I am not a grandfather. None of my friends have become grandparents yet. I say this only to point out grandparenthood is an abstract concept to me. Of course, I’ve had grandparents. Grandmothers really, I have no real memory of either of my grandfathers. My own parents have been blessed with many grandchildren. In fact, the first grandchild arrived for them when they were 5 years younger than I am now. I did a little research before sitting down to write this and the youngest grandmother was just 23 years old. Meanwhile, two grandchildren of President John Tyler, (b.1790) who served without distinction in 1841, are still alive (as of 2017, at least). Let those two trivia facts sink in for a bit.

In my mind, being a grandparent meant you were old, notwithstanding the fact a person can potentially be one from age 23 on. When their first grandchild was born some thirty years ago, I thought my parents were as ancient as the hills. My grandmothers also seemed terribly old to me. I look at them in pictures from my childhood and they do look old, but in the way their generation always looked old, not because they were old. Again, they were younger than I am now.

So it should not come as a shock to me that some of the women I have sought to date are, in fact, grandmothers. I giggle to myself as I write this. I’m dating grandma’s. It’s reasonable and logical to think it would happen, but I never thought it would. It never even occurred to me. When a potential date mentioned a few months ago she could not go out Saturday as she would be babysitting her grandchildren, I nearly spat out my tea. “Grandchildren! How old are you?” I shouted. She did not find my amazement charming in the least. And I should say, some of these grandmas are hot. Not at all the pearl-wearing, purse-clutching biddies of yesteryear. I have to revise my whole point of view on them.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #sex #grandparents #grandmother #aarp

What do you tell your prospective dates and when? John Lennon was correct: we’ve all got something to hide, except for me and my monkey. Of course, I should disclose I have a monkey (No, I don’t. I’m kidding). Do we need to tell all before we even meet or should we allow the facts to come tumbling out organically? And what info is so important, it really needs to be acknowledged before an initial meet and perhaps should be noted plainly in our online profile?

A woman I know has a dilemma. She’s been chatting with a gentleman for several days and they have decided to go to lunch today. She was a little hesitant to begin with, unsure of whether they’re really a match. Last night, he writes to inform her he has had a debilitating disease since high school that has rendered him unable to walk and he gets around on a motorized scooter. There’s no hint of this in his profile or any of their previous messaging. He hopes this isn’t a problem or issue.

Her predicament reminded me of the woman I had asked on a date who sent me “updated” pictures hours before we were to meet. Her profile said she was very fit and athletic and her pictures there showed a toned woman. Right before sending the new pics, she said, “Don’t forget, fit doesn’t necessarily mean thin.” Thats true enough, I guess, but it also doesn’t mean obese. The new pictures didn’t show the triathlete she claimed to be. I do not mind a few extra pounds, but I did mind the late notice. I went on the date anyway. We both enjoyed a hearty meal and said our goodbyes. Forever, as it turned out.

Now, my friend with the lunch date was put in the position of either going on the date or appearing to be heartless. In her own profile, she lists walking, running and hiking as interests. She lists them because these are the type of activities she’d like to enjoy with her future match. These are not likely future activities with a gentleman dependent on a scooter. I told her I was of the opinion he had withheld important information she would have used to decide whether to even spark up a conversation, because she had the right to calculate how much she was willing to give and how much she needed in return.

She is going on the date by the way. She’s hoping for some sort of “Coming Home” scenario. During the same conversation, she told me about a potential suitor who revealed he was a recovering alcoholic. She rejected his offer of a date, because she enjoyed an occasional martini in the evening or wine with her pasta and it was important enough she wanted to share that with her potential mate. He told her she might have a drinking problem. Then good thing they didn’t go on that date, I thought.

So, again, what rises to the level of needing to be revealed right away? I’m still thinking. I may have to return to this subject a few more times.

