Speed Dating After the Age of 50
From Menopause to Klingon
Happy Weekend, everybody. Welcome to another essay about mastering life in and after menopause by . Have you been wondering what it can be like dating after 50? Well, here’s what she experienced and what she learned. Enjoy.
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The change of life hit me like a brick wall, and Mr. Depression came with it in full force.
I don’t know how long I wallowed or how I knew that it was time to haul my butt off the couch and put myself back in the game. But I knew.
And so I did. And when I did, I quickly realized that the game had changed.
In my twenties and thirties, I limited my dating universe to people I had seen, met, or conversed with in person.
Not so upon my re-emergence from Menopause.
In my fifties, it was a New Age, where instant messaging had replaced the telephone, online meetings had replaced offline meetings, and singles events such as speed dating had replaced, “Hi, my name is…”
My dating life had become sparse during my time as a Hormonal Hostage. Any man who did come near me would soon be in hasty retreat.
He suddenly had to get up early (which they never do), run a space shuttle (even if there wasn’t one to run), or suddenly remembered that his Aunt Millie was going to be on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,” and he was her lifeline.
To say that I wasn’t meeting enough eligible singles was an understatement.
So, when I finally went fishing for Prada, I decided to take advantage of this enlightened era and modify my outdated dating habits from ‘must be in my same generation, zip code, and time zone’ to ‘must be a carbon-based life form from Earth, somewhere between legal age and social security.’
This leap began with speed dating on a Monday night at a chain nightclub. Since speed dating wasn’t around in the eighties when I last dated, here it is.
Twelve men and twelve women sit across from one another for a designated time. You chat, the buzzer sounds, and the men move on.
You each mark yes or no on a scorecard, and when you look up, you are faced with a different man, and the ritual begins anew.
At the end of the evening, everyone turns in their cards to the hostess, and the following day, those with mutual yeses are contacted for future dates.
It’s that simple.
In preparation, I had spent the afternoon at one of my favorite place: The Mac counter in Santa Monica.
It is here that Raul, with his utility belt of brushes and sponges, dabbed some Racey Red here, splashed some Peach Zinger there, and voila, from Midlife to Milf in less than an hour.
When I arrived, a long table littered with confetti was against the lobby wall, and paper Mache hearts hung from the rafters. Nervous chatter mixed with Phil Collins drifted from the bar.
I was greeted by the Hostess and given a name tag with blue lettering:
Hi, My Name Is — and instructed to fill in the blank. This was followed by receiving a scorecard and directions to “mosey over to a table, grab a seat, and get ready to meet the man of your dreams.”
I briefly wondered: How would she know who the man of my dreams was? I didn’t even know who he was. I was still in a casual relationship with Mr. Depression and had only switched from Bonbons to frozen yogurt two nights ago.
I was still working on becoming the woman of my dreams.
I made my way to a chair and occupied myself with the contents of my miniature handbag: Tic Tacs, cell phone, lipstick, and Blockbuster card.
My first man approached: tall and lean, with chiseled cheekbones and olive skin.
For a moment, I imagined lacing my fingers through the curly blonde locks that adorned the top of his head. He reminded me of a straight Chippendale dancer. He sat and flashed a razor-sharp smile; then, he spoke:
“nuqneH.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“It’s a traditional Klingon greeting.”
“Oh.”
At that moment, I decided I would not date a man over 40 who speaks Klingon.
Next.
“You have great arms. Your biceps are amazing. How do you do that? Me, personally? I’m on a strict diet. Not Atkins, not South Beach. Not The Zone. I’ve created my own diet.”
Is he suggesting I need a diet?
“Oh. Are you a nutritionist?”
“No. I like to look good.”
He paused and arched an eyebrow in my direction.
What was he waiting for? Confirmation? Admiration? Affirmation?
“It’s called 4LA Diet — or Four Latte A Day Diet. Get it? It has two meanings: For LA, like LA the City, AND 4 Lattes. That’s good, huh?”
