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Dating and Working Online.

Written by: Deborah Kimmett

Article Overview: Dating online is like going to Costco for mayo and coming out with a year's supply of turkey.

Dating and Working Online.

It’s hard being 50. It’s even harder being 50 and learning to date again.

It was easier when I was younger. I could go anywhere. Now I have to go to places that have good lighting. When I was young I was musical. I dated drummers. I am not trying to name drop, here, but I dated the lead singer from Ambush. Correction. I exaggerate. I dated the singer from the cover band, Almost Ambush.

I saw him recently at the World Music Festival in Inverary and I realized that even if he had remembered me I wouldn’t be attracted to him at this point in my life. And it’s not because he’s bald on top or still has a mullet. Or that he’s still driving a motorcycle . . . without a helmet. It’s just that I heard him speaking and I realized I didn’t know what he was talking about. All he did was talk in metaphors. He was a poet, and let us know it.

See, musicians are obscure. Take Bob Dylan, for instance. Would you be able to have a conversation with Bob? Or Leonard Cohen. I have fantasized about Leonard for years, but really, can you imagine living with him?

You’d say, “Hey honey, what do you want to do today?”

And he’d be, like, “First we take Manhattan and then we take Berlin.”

“What? I thought we were going to the Cat Centre?”

I don’t just sit at home and think about unsuitable men for me during this period of my life. No, I think about unsuitable men in other eras, too. Who would want to hook up with Henry VIII? The eighth old man, I am Henry would have made me lose my head.

And Shakespeare? Speaking in iambic pentameter would be impressive for a while, but then he’d always have ink stains all over his fingers.

What’s really got me going on about this is that I did some Internet dating recently.

I was on the site plentyoffish.com for a while. For people not plugged in, I’m not joking. There really is a site by that name; the regulars know it as POF. They have a similar site for librarians called plentyofmicrofiche.com. You don’t have to know your password; just a Dewey decimal.

On POF, you post a profile letting people know what kind of person you are looking for in a relationship. For instance, you can say you want dating, chatting or a long-term relationship. My favourite category is “Other Relationship.” This is for the cheaters who are making no bones about it. Check it out. Your current partner might be on it. Not that you could tell, necessarily. People create a pseudonym, or a handle, a lot like CB radios. Your moniker has to convey the right message. I was going to call myself, “Who says Flannel isn’t Sexy?” or “Smells like Vicks Vapo Rub.” I chose “Too Old to Take Your Nonsense,” but it was already taken. So I finally settled on “Looks Younger Up Wind.” They must have thought I was kidding, because I got a flood of “you’ve got e-mails” from men I didn’t even know I was looking for. It’s a lot like shopping at Costco. You go in for mayo and come out with a year’s supply of turkey.

The men have a lot in common. They put pictures of their car and their house on the site. And they want a woman who isn’t into head games. Oh darn; where’s the fun in that? They want to take long walks and chats by the fire. Well, I don’t need a fireplace. I have hot flashes regularly.

And they all want smart, easygoing women. FYI fellas, there is no such thing as an easygoing 50-year-old woman, at least one who’s not in a coma.



And finally, men want sexy. Women must be sexy. For example, the shirtless man with the C-cup breasts wants sexy. Don’t we all? Women want sexy, too. Online dating is a lot like the Sears Wish Book. We all want the Malibu Barbie, but what we get is a wool sock doll with buttons for eyes.

There are two ways friends react when they hear you’re dating online. First, they look at you like you’re pathetic, with that look that says, “Has it really come to this?” Then they hug their husbands very tight and whisper, “Please never leave me.”

They’re worried that you might meet a serial killer. The men that I attracted were so old that the only thing they killed was a bowl of cereal. What’s with the many heartbroken widowers carrying on about their dead wives? Talk about baggage! Yes, “Lost in Oakville,” I’m talking to you. It isn’t flirting when you keep telling me your dearly departed wife has a nice ash.

Once friends are assured of your safety, the second thing they like to report is that they know a couple who met and got married online.

OK, who are these people? What are their names and where do they live? Because, like the story about finding the rat in the fast-food burger, I think there was one couple, one rat, and it was built into an urban myth.

How to assess whom you want to meet was beyond me. At what point do you say, “I’d like to meet this man who I am texting. There’s something about his well-placed exclamation point. Only a sensitive, caring man would choose a font like that.”

I guess I became a bit jaded. I thought I had something going with this one guy, and when we said we’d meet, I said, “Look, if there is anything I need to know about you, please tell me now because I don’t want to be surprised.” And he said, “Not much. I’m on an iron lung. I am waiting for a double lung transplant. Do you mind?”

Do I mind? Maybe I’m fussy, but I like my men to have both their lungs. Of course I mind! It’s called dating, not palliative care.

I’m a person who makes bad choices face to face, let alone in cyberspace. I think I could attract insanity from outer space. If aliens landed on my lawn, the crazy one is the one I’d want. “Hey! You with the probe! Park your space ship and come in for a drink.”

I’d probably be easygoing at first, then likely I’d be mad that he landed on my lawn at three in the morning. I’d be out there in my flannel, smelling like Vicks, screaming, “You come and go as you like. You traipse through my house, dripping your alien goo all over my clean floor!”

So I took my line out of the water and stopped fishing. I am happy just to spend my lonely nights listening to Leonard Cohen reminiscing about Suzanne.

Yes, there is one man who still writes to me. So far, it’s really quite romantic. He calls himself Life without Parole. So far, it’s working out very nicely.

Besides being a humorist, Deborah Kimmett is a motivational speaker who inspires groups with presentations through her company, Wit with Wisdom. She is also an author and a regular performer on CBC Radio.

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Article Tags: ambush, bob dylan, drummers, eras, first we take manhattan, good lighting, helmet, henry viii, inverary, lead singer, leonard cohen, metaphors, motorcycle, mullet, musicians, nbsp, old man, poet, rsquo, world music festival



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