H/t Bluemoon

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #sex

#fulldisclosure #secrets #handicap #disability

#johnlennon

#fulldisclosure

Funny how the celebratory aspect of birthdays diminishes as you get older. You would think my son was the prince of the land, the way we celebrated his first birthday. Really, the hoopla continued until he was about 10 with extravaganza after extravaganza at various birthday hotspots around Bergen County, NJ, because you didn’t want to be seen as negligent in that department by the parents of your child’s schoolmates. There was no official scorecard kept, but mental notes were taken.

The parties go on a breather but then there are sweet sixteens (and quinceañeras for my Hispanic friends) that rival debutante balls. At 17, we get our driver’s licenses. We are adults at 18. We can drink at 21. The party continues with every birthday milestone. Even turning 30, we’re all still pretty happy. At 40, a little confusion becomes apparent. Are we still celebrating and what’s so happy about that birthday? Up until then, life still seems fairly spread out before us. At 40, we may begin to think we’re on the back nine, but we shrug it off. After all, we are as goodlooking as we’re ever going to be, and as healthy. From there on in, it starts to become a little bit of a struggle. The metabolism slows a bit. Clothes that fit a year ago suddenly seem a little snug. What’s all this hair in the tub drain? Perhaps your grandparents shake off their mortal coils, but at least there’s still a generation between you and your own departure.

The years pass and suddenly we’re 50. Our parents aren’t quite so vibrant anymore. Some get on the train to Elysium too and now mortality seems a little more real, a little closer. We have 50th birthday parties and put on our brave faces. Women stop menstruating. Is that a good or bad thing? They have menopause, a mysterious phase they all go through. Nobody explains anything to us men. We’re having problems of our own and self-medicate with sports cars, younger women and Viagra. We start going to doctors regularly to check for cancers of all sorts. They want to send cameras both up and down us. Cholesterol is a big thing. They need to monitor our blood pressure and blood sugar. I hear friends have gout. Isn’t that a medieval disease? Bring on the leeches.

My brother just turned 60. We had a family gathering. We joked what an old prick he is, but diabetes is knocking on the door. They keep taking samples of his face away to test for skin cancer. Retirement beckons. We start to exercise like demons, staving off aging and its eroding effects.

We are still here. We shake our fists at aging. We spit in its general direction. We shore up the battlements, hold back the siege. We shoot up our brave faces with Botox and attempt to smile. We look at each other. We still see beauty there and hope and life. We haven’t given up yet. We’re in it for the long haul.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #sex

#aging #birthday

As time moved on, I grew a bit bolder with my initial messaging. Maybe I got a little abstract in my humor, but I didn’t need a hundred women responding, just one or two who really got me. I told a woman who listed dancing as her major interest that I was fantastic in both hip-hop and classical ballet. It was an outrageous falsehood. I had left it to her to figure out the likelihood of a 55-year-old white man being both a ballet and a hip-hop dancer was next to nil. Either would’ve been incredible. Nobody could believe I was attempting to pass myself off as both. She replied, “Lol. You’re a complete fraud!” Well, ok, I got a laugh, just the response I wanted. She got the joke, I thought. She’s even expanding on it a bit.

“I wouldn’t say a complete fraud,” I messaged back, smiling as I typed. “I’m just merely proficient in both. However, I can do a mean Pogo and a wild mash potato.”

A quick message back, “Just beat it!” Hmm, I thought, a Michael Jackson reference from the 80’s.

“And I can moonwalk too!” This was a lie as well, but she wouldn’t find out until after we had met and she had discovered how charming I was in person.

“Why don’t you moonwalk your sorry ass off a very high cliff?” This is when I began to think maybe she wasn’t getting my humor at all. A lot gets lost in text messaging. I cannot see if she’s smiling or frowning. I once used “dunno” answering a woman and she asked me if I meant “I don’t know.” I replied in the affirmative and she said, “No slang!” Then she blocked me. The blocking really bugged the crap out of me, because that’s a discussion I would have enjoyed. I wouldn’t be able to debate her on the merits of slang, the beauty of an ever-changing, living language. I couldn’t tell her how Shakespeare just made up words as he went along. She had concluded I was both lazy and stupid. All because I said “dunno”. I was left in a void with no way to rectify the problem.

