Of Mice and Men

Newsflash.

I did meet a guy when I was traveling last year. I only told six people about him, in case it didn’t work out.

Boom clap.

If he’s reading this right now, he knows who he is. Hey, what’s up? Thanks for haunting my dreams.

I was attending a conference in Tampa, and he and I were the only two lunatics in the gym at 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. We exchanged hellos, watching each other peripherally, and I figured he was there for the golf tournament. The resort was teeming with gorgeous tan silver foxes, some with wives and families in tow, some stag. They completely commandeered cocktail hour, filling every bar stool and all available floor space with their loud playback on the day’s golf. Their cacophony fused perfectly with the more staid-nature of our conference, and happy hours got pretty rowdy. It was tremendously fun.

But that night I bumped into him at our farewell cocktail reception, as he was attending the same conference I was. We talked, and as my brain began to melt like a bar of surf wax on a hot surfboard, I had to force myself to focus on what he was saying, while my brain started ticking off boxes: gorgeous, successful, single, father, Catholic, Italian, conservative, check, check, check. I excused myself to the ladies’ room and hid in a bathroom stall to text a friend.

Me: What do I do? I really like this guy, and you know how picky I am!

Her: Calm down. And try not to be…YOU.

Me: O.k. Wait, wha?

Her: Act like you’re normal, someone who is open and receptive to a relationship.

Me: I am normal.

Her:

Me: Fine, I’m not normal, but I’m receptive as fuck.

Her: Try not to pick out his faults.

Me: I’m not doing that.

Her: You do it with every guy.

Me: I do not.

Her: Come on, you had to have found something wrong with him by now.

Me: Nothing. He’s perfect. I already miss his face.

Her: (Pause). Then get his number. And jump him.

Owing to the professional nature of the conference and logistical complexities involving roommates, I did not jump him, but I did get his contact information. We stayed in constant contact over the next few months, and I remember the exact day that we were like, yeah, let’s go for it. One thing led to another, and…

So much for checklists. Serves me right.

I couldn’t close the deal. Not from reticence on either of our parts, not even from lack of trying, just from the shittiest, stinkiest, most excrementally bad timing that has ever been.

I left no stone unturned. After all, I’m a problem-solver. Give me the problem, and I’ll help you come up with a solution. I didn’t get through the last three years without being able to stay calm, act rationally and take proactive steps towards success. We agreed we would make it happen, we agreed that it was meant to be, but fuck if it wasn’t.

The best laid plans of mice and men….

I think of him every day, and I wonder. Did we miss an opportunity? Did we fuck up? Was it miscommunication? Was he a player? Did he think I was?

But I always go back to the same theory: The Universe has its own timing, it doesn’t give one rat’s ass about yours.

Tinder Tailor Soldier Spy

Don’t ever knock Tinder. It’s fast, effective, and no-frills, and the men are real. From my perspective, that of targeting men in the age range of 55-70 in specific parts of the country, there are six kinds of men that appear on my feed.

Adam Scotts. These are foreigners who for whatever reason use two first names in order to sound American. I’ve met Tom John, Pat Tom, Ryan Bill, Doug Joe, Mike Doug, John Jay, and recent strange geographical combinations of Memphis Lewis and Tennessee Jones. Their clothing is just impeccable enough to be un-American, and they post pictures of themselves wearing Spandex shorts while running on treadmills. They are always good-looking, so I try to give them the benefit of the doubt, but their syntax and grammar reveals them immediately. American Tinder guys will say cool stuff like, “You have a hot vibe,” while Adam Scotts say things like “Nice to meet you, can we be friends on this platform?” and “I like how you look, can I get to know you?” I’ve also been getting a lot of “that wonderful” and “how you?” and “you look so good.” Adam Scotts immediately want to know where you are, and you picture them standing in line at Dubai International Airport, ready to buy a boarding pass. I’m not ready for international Tinder.

