lane, shows up to a blind date she unknowingly made with her father from the personal ads (Remember those?), who greets her with a single yellow rose. Yuck. A gift on a first date for me is when a guy doesn’t squeeze my ass or slide his hand up my dress. Done and done.
So, when he didn’t hear from me again the next day, he sent me yet another email asking to make our date – museum and dinner – even earlier.
Honestly, I couldn’t go through with it. And it didn’t have anything at all to do with his age. Because if one 62 year-old Liam Neeson was asking, I would be there in a heartbeat. He can “take” me any day.
My canceling had everything to do with attraction, from his photo to his voice to his conversation to… whatever else didn’t float my boat, except the year in which he was born.
Though my mother was relieved, I did feel bad. I was to be his first date in decades, and he was clearly disappointed. When I responded to his email about the time change I wished him well, to which he sent me what practically amounted to a 500-word love letter. Yep, last week I was auditioning to be Curly Sue’s step-mama and this week for a starring role in The Notebook, part three.
Didn’t this guy hear? Nicholas Sparks is getting divorced, and everyone is saying that love is officially dead. I can only imagine that last letter Nicholas sent to his wife, Cathy:
You keep the house in New Bern and I’ll take the one on the Outer Banks. I hear chicks really dig it out there…
Love may be dead. But lust isn’t. And I, for one, need both.
Liam, I’m ready if you are.
Do you have any dating deal breakers?
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