Speed Dating in My Fifties
Yes, it’s a Chiefs game, but I emailed the coordinator, and she reassured me men still signed up. I reminded myself of this as I sat in the parking lot, peeking into my visor mirror to ensure my lip gloss was perfectly twinkly.
What a faux pau… expecting to meet men during a Chiefs game but not at an event featuring the game.
Maybe I should go home. Why haven’t I added Chiefs games to my calendar?
Deep breath. Shoulders back. Squinting, I could see several people mixing and signing in as I walked through the bar to the covered patio where I expected to meet the second man of my dreams.
My knees started shaking so I slipped into a booth.
“I see a lot of pairs of dad jeans walking around in there.” I texted to my friend, my age too. Only she is way smarter than I am, she was home, pouring a glass of wine and finding the station that would broadcast the game to almost all of Kansas City tonight.
My late father preferred the Kirkland brand jeans, so I easily recognized several pairs walking around.
“Just look at it as a fun night out,” she texted, reassuring me. Her part-time job.
A fun night out… That I can do. For a while, my hobby was the first date. I got to hear his story, they were always mundanely interesting. I got a little vacation from being a widow, homeschool teacher, and mom to tweens. There was always another date, just a swipe away.
Although I don’t do online dating anymore, I still love a good story, socializing, making “friends.” Boyfriend is a ridiculous term in my fifties. Pickleball is my most fertile hunting ground, but I venture out sometimes, to places where I wear date clothes. Experiences are just as good as connections.
I like getting dressed up. I even bought a new puffer vest in black. It made my mist-soaked blonde locks shimmery. With my head held high because confidence was mandatory for a woman my age on the market, I slipped out of the booth.
Shoulders back again, I took another deep breath. Dating over the last five years gave me a depth of grit the younger versions of me would have marveled at.
A woman twenty years older breezed by exuding self-confidence. Men’s favorite in a woman. She looked so cute with leopard print leggings, cowgirl boots, a pink glittery shawl, and a water bottle.
Being potentially the youngest by twenty years is a possible rookie speed dating mistake. For sure I never want to date someone who might die on me. I didn’t like that. I still wonder sometimes if I must give CPR again, will I be successful?
The older woman waved at me… Were we competition? I returned her wave, genuinely. She smiled.
“Oh, are you with the speed dating group? Would you like a drink? I’ll bring it in for you,” asked the waitress as she opened the door for me to enter the covered patio and all my new speed dating friends.
“Yes, I’m going to need a drink.”
Now or never.
I got out my ticket, which by the way cost $25 more than the same ticket for the men. The ratio of giggling wallflower girls waiting to get asked to dance to slightly uninterested jocks never changes.
My assigned table was number five, the men would move after six minutes. Doesn’t six minutes seem like way too long?
“Well, howdy little lady, I’m Dan.” A used car salesman straight out of casting for a 1970s movie appeared before me. He even sported a comb-over and a mustardy-tan polyester suit.
Oh gosh, no thanks.
“I start at your table. Might as well sit down. Let’s start chattin’.’” He had a most tedious six-minute chat with himself. I learned about airports in Kansas City and his career as an air traffic controller. He learned nothing about me because after twenty-five years of public relations experience, creating a warm and comfortable environment for others, I can’t do it while dating. I learned that the hard way during my first two years on the market. I am not responsible for his happiness; I am responsible for my own. Therefore, he leads the conversation.
Unfortunately, he forgot to pause and ask me questions. That was ok though, because when he talked his head tilted and I could see the game in the background.
The next six minutes dragged on while Mike told me about his previous relationship, which lasted for six years. He discovered that she had been married eight times and was still in contact with each ex-husband.
That’s why I have a subscription to WhitePages.com. I do a brief search on any man I date. I learned to be nosy and careful the hard way, after dating a man who had committed manslaughter and another who had several current restraining orders. Dating in middle age is not for the faint of heart. It is a strange blend of awkwardness and insults. I choose to laugh at them. The alternative is too desolate to consider.
“I like sewing, walking, and cruising,” said my next date.
“Me too,” I answered. Suddenly I was interested in a man with way too much facial hair for my comfort. But I was here to get a gut feeling about men, not judge a book by his cover.
“Except for the sewing part,” I mean I know how to sew on a button, but nothing else is necessary in my opinion. I smiled. Not my type, but maybe he is.
We were having a great chat about cruises. The back of my mind thought that Darrell, number three, might just get the “Interested” box checked on my score sheet.
And then…
“You know why my beard is so thick don’t you?”
Not a clue I thought. Although I hoped it was clean.
“Why is your beard so thick?” I asked, playing along. Visions of beard oil and things in fancy tins and such from the Target men’s aisle began dancing in my head.
Usually on a first date when the initial conversation goes well, I step back mentally and imagine if I could kiss him or not. Could I kiss Darrell?
Reader, brace yourself.
Take a deep breath.
Then another.
One more.
If you are holding a clearish amber liquid, fortify yourself with a rather large sip.
“I like a woman to sit on my face,” he announced proudly.
“Oh? How… interesting?” Definitely NOT interesting.
“I only told you because I wanted you to know since most black guys don’t do that.”