Fuck Boys. These are hot guys with loads of gumption, players looking for something specific: ooh-la-la on the side of their marriage, a steady travel partner, a Saturday night dinner date. One FB desired a weekend date in Chicago for a benefit in November, another asked for “a buff bitch to climb El Capitan with, and to climb me after” (gotta love the audacity). They want specific physical types like “tall and statuesque, or don’t swipe right,” and immediately unmatch you if you don’t meet their specifications. It’s quite refreshing to not have my time wasted. I couldn’t be tall and statuesque if my head and feet were put into a taffy-pulling machine.

LTRs. These guys are divorced two years and want a long-term relationship. They promise to spoil you, promise to bring no drama, and are willing to relocate. They pose next to other people’s airplanes, Ferraris, and yachts. Nice sometimes down-and-out guys just looking for a nice woman.

**SNMNK. Single. Never Married. No Kids. SNMNKs often post pictures of themselves on motorcycles while holding cats, seemingly unaware that the picture is a sure-fire anti-woman cock-blocker. Have fun being celibate. And never married and no kids? What would we talk about, Netflix and ramen noodles?

John59s. They have no information in their profiles. They are simply John, 59, and are just good-looking enough to pique your interest. They tend to write like 16-year old boys, their messages lacking capital letters and punctuation and sometimes taking days to arrive.

“hey”

John59 asks for your real number, “in case something happens to this site.” They proceed to text you for a few days, things like, “whatre you up too,” and “how was ur day,” and “where do you live again”, ostensibly getting bored that you’re not sending them nudes, and suddenly stop texting. You will miss the excitement.

Tinder Tony. Tinder Tony looks like a ski instructor, a white-water river raft guide and a big wave surfer combined into one. With a mouthful of pearly whites, Tinder Tony is always doing something exciting and adventurous, and messages you every day to let you know what. My Tinder Tony messaged me that he was leaving for a trail run.

“What’re you up to?”
“Golfing,” I said.
“Oh,” he answered, obviously disappointed in me.
I scrambled, wanting to make him happy.
“I mean, I use a pull cart and a lot of the course is uphill.”
He seemed to cheer up.
“Well,” he messaged, “that’s good cardio I guess.”
When I told him yesterday that I was going on a boat ride, he asked me what I was doing off of it.
“Off of it?”
“Yeah, like are you skiing off of it, fishing off of it, boarding off of it?”
“Drinking off of it.”
“Ah. Well. That’s cool I guess.”

Tinder Tony says he is 55 but looks 35 and offers to give you back rubs if you get sore from your adventures. He’s gonna message you when you’re in town and if he’s around you can do a trail run together.

Tinder Tony is exhausting and you hope he meets Tinder Tina on his trail run so he doesn’t make you go.

Tinder Men. So wonderful.

*the meanness of this took my breath away, and forced me awake at an atrocious 4:30 a.m. instead of my usual distasteful 5 a.m. I went for the easy laugh. So short of deleting it, which I won’t do (if a writer deleted everything that made someone mad, they’d be publishing blank pages), let me say I would never imply that there are SNMNKs out there who don’t have colorful, interesting lives. To imply anything else is just inaccurate. But I stand by my insight: not sure I would have anything in common with an SNMNK, because how would he ever understand the devotion I have towards my boys? Change my mind.

Man-Snacky

I am Man-Snacky. I used to be Man-Starved, so be happy for me.

I love men.

Hungry-Like-a-Wolf lean types like Jason Statham and Robert Downey Jr. World-weary cerebral types like Dr. Jordan Peterson and the late Arthur Miller. The adorably insecure like Paul Giamatti and Kevin James, the intense professional coaching studlies like Doug Pederson, Nick Saban and Rep. Jim Jordan, motivational leaders like Tim Grover and Grant Cardone, dialed-in political pundits like Tom Fitton, Lawrence Jones and Sean Hannity. And please let’s not forget the “Dude, I Could Crush Your Windpipe With That Little Useless Nail of My Pinky Toe” types like Eddie Gallagher, Joe Rogan, and Jocko Willink.

(Oh, and Jim Cantore stands alone. He couldn’t get more beautiful. If you are reading this Jim, I really was just contacting you for an interview. You didn’t have to block me like I am some kind of psycho-stalker bitch. Despite your rejection of my advances, my admiration for you has not diminished. Moving on…)

Plumbers, lawyers, cowboys, pilots, soldiers, teachers, entrepreneurs, tall, short, round, lean. I love them all and all the cute guy stuff they do.