One last message to my dance partner, “You do get that I’m just joking?”

“Fuck off!” So I did. And then I blocked her.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #sex

#dance #dancing #texting

Age is relative. Age is the drunken uncle that punches me in the face right before I look in the mirror each morning. Or the bratty niece that kicks me in my knees and ankles before I start my evening walks. Age can be the nasty spouse saying mean things when I needed encouragement. Age may be relative, but usually not a very kind one.

I continue to be 55 years old. I remember my parents turning 35 when I was 10 or so. I thought they were ancient. Up until just recently, I would hear some of my high school teachers were still there educating. I would think, how is that possible? Weren’t they already old when they taught me? Math, which I learned from them, tells me they were probably in their very early thirties. I thought they were in their fifties.

When I was 24 or so, a young lady lied to me and said we were the same age. We dated for some time before I learned she was 28. I broke up with her because I thought she was too old for me. Now that I am in my mid-fifties, I’m fully aware no woman younger than 40 will even look once at me. At about 45 or so, some women may look my way. The rare one will even look twice. I have messaged women in their late thirties. I always get the automated message back immediately: “Soandso only accepts messages from certain users. Why don’t you message someone closer to your own age, Crypt Keeper?” The youngest I’ve ever exchanged messages was 42. 46 was my youngest date.

From the messages I get, I surmise older women seem to like me very much. Even now, 60 seems old to me. When I turn 60, I will raise the moment one turns old to 70. It will continue to rise as long as I do. I think the oldest woman I have messaged was 63. I went out on a few dates with a 60 year old. The range of years I find attractive has expanded upwardly with every year I get older, but I notice I have qualifiers. I usually think to myself, she looks great for a 60 year old. She could pass for her early fifties. And what does that even mean? I suspect I mean she must have great genetics or diet and exercise has done well by her. Maybe she has had plastic surgery and it has been done very successfully.

I know occasionally I meet a guy and I find out we’re the same age. Sometimes I think, “Holy crap, he must smoke, drink, and eat to excess. And the sun did him no favors. Also, stress!” I have to remind myself, that’s what 55 looks like. It seems my relative age may be grandfather.

#age #aging

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #kissing #sex

My friend Charlie liked to tap the ladies, preferably without any sort of commitment. He prowled the bars, night clubs and hotel lobbies. He didn’t join just one online dating service, but all of them. He could meet a woman waiting for his coffee at Starbucks or buying iceberg lettuce at the supermarket. He could play it smart or dumb it down, depending on whether he thought the woman was seeking or dispensing advice. He had confidence and style; he had the gift of gab; he had a glint in his eye and an assured smile; he had good looks and a good build; and Charlie was a wolf.

Charlie saw Sally and Sally saw Charlie on a sordid site. And they sort of liked what they saw. He messaged a hello and within 6 messages, Sally offhandedly mentioned she had just had a mani/pedi and a waxing. Charlie was not the kind of guy that would allow the mentioning of waxing go by without comment and she said it was so she could wear her bikini properly. Two messages later and Sally messaged Charlie she preferred a clean slate as far as that went. Charlie licked his lips, as wolves often do.

Bikinis were going to be Sally’s primary clothing for the next week at the beach and Charlie was sorry to see her go, because she seemed a lively lass. She knew how to keep his interest though and sent a bikini photo daily and sometimes at night a picture of herself in bra and panties. Sally wore these items well and Charlie growled ever so lowly.

They talked of meeting and kissing and fucking. They sexted. She masturbated or said she did, which was much the same as far as Charlie was concerned. Charlie could hardly contain himself and paced his floor waiting for her to get back. He howled at the moon. When she did arrive back home, he asked if she might not like to come by his place. She could give him a fashion show in person, he slavered.

