Recently I've had occasion to go out on a few dates and I've come to this conclusion:
Dating at 65 sucks and was never part of God's plan!
I mean just the word "dating" is weird. It conjures up images of nervous teenagers working up the courage to face rejection, holding sweaty hands, desperately trying to fill conversational gaps, and hoping to avoid a concussion during a clumsy good-night kiss.
...all of which perfectly describes my last date!
Of course there are significant differences between my teenage dating experiences and those of a more recent vintage:
1. Typically, teens aren't concerned about their dates' political affiliations. As a 15-year-old, I can't remember ever asking Ada how she felt about the minimum wage or China's monetary policy. It seems like one's political point of view gains importance during "mature" dating escapades. On one recent outing, my date proudly proclaimed, "I wouldn't mind if someone took a shot at that damn Obama."
My response: "Check, please."
Down in these parts, it's almost impossible to find a woman who happens to share my politics so I've had to develop my own sliding political scale (please forgive the inherent male chauvinism here...or not!) :
average looking: must be a Democrat
fetching: Independent or totally disinterested in the whole stupid process
drop dead gorgeous: don't ask, don't tell...Would you care for another glass of pinot noir, my dear?
2. I remember that shaving was a huge problem when I was a teenage dater. At 15, I wanted to be known as someone who had to shave but that meant that I had to shave before the date, which would inevitably result in numerous bloody cuts all over my face, which necessitated the use of little pieces of toilet paper stuck to said face to slow the blood loss. It took real dedication for Ada to look beyond those scattered pieces of bloody toilet paper to see the real me.
Nowadays I just grab the latest generation of Gillette's Mach 6 double turbo mega razor and zip zip, my face is as clean as a whistle and hardly bloody at all.
Of course, at 65 there is the problem of nose and ear hair but I have my valet, Clive, to deal with that unpleasantness.
3. In 1963 there were very few options available in terms of where to go on the date. Basically it came down to either the Morton or Oriental movie theater (I preferred the Oriental with its Buddha statues high along the upper walls and its cloud effect across the ceiling), or the local bowladrome followed by a romantic dinner at the Almont Pizza House. What I wouldn't give now for a slice of Almont's famous pepperoni. I still have sores in my mouth from trying to eat that pizza while it was roughly the temperature of summer on Mercury. Believe me, nothing impresses a date more than melted molten cheese sliding down the side of your mouth while you're grabbing desperately for the water. That will seal the deal every time, take my word for it.
But aside from the odd dance at the YMHA-Hecht House, that was basically it: movies, bowling, pizza. It was an endless loop that somehow we never tired of.
At 65, there are many more options available to me, especially down here on the Panhandle. For example, there is The Ocean Club, which features food, live music and dancing. Or there is The Red Bar, which features live music, food, and dancing. Or there is the Solaris dinner cruise, which features live music, dancing, food, and a boat.
And all of the above accept most major credit cards.
4. An appropriate segue to our final dating difference category: money.
At 15 it was understood that I would be paying for all expenses incurred during the date. I mean that was implicit in the very request for the date in the first place. When I asked Ada, "Would you like to go out with me?" what I was really asking was, "Would you like me to take all the money I made working slavishly at the Waverly Pharmacy last week and spend it on you for bus fare, movie tickets, three strings of candlepin bowling, a very hot pepperoni pizza, two sodas, and an ice cream sundae at Brigham's?"
Each date depleted my life savings to zero. If I didn't garner enough hours at the Waverly Pharmacy the next week to make the date financially viable, well, it was wait 'til next week.
Nowadays, dates never cost me "everything." They are barely a blip on my credit card statement, a way to get air miles, paid off each month with a quick, unthinking key stroke.
They will never again be as important, as weighty, as they were in 1963.
Never.
Ain't life grand?
J