So much cute stuff. When they roll their shirt sleeves up. When they read off your menu. When they love their mothers and their dogs, scrape the ice off your windshield, practice their golf swing, text you to find out if your flight landed, the way they look when they stand around in a group of guys at a wedding. I swear I could die from the cuteness of all of it.

Oh, and if a guy has gray hair and peers at me from over his reading glasses?

Marone. Bring on the smelling salts.

Cute guy stuff kills me. My chronically-sick late Hub was not exactly forthcoming in offers to rub my feet or fetch me hot cups of coffee, what with just trying to survive and all. Some of that cute man stuff I miss like crazy, some I never had at all. When you are a caregiver for a chronically-ill spouse, no one cares if your flight lands safely, or if there is ice on your windshield. No pity required, it was what it was.

So this is my pilgrimage. My crusade. My yatra, my hajj, my peregrination. I will dedicate the next twelve months (don’t hold me to that timetable, this is a big world) and meet as many men as I can. Climb mountains with them, hike with them, sail with them, dinner, martinis, coffee, concerts, dancing, golf, tennis, sex, whatever it takes to find someone to discuss hemorrhoids with when I’m 80.

But this process must be streamlined, the excess fat trimmed. Not only must I ensure that I am exposed to only men I find desirable, the opposite must also be true. I’m confident, but not so vain that I think I’m every man’s type. Men who like those baby carrot women should move along, as well as liberal men who don’t like conservative women. Men who prefer women to make all the moves and decisions, and who post pictures of themselves wearing masks in their cars must know that I’m not their type.

My male kryptonite? Toughie, but exceptions notwithstanding, I find that with ninety-nine percent accuracy, I am dubious about and probably would not be attracted to men who: Excessively garden and “keep” cats (a distinct difference from men who have a cat at home). Who wear strange hats, water shoes or Crocs. Who have yellow or crooked teeth, with the accompanying bad breath. Who are afraid to cross a street without a crosswalk, or to ride a bike without a bicycle helmet (outside of an arduous workout or race). Who are unfit or unhealthy or conversely, twig-thin or consumed with diet. Who have little to no sense of humor. Who are younger than me or make less money than I do. Who don’t know what to do with my body in bed.

(It’s a tough list, you might think, but I say fuck off. It’s my list. And it’s not even complete).

I’d also like to meet one man who doesn’t use any variation of the following line: “Cold in here?” Yes, my nipples are erect, but it has nothing to do with temperature or my “arousal” at the sight of you. When I had a breast reduction the doctor moved my nipples, rendering them immune to the normal physiological reactions to heat, cold and arousal. They’re always erect, you infantile junior-high man-children.

So where can such vetting occur, you ask? What place can possibly get me to a man who shares my interests, goals and physical requirements in such fine detail? Where can this sloughing-off process begin? There is only one place where algorithms are fine-tuned and precise, where a clog-dancing Zoroastrian rocket scientist can find same, where you are guaranteed to have a date in every city, and where hook-ups are de rigueur.

Tinder Passport.

Find Me a Find

I just paid a total stranger $250.00 to tell me I’m too old to attract men my age, not young enough to attract a millionaire, and not QUITE fit enough to attract a guy my age looking for a fit girl.

“But I am fit,” I told her. “For Christ’s sake, I workout every day. I climb mountains, I ride horses, I paddle board, I bike, golf and play tennis. How fit does any man need any woman to be?”

“You are fit,” the matchmaker answered, looking coyly down at our seared brussel sprouts appetizer. “You’re beautiful, and accomplished. But guys on those platforms want a woman who is, like, SUPER fit.” She speared a sprout, and pretended to look at my profile on her laptop.

Ah. I got the implication. I was doing all the right things, the fun active stuff guys like women to do, I just wasn’t doing them as a size 2. I looked her over slyly. While I appreciated her honesty, I knew our professional relationship would not progress past the consultation fee.