And something strange happened just then. She reminded him they didn’t really know each other. She would not be comfortable going to a strange man’s place, which would seem a reasonable response in most cases, but they had been working towards noncommittal sex for 10 days now. A cold shiver ran down Charlie’s back. His grip on the phone grew flaccid. What do you suggest? he asked. So they met for coffee in a diner and talked for a really long time. She was playful, but not as playful as she had been in text. They parted.

Later, as the weekend was drawing to a close, she texted him, I’m lonely. Charlie’s hackles rose. Come over, he offered. She said she would. He lay in wait, knowing satisfaction was coming. And he waited and waited, until finally she texted and said she was very tired. She asked, Can I get a rain check?

Sure, he replied and they never contacted each other again.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love

#wolf #nsa #sex

I remember 9/11, of course. I watched much of it occur in plain view from a fair distance in Queens. I remember thinking even before the second airliner hit the south tower that it was an act of terrorism. It was such a clear day, not a cloud in the sky. Nobody accidentally flew a plane into the tower.

I watched the smoke rise and the towers fall. I wondered how many thousands of people must have died. One of my co-workers that day was with the FDNY. He shuddered as he watched, because he knew his company was there. He knew his friends were gone. They were too close not to be there. And he was right. They were gone.

I remember they closed down the bridges and there was no way to go home. I just had to wait until they decided to reopen them. I remember getting home towards evening and holding my children so close. My son was old enough to know something was very wrong and my daughter was just a baby. I heard Sue from down the street was unable to contain her grief about her husband Paul, who had a meeting on the upper floors of one of the towers that morning. She hadn’t heard from him all day. She was certain he was dead and she was right too.

I remember all the love and all the hate. I remember. I remember.

#911 #worldtradecenter #remembrance

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love

You can believe it or not, but Sophia really had a smile that could light up a room. Her smile was more dazzling than Mary Tyler Moore’s (and hers could turn the world on, whatever that meant). Think Julia Roberts during the press conference at the end of Notting Hill. I first saw a hint of her smile in her profile pictures, but the pictures were just faint representations of the reality. Her pictures revealed a beautiful woman in her mid-fifties, but with the appearance of someone younger. She was in the medical profession and obviously took care of herself. Blonde hair, hazel eyes, 5’6″. We discovered we both loved reggae. She hit all the marks on my dating checklist. Except one.

Sophia lived in Brooklyn. Brooklyn has become the jewel of New York City in recent years, but Brooklyn is a bitch to get in or out. I had recently read a different woman’s profile and she said she wouldn’t limit the distance she would travel, because love was worth the effort. I kinda liked that, but I did set a limit: if I was willing to travel the same distance to work (which I’m not that crazy about), I’ll travel that far for the chance to date a beautiful woman and the possibility of love. And I have worked in Brooklyn many times. So we set a date for a weekday mid afternoon in Bay Ridge. I wouldn’t go home, but leave straight from work in lovely downtown Newark.

The drive includes a trip over the Goethals Bridge, through the wilds of The island of Staten, over the Verrazano Bridge, and right into Bay Ridge. It’s a middle-class neighborhood that has maintained its small town feel, with many stores and bars lining the main streets and neat houses along the side streets. Tony Manero from Saturday Night Fever would still feel at home there.

We met at the Salty Dog, a saloon converted from a firehouse on 3rd Avenue. They had the garage doors open, so the street outside was part of the atmosphere inside. And they played good 70s and 80s rock songs. I ordered a cider at the bar and waited for Sophia; she texted a few times to say she was still a few minutes away. It was the usual story, the closer you are, the later you are. She arrived, pretty as her pictures, but her smile could’ve stopped a forest fire. I thought, my God, doesn’t she know about her smile? I don’t think she did.

Sophia said before she ordered her drink, “I really shouldn’t get this, because it gives me brain freeze.” She did order it, a drink that looked like a slushee, took a sip from the straw and immediately gave herself brain freeze. She gave me the smile after the thaw. We talked through two drinks about family and music. Two is my limit and we said our goodbyes with a hug and a peck on the cheek. Later, we wondered why we hadn’t kissed more passionately. I certainly regret it.

