Online dating became an option for me somewhere around my 60th birthday.   Maybe it was the idea of starting another new decade without a romance in my life.  Maybe it was all the crap I get from just about everybody (except my wildly protective and possessive son) about how "humans are not meant to be alone." 

The final push to sign up on Match.com came when a friend of mine emailed to tell me she was engaged to a rich New Yorker she met on Match.  In addition to acquiring an instant family of grown children and even grandchildren, Gwen was getting a penthouse on Central Park and a home in Santa Barbara!  Holy moly, there's hope for me yet, I thought. 

I immediately signed up for a 6-month subscription and began the tedious process of crafting a profile that made me seem alluring, interesting and fun, but not desperate.  I had heard enough horror stories about horny guys who cruise the net looking for hard up old ladies they can easily seduce. 

The airline pilot emerged from the very small number of men who hadn't ruled out the possibility of dating a woman  older than 28.  His photo showed him in profile at the controls of a Delta Airlines jumbo jet.  He listed his height as 6'2" and his age as 63.  I always thought those pilots were pretty hot in their uniforms, and most had sexy microphone voices.  Hmmmm.

After several weeks of emails I sent him my digits (see how hip I am?) and accepted a phone call.  The voice?  Check.  Urbane?  He certainly seemed so, on the phone anyway. On the first call he cracked a whole series of pretty funny pilot jokes, and I genuinely cracked up.   A red flag floated into my consciousness during the second call when he began the same delivery of the same jokes in almost the identical order as the first time.  But hey, he was probably just nervous, I soothed. 

On the day of our introductory dinner date he called to confirm and later called to report he was caught in Atlanta's infamous traffic and would be a little late.  He called again as I  drove to the restaurant to give me an update on his progress.  What a gentleman, I say to myself.

He's standing in front of the restaurant in a bright red Oxford shirt and khakis.  We are standing face to face and I'm wearing 3-inch heels, which put me at 5'7".  We are also eye to eye.  He's 5'9"... if he stands on his tip toes!   Okay, he's not the first man to exaggerate his height, but Strike One!

He had smiled at me as I walked toward him to reveal the teeth that weren't visible in his profile photo.  They had the appearance of a row of yellowish pickets, widely spaced.  Red flags were waving in my mind's eye; sirens were sounding and that sinking feeling swept over me.  Uh oh.

The elegant restaurant in Atlanta's trendy Midtown area was close to empty because of our rather early reservation. That would turn out to be a very good thing. 

 We sat at a fairly isolated table and began the painful process of starting a table conversation.  Before I knew it he had launched into his pilot joke repertoire for the third time, and at one point mentioned that he was 67 years old.  Strike Two!

Just as I started to mentally plot my exit strategy, Mr. Wonderful began to tell me how virile and youthful he remained.  Had my expressive face given me away when I realized he had lied about his age, too?  He was telling me about his still-quick reflexes and was using his water glass to demonstrate.  Intentionally bumping the glass, he reached with his right hand to catch it before it fell off the table.  His chair tipped to the right as well. The nimble fly-boy tumbled out of the chair and landed with a loud thud on the floor.

Now whenever I tell this story, the listener begins to howl with laughter and insist they would have done so had they been there.  But, me?  I'm extremely empathetic, so I felt sorry for him and, given his "advanced age," worried he might be hurt.  Laughter was not on my radar.  Escape definitely was.

He was fine, but completely undaunted.  He righted the chair, re-set the glass and proceeded to repeat the demonstration, sans the pratfall.

Not only did I not accept a second date; I also went straight home and deleted my Match.com account.  Surely, there had to be a better way.