These women who think everything comes down to being tiny always look the same, and the matchmaker I had hired was no exception. Built like a twelve-year old boy, all angles and hypotenuses. Her skin sagging on her fake tan, her dark thinning hair lacking the nutrients required to be thick and lush. Ignoring the food between us, but urging me to eat it, the implication being that my “large girth” needed to be fed often to maintain its size, like the Hungry Hippo game. Every single personal trainer in my gym looks like this, and they sincerely believe that this is what men want.

We know differently, don’t we? We women with boobs, ass and hips that fill out those tight black cocktail dresses know differently. We know men love our curves, and It’s a wonderful knowledge to have, making it difficult to take tiny androgynous women seriously.

“Honey,” I said sensually, as I rose from the table and leaned over to give her a great view of my ample cleavage, “let’s meet at a bar. Dress your sexiest, and I’ll dress mine. We’ll see who has a guy panting first.” As I turned on the heel of my stiletto, I looked back and flicked my cigarette at her, and watched it land perfectly in the middle of the brussel sprouts. “Eat up,” I purred. “You need it.”

(O.k., this didn’t happen either. It’s my brief stint at the romance novel genre).

Men want curves, and life, and skin, and sexuality, and warmth, and vitality, and laughter, and openness. At least, the men I am attracted to want this. I can’t speak for the men who are attracted to tiny boyish women, because I’m not attracted to them either. I once read an essay that explained these couples. It was entitled “Stick-Figure Women and the Men Who Love Them.” (JK- this is not the title of the essay. I don’t remember the title).

The premise of the essay was that by maintaining a stick-thin appearance, a woman can dispel of any notion that tends toward sexuality or wantonness, therefore ensuring she will not be sexually desired, or bothered with any unwanted or unsolicited sex act. Because really, what man would desire a baby carrot?

(I know all you baby carrot women out there are not deterred. You still think you are the feminine ideal, no matter what society says. I say that’s good. Every woman should be 100% sure that she is the most desired woman on the planet).

Simultaneously, the man is proud of his woman’s boyish stick-thin appearance, even gladly giving up a vital sex life for the pride he feels when appearing with her in public. “My tiny wife,” he seems to say, “doesn’t even need to eat. My wife is in control.” Then often, this same man will seek sex elsewhere, many times with a curvaceous desirable woman. The essay even went so far as to imply that men who desire tiny women desire them due to their child-like physical appearance. (“Look, I married a Hobbit!”)

(Sorry, this got creepy at the end. Don’t get mad at me, I didn’t write it, I’m just a blogger. I promise to look through my textbooks and find the title, if anyone is interested).

My matchmaker went on to say that my impossibly high standards could be another hurdle to finding a good match. She had clicked through her entire client roster, and I had nixed every single guy.

“What are you looking for?” she asked. “Who is he?”

He’s educated, intellectual, athletic. Spiritual, religious, sexual, and romantic. Funny, pensive, intense, discreet, open. Caring, protective, healthy, accomplished. He has his own family, his own dog, his own health insurance, his own portfolio, his own friends, his own activities, his own American Express Platinum card. He’ll care for me, but not smother me. He’ll protect me, but applaud my individuality. He’ll condone my faults, but put me in my place when needed.

He’s Tony Stark.

She was a nice woman, and did her best to sell her services, all of which I demurred. I suggested that if her only male clients were men who wanted the super-skinny and the super young, she should at least put that on her website.

“No, no, Mary,” she said. “You’ve misunderstood me.”

And you I, I replied. And when I rose from the table, I thanked her for her time, and told her to contact me if she ever needed advice on knowing what men really want.

Theories of Attraction

Malcolm Gladwell and I have been conducting extensive research on how men and women actually get together, and we have decided that there are three main theories.

(So I have not actually worked with Malcolm Gladwell, but I feel this is a project that would interest him).

The Sunflower theory. Sunflowers grow best in direct sunlight in nutrient-rich soil. Ever wonder how all of these gorgeous young people get together and make gorgeous babies? By hanging out together in the direct sunlight in nutrient-rich soil, i.e college campuses, bars, workplaces. They barely need to work at it. They get together because they’re young and vibrant, they all hang out in all the same places where there is an abundance of choice, then come together as couples and agree to be exclusive in order to perpetuate the human race. This kind of coupling can last forever or eventually lead to the Mismatched Socks theory or the Upgrade theory.