I then drove home from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn during rush hour on a Thursday evening. I went north to the Brooklyn Bridge to the Westside Highway (Yes, I know that’s not its name. You can call it whatever the hell you want) to the George Washington Bridge. I crawled in bumper to bumper traffic nearly the whole way home. It took me 2 1/2 hours.

We texted often over the next week or so, but were unable to see each other and somehow the smile faded from my memory, but the 2 1/2 hours of traffic did not. She graciously said goodbye a week later after bigger gaps between our chats and I called her to apologize. Lesson for myself, two bridges may be a bridge too far.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love #brooklyn #brooklynbridge #marytylermoore #juliaroberts #nottinghill #smile

But you don’t really care for music, do you? -Hallelujah

I do care for the music of Leonard Cohen. The words could stand alone, but just add the minor fall and the major lift, the violins and keyboards, and the voice. I imagine they may have heard his melancholy bass-baritone in the ancient temples of Jerusalem and Babylon. He sounds like Nick Cave and Lou Reed, but deeper, smarter, and sadder.

The songs I like best are all love songs, but they’re not happy by any means. Hallelujah is a love song, but it’s a violent, sexy sort of love. The relationship in this song isn’t very healthy, but it sounds religious and euphoric. When I first heard Dance Me to the End of Love, I thought it was about a couple reaching the end of their lives, Dance me through the panic till I’m gathered safely in. I made the mistake of reading up on it and Mr. Cohen wrote it about the inmates who played the violins while their fellow Jews were marched into the gas chambers. It’s a lesson, take what you want from a song, not necessarily what the writer meant.

So Long, Marianne really is about him leaving his longtime lover. Her name was Marianne Ihlen and they spent most of the1960s together, but parted, and so it’s time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again. They must have remained friends over the ensuing decades though, because as she lay dying, he sent her a letter telling her, “Well, Marianne, it’s come to this time when we are really so old and our bodies are falling apart and I think I will follow you very soon. Know that I am so close behind you that if you stretch out your hand, I think you can reach mine.” He died a few short months after her death. Until the end, he still had love and the words to express it.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love

#leonardcohen #hallelujah #solongmarianne #dancetotheendoflove

They killed Shakespeare in the streets of Hackensack in July. They killed him like shabbily-costumed matadors at a Spanish bullfight. Few witnessed the slaughter. In fact, the killers outnumbered those who saw it.

The play was All’s Well That Ends Well, but I was quickly sure it would not end well at all. My date lived in one of the more upscale apartment buildings along Prospect. We stopped in a little tapas place on Main, shared a few small plates, drank some sangria, and pretended we were in Barcelona instead of crowded, small city New Jersey. We discussed the play, a comedy with mistaken identity at its core. It was filled with banter and double entendres. We looked forward to enjoying the play in the cooling evening. How were we to know we were walking into a murder?

The play and Shakespeare himself never stood a chance. How could he in such a noisy little park plaza in the middle of Hackensack. Cars and trucks drove by occasionally honking their horns, strollers talked loudly and laughed as they walked by us, the actors’ spoken lines were muddled, my eyes and ears wandered elsewhere. The scenery was as sparse as a bullring, the park’s semi-circular stage basically unadorned. The players barely costumed. The king had a crown, the women wore dresses, the acting just as mundane. Beautiful Helen was dowdy and cross-eyed. I did not question Bertram spurning her romantically, though he was no prize either. The few audience members were restless.

So the actors conspired and fell upon Shakespeare as he lowed his head sadly just offstage. I only stayed for a few stabs of the banderillas. He bled freely and weakened noticeably as the actors massacred him. I watched morosely, but didn’t stay for the tercio de muerte, the estocado, the final thrust of the sword bringing a merciful death. I couldn’t watch anymore. Let it end, I thought, though not at all well.

#onlinedating #middleaged #manspov

#middleageddating #lastfirstkiss #love

#shakespeare #all’swellthatendswell #williamshakespeare #thebard #hackensack