After a few years of navigating widowhood, the women in my grief group encouraged me to get back “out there.” I decided to give Match.com a try. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned a financially and emotionally secure, 60-something professional with interests in the arts, fitness and travel.
My profile summarized “a smart, fit, attractive widow seeking a kind, committed life partner.”
I believed I had a good chance at finding love again. L.A. is a big city, and although I was in my early 60s, I looked and felt 10 years younger than I am.
In no time, I was receiving emails from a variety of men. However, several disappointing meet-ups later, I realized that the men I most hoped to attract were looking for someone 20 to 30 years younger than I am. So I decided to relax some of my parameters, especially regarding age.
In his profile, Howard was an active 74-year-old with a lot of hobbies, including biking and skiing. However, the day we were to meet in Santa Monica, I observed a man, with a decisive geriatric shuffle, attempting to cross a very busy Ocean Boulevard to the west side of the street where I was standing.
I had been waiting there for Howard, who was already 40 minutes late. The light turned red, and drivers started laying on their horns attempting to warn other drivers of the man stuck in the middle of the road. With his head lowered, I couldn’t see his face or cataract-cloudy eyes until he reached my side of the street. To my surprise, he turned to me and said, “Hi, I’m Howard!”
He had to be mid-90s! I decided that the date needed to end quickly to save what was left of my Sunday, but I didn’t have the heart to just end it right there, on a street corner, after he had driven an hour and braved crossing a busy road to meet me. After all, he was probably someone’s grandfather. I served up my most gracious self for an hour and a half, but I pumped the brakes on my sympathy when he asked me to pay for the ice cream sundae he ordered at the corner.
Not all my online dates lied about their age. There was Randy, who, instead of taking my extended hand, grabbed my hand and whipped me into a back-bending dance dip. Thank goodness this was at a Starbucks, where several people watched, because I was shocked by his aggressive impulse.
Fred Astaire he was not, and when he realized that I didn’t fall for his charm, he began to cry. (No, literally!) He said he realized he blew it with me, so now he’d just tell me his real story. I was definitely not interested and began to leave when he yelled to me, loud enough for everyone to hear, that his bipolar disorder was triggered by his ex-girlfriend, the one who used to spank him.
The final straw was Jerome. We knew each other for 10 whole minutes when he said that I was going to fall madly in love with him by the end of the night. All I had to do was have sex with him.
Fortunately, I never heard from Howard, Randy or Jerome again. Likewise, I never heard from dozens of other men whose profiles appealed to me online, but either they proved to be the Grim Reaper or ghosted me when we were to meet. On Dec. 31, as I sat alone on my couch watching the ball fall in Times Square, I promised myself that I would never put myself through that kind of dating humiliation again.
Several days later, I notified Match that I was canceling my membership, but per the contract, I had to pay for an additional 30 days before my cancellation would take effect. During those 30 days, I deleted email prospects without even viewing them. One week before cancellation was final, I read one (last) email out of curiosity. It was from a man named Carlo.
Carlo’s profile was different. He came from humble beginnings. He worked his way through college and came to the U.S. on a student visa to pursue graduate studies. Not the least bit self-absorbed, he shared some of the trials of his own widowhood, which struck a chord with me.
He said that he was pretty discouraged with his online search for a serious relationship and was planning to move back to Italy to be closer to family. I was intrigued by his candor, so I answered his email. And in no time, we had our first conversation, then our first date.
Coincidentally, we met on the final day of my Match subscription, Jan. 31.
I suggested we meet for a mid-afternoon coffee, but just as I was about to suggest Starbucks, he said, “Anywhere but Starbucks!” Dang! That had always been my safe harbor for first meet-ups. But rather than search Google for cafes near me, I threw all the dice, amped up the stakes and suggested we meet in the elegant lounge of the Culver Hotel in Culver City.
Carlo and I spent hours sharing our personal stories, until we noticed it was dark outside. Before we left, I excused myself for the restroom. When I came out, Carlo was waiting for me in the hallway. The hotel’s high-fidelity sound system was paying homage to Glenn Miller’s big-band music.
Spontaneously, Carlo grabbed my hand and spun me around in a perfectly executed dance move that ended with me cradled in his arms. The difference between Carlo’s dance move and Randy’s was like night and day. It was also the moment everything clicked.
We are still in Los Angeles but regularly visit Carlo’s family in Italy. As a matter of fact, we exchanged wedding vows nine years ago in a gorgeous Italian villa overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. We often muse over the fact that we were both letting go of our passionate search for love around the same time, which led us to our momentous meeting. We were simply squeezing the dream too tight.
The author is a retired insurance broker. She lives in the South Bay. She’s on Instagram: @charm12374
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