'So, what's your five-year plan?" the mental health nurse asked me, without any sense of irony. Which would have helped the situation, given that I wasn't his patient but his date. Indeed a first date and one that had just gone ferociously from the realms of "Have you seen The Revenant?" to "Where do you see your life in five years' time?", at which point I nearly spat my crab linguine all over his bad jacket.
I share this anecdote about my delving into the online dating world in order to remind myself that humour is the only way to keep this surreal world in perspective. At 52, two years down the road from separating after 20 years with the same man in my life, and the mum of two teenage children, I must admit that my dating websites are just a bit mad. There is no getting away from it. But friends have been telling me, over and over – “it’s time”.
As if it’s some rite of passage that just has to be gone through once the sitting up all night, snivelling into a Sauvignon phase has passed. So, like most women my age, I sat up into the early hours of the morning, Sauvignon still in hand, writing a profile, putting up pics, handing over money, and hoping to God, as I pressed upload, that no one I knew would see me.
Within minutes I got “likes”, “winks” and a couple of emails and I must admit to laughing out loud. Getting a little bit of a thrill like someone had just asked me to dance at the disco. Until reality hits. This is no disco. The men who like me are, on average, 65, look rough as hell as they pose topless in front of their bathroom mirrors. Or, at the other extreme, have endless photos of them skiing, skateboarding, skydiving or scuba diving and telling me how active and adventurous they are. Where are the 50-year-olds who are just like me, I ask myself? Why aren’t they popping in to say hello? Because, as I am soon to find out from their profiles, it looks as if 99 per cent of them are only looking for women under 35, who are “happy to have casual sex”, “are in good shape” and who “look good in a LBD”.
This is when I realise that dating online at my age is not only like visiting a foreign country for the first time, there is a whole new language to learn too. LBD is "little black dress" (oh please), but then there was a whole other list of acronyms to come to terms with. B&D, SWS, FWB to name but a few. Thank God for Google. Then there were the technical terms: pansexual, sapiosexual, heteroflexible… And to think I had struggled with Little Black Dress.
The next big issue to deal with was lying. I had decided from the outset not to lie. Real age, weight, recent photos, the lot. I had been warned by single girlfriends about the lying giveaways (and yes I know, women lie too). If they wear sunglasses in all their photos, liars. If they have only one photo, liars. If they say they are 49? Liars – they are definitely over 50. If they say they are in an open marriage? Liars – they are players. Widowed at 45? Liars. “Within days I am a cynical, self-pitying, single-for-life saddo myself and, therefore, destined for nothing but me and my Sauvignon future.
Until I dare to go on my first date, that is. Miraculously, he is my age, three years divorced, works in advertising, decent looking; although he has a bit of an overattachment to cycling Lycra – a common indicator of a Sminor (I am now even making my own acronyms up: separated males in need of a ride). Again, I had followed all my pals’ advice and not “chatted” online too much, arranged to meet for coffee in a public place, told a friend where I was going, whom I was meeting as well as everything I knew about him so far.
I felt sick before we met at the coffee shop, but when Mr Lycra stood up, smiling, and thankfully not in Lycra, gave me a peck on the cheek, it all suddenly felt okay. Three months later we are inseparable, planning a week away together, he has met my kids, regularly sends me flowers, can handle the menopause word, doesn’t mind that I haven’t had a boob job or Botox, and may even meet my mother. Lies, more lies.
We actually had two dates; on the second one we snogged, I fell into a whole fantasy about the joys of having a bf, until I got the silent treatment and was finally told by text that he didn’t want to commit. In other words, I was dumped. Chucked, as it was in my teenage day, which seems more relevant, given that I had been acting like a teenager.
So, I got grown up. I manage to weedle out the 50-somethings, and even late 40-somethings, and go for a few more coffees. And a few wines. I had a picnic in a park until sunset with one guy, went to a gallery with another, talked about bird watching with one and meteorology with another. I had a couple of dates with an osteopath who told me what gorgeous gastrocnemius muscles I had, but that my sartorius needed stretching. I kicked his gluteus maximus before he could go any further.
But I soon realised that these guys were all starting to remind me a bit of John Noakes from early Blue Peter days. Which really is a generational reference, sorry. Fun and interesting, in their own quirky ways, but not people that were really going to rock my world. One or two got close to shaking it a bit, but then then ran a mile. They crave adventure and fun, still want to climb the highest mountain or drive the fastest car, and yet they also want to be loved in a cosy-jumper, walk-the-dog, you're-my-best-friend sort of a way. While still targeting an audience of young ones who are in awe of mountain-biking heroes.
However, like so many others, I hang on in there. Maintaining my sense of humour and sense of perspective. My kids know that I am daring to date again, otherwise I probably wouldn’t be writing this article. They are vaguely embarrassed, but also get that I need to move on to happier times.
Which is the other reason why I pen these thoughts. Because although I wish that there were other ways to meet people, I am glad that I am dating online now and want to encourage other menopausal mams to do so. It has been a learning process. I have learned not to become obsessed by it, I have learned to err on the side of caution with some, and throw caution to the wind with others. I instantly block the half naked, cowboy hat-wearing Texans (really) or 22-year-old Cougar-seeking weirdos, and I have gone from wearing my heart on my sleeve to tucking it away and bringing it out slowly and with dignity. I have also learned to feel confident about myself as a woman again, something I will never find in Sauvignon, nor endless box sets of The Good Wife.
The hardest thing to learn, however, is that I cannot be dependent on dating to find happiness in life. I knew it as a young thing, and I am reminded of it again as a much older thing. As much as a desire for intimacy, adult company and passion is normal – and to be celebrated – dating websites have been a sobering reminder that I need to plan for this next stage in life as an independent being. Enjoying time with friends, my children, my work and so on.
And if someone who “winks” at me turns out to be someone who could join me on that journey, then of course I would “like” that very much.
