I’ve been thinking about men lately. Not any man in particular, although I won’t lie, Colin Firth is never far from my mind. Even though he recently played the creepy guy in The Staircase, I think I could overcome that if I bumped into him in No Frills grabbing for the same zucchini. No, I have been thinking about the ‘idea’ of men, or A man lately, as in, do I want to explore the idea of adding a man to my life. Here’s the dealio; on March 19th it will be six years since my husband Bob crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. I know the Rainbow Bridge is for pets, but he loved our cats and I kind of like the idea that he’d be hanging out with them. Although if there actually is some Great Beyond theme park that goes on for infinity and offers whatever the dearly departed loves, then I know exactly where he is…the cosmic bar that carries every known single malt scotch ever distilled.
Bob in Heaven
So, it’s taken me an awfully long time to get to the point where I think I might be even slightly interested in dipping my toe into the murky, pest-infested waters of the dating pool. And when I say, dip my toe, I mean my toe will barely feel the water, it might even just be my toenail that skims the surface, but then my toenail would need clipping because if it hits the water first, it’s too long, I have a thing about toenails, I’m getting turned off this whole idea just talking about toenails, why are we talking about toenails, who brought up toenails, for God’s sake stop talking about toenails! This was a bad idea, forget I ever mentioned anything about men!
You see? I can freak myself out so easily because doing this now, after spending 30 years with someone is a lot different than back when I was, say, 19 and had just burst out of my cocoon. All the parts were shiny and new and nothing needed greasing or priming or re-wiring. It was all so fresh and thrilling, like the best ride at the fair. I’m 64 now and I can tell you that the Tunnel of Love ride has a sign over the entrance that says Closed for Winter. And not a regular winter, more like a Game of Thrones winter. I think to get it open again and in good working order I’m gonna need a Ferrari Grand Prix pit crew.
The thing is, I thought that if I was ever going to meet someone new, I wanted it to happen organically. That’s right, I would like the man to be grass fed, raised without anti-biotics and have access to an outside pasture. But obviously many years have passed and nothing organic has materialized. And I’m so reluctant to get back on the proverbial dating horse because I feel it will be filled with mortifying awkwardness and embarrassment. I worry it could be a lot like this:
Last year I was babysitting the stupidly adorable grand-puppy Roxie and we were at the little dog park not far from me. There was a man there who had a newly rescued dog who was quite timid, but she was awfully sweet, and she and Roxie started to race around playing dog games. As I was standing talking to him, I thought to myself, gosh, if I keep looking at you, I think I might become attracted. A few minutes later I was throwing the ball for Roxie, which means that after the second throw, I’m the one who fetches the ball because she’s already found an attractive new butt to sniff. So I went to pick up the ball by a tree, and wound up to throw it again and it’s possible I may have been trying to impress my new dog friend with my fantastic form and power, which means I might have swung a little too hard and tilted off balance a bit so that when I moved my left foot to try to steady myself, it was jammed up against a big root of the tree and that was it, I was going down. It happened so fast all I had time to think was ‘Thanks for everything hips, it’s been good to know ya.’ And then I landed hard on my left butt cheek. I mean I landed so hard that for the first time in my life, it knocked a little bit of pee out of me! After a few seconds I could hear some commotion from the other group of people, I weakly yelled ‘I’m okay, I’m okay’ but I just couldn’t move. When I finally opened my eyes and looked up, standing there with his hand outstretched was the kind man that I found attractive. Now I’m thinking I could really REALLY like you! But I’ve peed my PANTS, so I just wanted to hightail it out of there as fast as I could harness the stupidly adorable dog and get my massively bruised butt up and moving! I also worried that he might think he was just helping a doddering old lady who had fallen and couldn’t get up! It is possible he was way too young for me but I figured if Tina Turner could do it…however, Tina Turner may not have peed her pants when she first met her current handsome much younger husband…and let’s face it, I’m no Tina Turner. So, I thanked the helpful man, and then I hobbled home with Roxie, changed my underwear, and never saw him again. And that’s what I sense dating might be for me; insecurity and fear, punctuated by embarrassing pratfalls and uncontrollable urine.
The aforementioned stupidly adorable dog
Here’s the other issue that I’ve been chewing over for a while now- What kind of man am I looking for? I never thought of that before because I didn’t have to. I was much younger when Bob appeared and lucky for me he was the exact type I was looking for. But now, more than 35 years later, I feel maybe I should figure out what’s important to me. So, let’s start with the obvious…
MUST BE FUNNY! This might be a deal breaker. My now departed husband was a spectacularly funny human. There were times I was in awe of how fast and clever and hilarious his brain was. But from my experience, there doesn’t seem to be a huge supply of this type of specimen.
Pleasing to look at. You might say, ‘Well that’s shallow!’ Maybe, but unfortunately, my shallowness runs deep. Look, I’m not a supermodel…I’m not even an aging supermodel…but remember, I was called Hot Grandma by a young drunk in Manchester last summer, so that must count for something.
And I think it goes without saying, that he must be kind, and loves to listen to long rambling stories with no discernable point, because, as my friends will claim, that’s the only kind of story I tell.
But I have recently realized, that due to my age, this man needs to be a combination of many other things. For example, he should be, or have been a doctor, preferably a GP, so if I have a heart attack he can start CPR, but I’d like him to also have a side hustle of plastic surgery, I mean, I wouldn’t turn down a little nip and tuck here or there, but also he definitely needs to be a psychiatrist, because, you know, he’s got to live with me, plus maybe have all the trades including mechanic for obvious reasons and finally he should be gay but confused, so there’s not too much pressure on my Tunnel of Love.
There we go! There’s my perfect match. I am apparently looking for Super ComboMan! Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m sure Bumble has that one perfect guy who’s funny, attractive, kind, a GP, plastic surgeon, psychiatrist, plumber, electrician, mechanic and gay. I think I have a better chance of finding Colin Firth in the produce section squeezing cantelopes.
I wonder if he knows about plumbing?
Photo credit:
Colin Firth by Gage Skidmore, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
