A Middle-Aged Widow’s Open Letter to the Man Who Thinks He Wants To Date Her
Dear You,
On Dating Again
Putting aside the state of my lady parts for a moment, the rub with the whole middle-aged dating thing isn’t solely because I have become used to a single way of life. Even in my youth, I was never in a bra-clutching state looking for a mate.
I was, and still am, able to take myself out to dinner without the protection of a good book. Able to do the supermarket run amongst cozy couples thrashing out what to have for dinner. Able to sit at my dining table with a place setting for one without a fat widow tear bouncing up from my soup. Most of the time.
It’s not even I worry my grown-up children will object to my dating again. It would be a bottomless carafe of entertainment for them. Men voluntarily negotiating the complicated menu which is their mother? Cue hilarity.
No.
It’s more whether I have the appetite for it all again. You know, whether I can be asked.
On Some Dating History
A few years after my widowed state, five men have wanted to date me. Five if we’re still counting the one who could only enjoy fluid relationships. Deciphered to mean he wanted the freedom to enjoy anything that moved.
I had night terrors imagining these potential dates abandoning half-caff, double foam lattes to run screaming into oncoming traffic. Or dates suddenly remembering heart bypass surgeries they were late for. Or men who “enjoyed a challenge” then not enjoying it quite as much as they thought.
Although, an American cousin of mine did tell me that on the US dating scene there it’s perfectly acceptable to just abandon dates you weren’t enjoying. Yep, acceptable midway through dinner to excuse yourself, go to the restaurant bathroom and climb out the window. Or, if dining al fresco, to jump over the manicured hedge whilst your date went to the cloakroom to fetch the coats. The takeaway for me was not to wear tight skirts or good coats on first dates.
On the online dating scene here in the UK, a girlfriend and I, made curious by copious amounts of Prosecco, recently downloaded a dating app — Unhinged I think it was called. In our age bracket, one Lothario was a “50-something single ready to mingle.” It was hard to reconcile this bold if clichéd statement with the tousled, half-asleep-looking man slouched on his bed in a Halloween costume. We stopped swiping in any direction after twenty minutes, wondering if our dummy profile plea for “No psychos, please” was always destined to attract a certain type. Not sure, but I curled up tight into the sofa wondering if it was me or the Prosecco overthinking things.
Five men, who without the guidance of friends and family (my friends and family), have wanted to hold my hand and walk around the playground with me.
Now here you are thinking you’d like to do the same.
On Me
Born in the sixties into a big family, I worked in local government by day, and am now a passionate business creative having escaped that corporate cubbyhole.
I am also a writer, photographer, walker, cyclist and perfumista. An avid reader, I enjoy arts and culture, and love to waft around art galleries and museums. I could spend 24 hours a day in these places, closely followed by fabric shops where I could happily spend 28 hours.
I was going to put a list here of favourite TV, film, books, music and art. Designed of course to mislead you into believing I am one of those admirable people who can whittle a lifetime of cultural choices down to a core few. I am not. The list ended up at 500-strong — in each category.
Personality-wise, I’m something of an extroverted introvert. I love people and am curious about their motivations. I’m gregarious and fun-loving and never balk at public speaking gigs. I’m a riot. I’m also an introvert. An introvert who can only be ‘on’ because of the sustenance I get from being alone. This can be confusing for those who don’t know me well. My intimates put up with this side of my nature for only so long before storming my apartment doors with those concrete bolster things the police use; or smashing through my windows SAS style hurling tear gas bombs at my head whilst blasting cold water at my MacBook Pro.
On the looks front, I’m still an attractive black woman, I think. I haven’t recently been stoned in the street as a witch, a measure I find as arbitrarily useful as any other. Physically fit, (I walk everywhere), I carry at least 2 stones over my ideal weight. This is due in part to the breast cancer pills I had to take for a while, and partly because I came off an exhausting 40-year diet. On the breast cancer gig, I am clear and grateful.
My hair is Peter Pan or condemned-prisoner short, although I used to have very long hair. However, with a three-hour drying time, I went rogue some years ago and cut off “all that good hair” and never regretted it. It suits my face shape, which is prosaically round or charitably heart-shaped.
My lady gate hasn’t completely fused over, although like holes in ears you do have to keep the thing open with a piercing or two. Bananas come in handy. It’s also not so much a Brazilian down there as a Namibian. Namibia is one of the ten driest countries in the world behind Sudan, I believe. Being said, my lady purse is somewhat fashionable if grown women with bare pre-pubescent parts is still in vogue. Mine got there by default when the hairs took a date-night vote to travel south. To Brazil probably.
I’m comfortable in my 5’ stature, but prefer tall men. My husband was around 6’,4.”
On Him
I won’t always bang on about my late husband, but no narrative about me is complete without him. If my ride on the love island merry-go-round ends with him, I will consider I haven’t done badly at all. Maybe that’s the rub of dating again? The sure knowledge that this man will be a hard if not impossible act to follow.
There again, I’m not expecting you to open doors for me, stand up when I leave the table or offer to take my coat, but those things were a turn-on in him. Raised-right, good old-fashioned New England manners. For sure, a faction of the feminist community is now hailing a taxi to come burn down my bedroom curtains, but I’m a woman of my time and that woman finds certain courtesies attractive.