“Oh, I didn’t know...” A cultural public service announcement I didn’t ask for.
Thankfully, our time was up.
“Well, I like reading too,” Brian, number seven said. Mostly because my acid reflux was so bad last year that I lost my ability to talk.”
“Oh? Well, I am glad you found something to do while you couldn’t talk.” Wait. Was I glad for him? I am always glad when someone enjoys reading.
I surreptitiously slipped my rating card out of its folder and wrote in the comments, “unhealthy.” I would not kiss him. Can you imagine what his mouth might taste like?
“Well, hullo, Lisa!” Date number eight sat down.
“Ah… Frank! Who said I wouldn’t connect with the man of my dreams tonight?”
We laughed. I guess I am not surprised that I would actually know someone at speed dating. How many single men in their 50s are there in the Kansas City metropolitan area that I haven’t met at a singles event, played pickleball with, or swiped right or left to?
“Why are you here? Surely, you can’t have trouble finding a date.”
“Actually, no I don’t. But I am in search of the RIGHT date.”
Frank was the first person to introduce himself to me at a singles mixer—the first in-person dating activity I did after tiring of the apps. He always greeted me kindly and made me feel welcome and not alone for the year or so that I attended the mixers regularly. But he never asked me out. That was fine. Friendship is important, too.
He had an amazing recall of my personal life.
During the six minutes of our chat, he was engaging. When I told him I have a list of qualities I am looking for in a man, he asked to know them. I liked this.
“Did your late husband possess those qualities?”
“Yes, he did,” I possibly lied. I had never thought of my list in this context before. The next day I read it through, though, reflecting on the qualities I wanted, and realized that Eric scored pretty high. Failing at only one, “His family is eager to be my friend.” Time taught me he wasn’t responsible for how his mom acted. Maybe that is why this quality is on my list.
“Well, send me the list so I can up my game.”
We went on to chat about my new neighborhood and I told him about Bacaro Primo, my current favorite restaurant.
“Give me your number and let’s go.”
I did. Why not? I was here to get a date, right?
When it was time to move, he got up and walked out the door. He was supposed to visit the lady in the cowboy boots and sparkly shawl. Our tables were empty. I waved at her, she waved back. I genuinely hoped she would find a connection. I saw her laughing with Dan-the-air-traffic-controller-1970s-used-car-salesman-man-date. Good for them.
“Well, I guess I gotta go over there,” I heard a man blurt out rather loudly. He was pointing at my table. Originally, I thought him a potential match. Cute, athletic, in his fifties. But sometimes humans open their mouths and the ambiance crumbles.
He sat down and didn’t make eye contact. That was ok with me, it gave me the opportunity to see that the Chiefs were now down seven points.
“What do you like to do?”
“I like pickleball,” I responded. Ready to discuss one of my favorite topics. Everyone has an opinion about pickleball.
“Oh, I don’t like pickleball. I like tennis, it is more competitive.”
“Ohhhkhhhaayyy.”
“What else do you like?”
“I like to read.”
“Well, I don’t”
As a precaution from crossing my eyes, I allowed them to wander over his shoulder. I took another little peak. The score hadn’t changed, but I trusted the Mahomes and Kelce duo. Then my mind followed my wandering eyes and I wondered if their dads were single?
“What do you do for a living?”
“I am a writer.”
“I don’t like writing.”
“Really? Surprising.” I peeked over his shoulder again at the game. In fact, at this point I was just watching it. We came into tonight undefeated at 7-0. The Buccaneers were 4-4. We had to beat them. Three-peat (winning three Superbowls in a row), here we come.
“Well, ok, ummmm… It was so nice meeting you.” I said, getting up before our six minutes was up. Maybe Frank had the right idea.
“I do like playing judo though” he said.
I stopped and leaned forward, bracing my hands on the table. “Playing judo? I’ve never heard it said like that. Judo, like karate? You play it?” I believe the proper term is practicing judo.
Oh, no, I started English teachering—as my son says—him. My son says boys don’t like that.
“Well, I do like the judo books that I am in. I don’t really read them though. I used to compete.”
“Nice,” I replied, pushing myself into a turn towards the door, choosing the second half of the winning Chiefs (fingers crossed) over his “judo playing” conversation.
~
“Did you get chosen?” my sweet friend inquired the next day.
“Yes, by four men. The first one I really liked but he is sixteen years older than me. One was unhealthy, and you know how I feel about that.”
“What about the other two?” she asked.
“Ummm… I don’t remember them.” Wow, how can I have already forgotten? The dangers of senior dating.
I guess my vitality didn’t pass muster as a beard-conditioning potion because Darrell didn’t choose me.
And then there was Frank. He didn’t turn in his scorecard, but he had left me a voicemail. I wonder if I will call him back?
“So, how was speed dating?” asked my barely 30-year-old physical therapist the next day. He was truly interested. I loved my sessions with him mostly because he was fun to talk to and he didn’t blame my shoulder injury on pickleball, but on moving houses last summer.
“Dismal,” I moped and then told him all the things.
“You loved it,” he said. “I can see it on your face.”
I guess I did. Maybe I will sign up again after the holidays.