The Mismatched Socks theory. A marriage or relationship ends, due to breakup, divorce or death. And the instant it’s over, single parties look around and grab onto the first breathing sentient being in proximity. Consider a basket of mismatched socks, socks with no mates. It doesn’t matter if one is silk, the other cotton, one striped and one polka-dotted, as long as they both stop at the ankle or come to the knee, the rest is redundant. The most important thing is to NOT BE A SINGLE SOCK. Years later, the socks look at each other, and think, “Fuck, we don’t even MATCH.” No duh. These relationships are either doomed, or last forever if the participants think it’s just fine and dandy to not match.

Upgrade theory. Men are lucky. They age fantastically, and they know it. So when a man’s spouse dies or he decides to seek a new marriage, if he is attractive, accomplished and even slightly wealthy, he will seek a younger beautiful woman. And younger single women, sometimes even saddled with young children, are attracted to these older men- these gorgeous silver foxes are financially stable, steadfast, sexy. Tickled pink at the discovery of each other, they get married, and each has what he or she wants.

Until they don’t.

She’s young enough to still be attracted to the fun-loving men her age, and begins to resent her older husband’s grouchiness. She wants to go out, he wants to stay in. He starts to become annoyed by the noise and activity of her young children, and resents the time the children take away from his time with his new young wife. His life begins to revolve around their activities and sports schedules, and he thinks with longing about his old life- 36 holes of golf, Sunday football in front of the television, trips ANYWHERE else than Disney parks. But he’s stuck. He made his bed, and must lie in it. One day, seeing this couple in public is no longer a source of envy. Quite the contrary. You congratulate yourself once again on the ability to remain a single sock because now he is just this old guy getting yelled at, and they both look drawn and pissed. Maybe one of them moves on, to upgrade again. But where does it end? When is someone enough?

(This is not just theory. I have seen this scenario time and time again, up close and personal. Older men who marry younger women, and wish they could take it back).

Then there’s the rest of us. Not old, but too old to be young. No longer moving in a pod of eligible mates. Saddled with high standards. Hating dating sites, but horny as hell.

It occurs to me that maybe I’m lucky as I begin my search for a new relationship. Men my age can attract a woman 10-15 years younger. Good for them. But I look 10 years younger than my age, and while men in their forties are attracted to me, I am attracted to silver foxes in their sixties, and if especially vibrant and brilliant, even up to 70.

You would think that with all the opportunities that abound in this technological age to get laid, people wouldn’t be walking around horny the way they are. But everyone I know wants sex, but isn’t getting any. Or they don’t want it from the person they’re married to.

By the end of the year, I’m hoping I won’t be just “The (Not) It Girl,” but the “Getting It Girl.” Think good thoughts, and wish me luck.

Man Up

Career paths I have considered in the three years since my husband’s death:

Instagram fitness influencer, retail clothes manager, famous novelist, travel writer/blogger, writing consultant, podcaster, receptionist, paralegal, Ph.D candidate, adult escort, CEO for a non-profit, tutor, home-school teacher, bookstore owner, mailman, flight attendant, life coach, travel company owner, pet groomer, baby elephant orphanage keeper, animal rescuer, adult home-carer, and most recently, the Yankee Candle lady who glares at shoppers and reminds them to please not pick the jars up by their lids.

I pester real estate agents to show me buildings that I have no intention of renting, attend seminars for franchises that I have no intention of purchasing, and fill out applications for Ph.D. programs in which I have no intention of enrolling. I bought an expensive mic for podcasting, have had five different sets of business cards made-up, and post so many different flyers around town advertising so many different skills that I am surprised when people contact me for random consultation work that I forgot I offered.

Yeah, sorry, that was Patricia.

A year ago, I would have scoffed it off to indecision. You know, the Hallmark channel widow who is able for the first time in her adult life to take the time to figure out what her life’s purpose is. But that would be overcomplicating what I have finally realized is my top priority at this juncture in my life. Because as a retired high school teacher and empty-nest mom, there is only one thing I know to be completely true.

I’m ready for love again, but not in the way you think.

Please advance to my “Man-Starved” entry.