My husband wasn’t around for my breast cancer drama, but this man knew how to take care of me when I was ill. He’d fetch medicines, scrambled eggs and cold compresses. He ran hot baths and changed bedding as I cried into soapy bubbles. He negotiated my workplace, friends and family and shielded me from cold callers. He cooled rooms down or warmed them up on a fever whim. He found spoken word books for me or played my favourite recordings of the ocean. He touched my forehead when he thought I was asleep, pulled the covers up to my neck, tip-toed out of the room and closed the door quietly. He would check on me an hour later.
Know though, I am a strong woman able to do most things for myself — as I did when my husband was alive. Indeed, he once told five burly Lifeboat men we didn’t need help carrying a six-person sofa up two flights of stairs.
“S’okay,” he’d said, “the wife’s home.”
On Them
But no matter how strong I am, my children prefer I don’t do “daft things.” They consider carrying six-person sofas or pushing a table under the loft, putting a chair on that table and then a ladder on the chair to hoist myself into its inky innards doing “daft things.” They’re just trying not to lose another parent early, I guess.
Yes, I am a mother and stepmother to four feisty grown-up children, each occupying this earth and my soul in their own inimitable and inspiring ways. They are like four jigsaw pieces who have each cut out a different shape in my heart where one can’t take the other’s place, but together make my heart whole. If these humans were not related to me, they are people I would choose to spend time with. They, too, are as essential to my core narrative as breathing is to air.
Would it be a problem if they didn’t like the look of a potential mate? Yes. Not only have I come to trust my own instincts about life and people, these guys are also pretty good sniffer dogs. If they smell a suspect package, I would at the very least have to stop and do a bag check. Like I said, my children prefer I don’t do daft things, which may include doing you.
On You
The question of you started to pop up around year five. “Are you seeing anyone?” was no longer considered a crass or too-soon question for my widowed state. Although these were not sentiments which troubled one advice-giver who thought I should get back out there straight away. They meant well, but I drew the line at scouting for talent whilst walking behind a hearse.
So the thought of you never comes to mind really until thrust upon me by the outside world. Occasionally, I see a rom-com which makes me think it would be nice to face some of life’s slings and arrows with a partner by my side. There again (spoiler alert), I have come to enjoy my life without the complications of another person’s needs. Gosh, have I become emotionally selfish? And is An Emotionally Selfish Extroverted Introvert a thing?
Clearly, to have reached this far in my narrative, you possess a strong stomach, a sense of humour or morbid curiosity. All points which are in your favour.
On you, I guess I may have wondered:
What traits you like most in people and the country you last visited;
A favourite quote and whether you forgive or forget;
The song which can always get you onto the dance floor and the last time you cried;
Your bravest moment and if you’ve ever been in love, and how you knew;
Your relationship with the truth and the name of a treasured book;
Whether you smoke or have ever flown a kite;
Your sexual appetite and how you pronounce the word ‘scone;’
How you switch off and whether your parents are still alive;
If you’re fashionable and ever experimented with illegal drugs;
Your personal goals and if you own a dog;
If your glass is typically half full and if you prefer a bath or a shower;
The nicest compliment you’ve ever been paid and if you like cooking;
Trump or Obama, Leave or Remain;
Whether you’d go to bed on an argument and how you feel about street buskers;
Your go-to fruit and your attitude to money;
If you like children and your worst personal habit;
Roses or peonies and the last time you laughed out loud;
Your shirt size and how you feel about alternative lifestyles;
If you can ride a bike and have any superstitions;
What board games you play and if you like open fires;
What you’d do if granted one wish and whether you had a happy childhood;
If you’re a colour or monochrome person, cornflakes or muesli person and whether you like Persian rugs;
If you’re an early bird or a night owl, monarchy or republic;
Your timekeeping habits and if you’ve ever carved a pumpkin;
If you can speak Italian or ever owned a pair of Crocs;
The last time you spoke to your best friend and whether I’d feel safe with you.
Other than that, you don’t come to mind at all.
On Us
With a busy life, and more years and experience behind me than ahead, these thoughts on dating again are without frills or façade. There is no time for the time-consuming games of youth, which would only send me running to your closest competitor — being some late-night jazz, a glass of wine and a good book.
One of my best friends summarised my thoughts on dating as:
“So, you’re basically saying, Mel, you don’t mind a man spending time and money on you with the odd dinner, drinks or theatre date, but want him to know from the get-go you’re not looking for any long-term meaning and that you’re emotionally unavailable anyway as you don’t believe relationship lightening will strike twice in your lifetime.”
If you have to put it in that bad-sounding way, I thought.
However, it wasn’t always thus and, who knows, I may not feel this way forever, but then “forever” is like fake news, not to be relied upon.
So, yes, that is probably what I am offering you. The you who this will not be enough for. The you who midlife is looking for a full-time, proper partner.
And I now realise that can’t be me until the loss of him and dating again doesn’t make me want to climb out of a bathroom window and run screaming into oncoming traffic.
Yours sincerely.
