I filled several OS posts with my sadness at the end of my marriage and my longing for someone to share my life with. I’ve joined online dating services with no luck in meeting anyone locally. I’ve railed against the tendency of men my age to date younger women and bemoaned the invisibility of older women in our youth-obsessed culture. I’ve envied every woman who’s visited the gallery with an attentive, intelligent man in tow. I’ve wished for someone to go with to a concert or a club so I can say I have a social life. 

And guess what? I was wrong. I’m really not that interested in 90% of what I’ve been wishing for. 

“Be careful what you wish for; it might come true” has now become fact for me. An un-attached, nice-looking man in my age group did find his way down my gallery stairs last week and - omigod - asked me out on the spot. I was so flabbergasted that I agreed, pretty much instantly. I had enough conversation with him to be sure he wasn’t a sociopath, and I chose to go to a music club as opposed to dinner, which seemed a little safer. But yes, I was thrilled, to say the least. 

Oh, there were warning signs, like the fact that he boasted of being a “dyed in the wool conservative,” and that he talked nearly non-stop about himself. Well, I was willing to overlook some flaws, just to be able to say that SOMEONE asked me out. Desperate, yes, I would say so. 

But he was very complimentary, which is something that every woman wants - please tell me I’m pretty!!! - at any age. When you’ve waited for compliments for over 5 years, that was a deciding factor. And he seemed interested in the gallery and what I do. OK, it was worth a shot. 

So the first date happened, and it was fine. I told him ‘no politics’ so that we wouldn’t be at loggerheads right away. And he respected that request. Nothing untoward happened, he paid my entrance fee and bought me a beer and we had some pleasant, if impersonal, conversations. Very gentlemanly, as I would expect from someone my age. But as we talked, I realized more and more that we had nothing in common, and we had no future together. I think all women make that determination pretty quickly, since it’s the future that we think about. When I was younger, and still had hormones, I knew within a half hour if I wanted to sleep with a guy, and an hour if I wanted him as a boyfriend. But as an older woman, the competing imperative for me was, ‘male company at any cost.’

Or so I thought. 

He is an engineer, here temporarily on a project, so he has a rotating schedule of long hours on the job and long hours off. I didn’t see him for a week, and started to have some doubts. But I kept reminding myself that we could just date while he is here, with no strings, pleasant company, that’s all. No need to vett him for boyfriend material, much less husband.  And he is clearly interested in the same pleasant company role from me, someone to watch football with at the local sports bar (though I hate sports bars and football bores me), someone to go with to concerts and clubs, dinner, movies (more in line with my interests)… yes, there was a brief mention of going back to his rented house afterwards, but I ignored that since we had only spent a few hours with each other so far. 

Hmmm. Yesterday, he called and I dropped in to the sports bar that he frequents here in town to see him. I knew he wanted me to stay for the evening, but I had a very real and urgent reason not to do so. I’m on deadline for an upcoming craft show, the biggest event in my busy season, and I’m madly making things to fill my booth. I can’t hang out with a guy, drink beer and watch football, even if I wanted to. So he tried to convince me. Copious compliments. Getting me into conversation to keep me there longer. Talking about how we could watch the game at his place so we didn’t have to stay at the bar.  And then his ultimate strategy, his offer of backrubs and breakfast. 

So there it is. Why do men think that pancakes with maple syrup and some inept shoulder kneading is an effective come-on for women?  I was instantly creeped out, though I tried to hide it. I made a joke about it, and rolled my eyes at him, and then he told me I was “precious.” Gag. I made my escape quickly, trying not to show my revulsion. 

Sex with a stranger, clumsily offered. The funny thing is, when I had hormones roaring through my veins, I would have done it without the pancakes. But it’s ‘been there, done that, so not interested’ for me now.  I mulled over that revelation all last night and realized that there IS a reason that men my age date younger women, and it’s a damn good one. Sex for me now, sans estrogen, has to include trust, patience, delicacy and gentleness. Not with someone who is looking for arm candy and short-term wad-shooting. Not with someone who thinks of me as “precious” without having the slightest idea of who I am. Not on your damn life. Go find yourself a 30-year old and don’t waste my time. 

So here’s the bottom line, I will be 60 next month. I don’t look it, but biology doesn’t lie. I’ve had all the risky sex I’ll ever want (and probably lots more than him) and don’t need to tolerate someone’s cheesy jokes and boring interests to fulfill a hormonal need. I don’t need to endure invalidating comments and empty compliments to make my life worthwhile. I may someday find a partner, someone who wants to share my life and honor me with his respect and intimacy.

It’s far more likely that I’ll run across men who haven’t gotten past frat-boy come-ons and an obsession with the conquest of the next pretty girl. I think I can wait. I think I can do without. I think I’m doing just fine on my own. I’m just not that desperate.