“Clever.”
“But, you can’t just diet alone. I work out three times a day: weights, abs, and a core workout. That’s on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I switch it up on Tuesdays and Thursdays, with cardio; biking, treadmill, you know. Then I slow down on the weekends, mountain biking and jogging. Like, this weekend, I’m doing a marathon. 26.2 miles.”
He leaned back in his chair, flexing his abs in my direction, in what I assume was his impression of a uterus.
A date with him would consist of steaming hot tofu and a sweaty night on the Elliptical Machine.
As I sit in my Sydney Frank patterned chair, butt cheek squished firmly against Julius’ nose, I reminisce about the days of traditional pickup lines such as:
“Girl, you gotta be tired coz you’ve been running through my mind all day?” or, “Help, something’s wrong with my eyes — I just can’t take them off you.”
The buzzer sounds, we exchange courteous smiles, he moves on, and we mark our scorecards.
Next.
“I have my own business writing and directing movies.”
“Awe sweet. I watch tons of movies. Have you done anything I would have seen?”
“I did Charlotte’s Web of Desire and The Bitch Who Stole Christmas.”
“Oh. I don’t know those. What genre are they?”
“Adult Entertainment in Claymation.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Sometimes, things melt or fall off, but it’s easy to whip together another one. I hope this is a stepping stone towards creating real art — like good old-fashioned porn; a little girl-on-girl action, if you know what I mean?”
Why would I know what he means?
Next.
“Hi, my name’s Spike. This is my first time Speed Dating. My friends thought it was time I got back out here, and here I am.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Spike.”
“I’m from Kentucky. I just moved here a few months back for work.”
A Southern Gentleman. And he’s gorgeous — all 6’5” of him.
“I’m from Oregon originally. A country girl at heart. You can take the girl out of the country, but, you can’t take the country out of the girl; or so they say.”
He remains silent.
“So, is that a nickname?”
“Is what a nickname?”
“Spike? Is Spike a nickname?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Another silence, this one slightly higher on the awkward pause meter.
“How’d you get it?”
“Get what?”
“The nickname? How’d you get the nickname of Spike?”
“I gave it to myself because of my — you know, my member. I’ve been told it’s like a spike.”
Mental note: do not date men who bestow their own nicknames.
Spike was followed by Mr. Faux Mohawk Man, Mr. Black Cloak Man, Mr. Leather Chaps Man, and finally, Mr. ‘Big Balls’ by AC/DC is my Song Man.
Somewhere between man six and man twelve, my mind wandered back to my freezer, and I wondered if I had Karmel Sutra or Buried Treasure in there. Whatever it was, I hoped it wasn’t Fat-Free.
Fat-Free had been a mistake.
Then, I had a moment of clarity. I sat up straighter. My skin didn’t feel weary. My eyelids felt lighter. My hair didn’t hurt. Mr. Depression was gone.
I pushed my chair back and drug my fabulous fifty-something ass home, alone, but not lonely, to Ben & Jerry, two perfectly good men — who were waiting for me — in my freezer.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel anything but joyful when I plunged my spoon into the entire carton sans bowl, plopped my butt on my couch, and tuned into Seinfeld.
I learned a few things that night:
I learned that I didn’t need Fat Free. I was a vision of beauty — not airbrush magazine cover beauty — but the beauty of a 50-something woman who has lived long enough to know what works and what doesn’t in things like hair, makeup, clothes, food, and exercise. And has the confidence to embrace it.
I didn’t need 12 men. I had me, and I knew that ‘me’ was enough.
And…
I learned that dating was much simpler thirty years before when the Terminator hadn’t been governor, and I didn’t need to know Klingon.
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.... klingon ..... 😂
Thanks, this funny.
I laughed out loud in multiple places. I just turned 60, broke up with my boyfriend of 2 years and might be done with dating-for awhile anyway. Thanks for the laughs.