I am 63 and single, and I am, of course, looking for Mr. Right.
Somewhere out there is the perfect man for me. He’s smart and funny and honest and kind. (And, with any luck, a really good kisser.)
Even though a man like that is hard to find, especially for a woman in her 60s, all the books and fairy tales tell me that he exists. I just need to locate him.
Of course, I’m not just sitting on my hands waiting for him to stroll through the door of the library where I work and rock my world. I’ve taken action! I’ve posted my profile on dating sites. I’ve asked my pals to introduce me to their age-appropriate single friends. I once even consulted a local matchmaker who set me up with two terrific guys.
Unfortunately, both turned out to be Trump supporters. (I said “Mr. Right,” not “Mr. Right Wing.”)
I’ve definitely put myself out there. I’m playing the match game. And? I haven’t found him yet.
Not to worry. Kiss enough frogs, I’m told, and I’ll find my prince.
And so? I’ve been kissing frogs. Plenty of them. (Metaphorically, of course, which is to say that I’m not going to lock lips with someone the first time we meet for coffee. A courtship needs to last longer than a cappuccino.)
I’ve had great getting-to-know-you phone conversations and numerous coffee dates with some very nice men. And, despite all the horror stories you hear about online dating, everybody I’ve met has been well-behaved and respectful.
Best of all? Nobody has ever sent me a photo of their tallywacker, for which I remain very grateful.
Still, Mr. Right remains elusive.
I’m probably not putting enough time and effort into this quest. I’m too busy living the perfectly pleasant life I already have. I love working at the library, walking and swimming, writing essays, and spending lots of time with family and friends.
I particularly enjoy being a grandma. There isn’t a man on the planet whose company I’d prefer to that of Benjamin Maxwell Smith, aged 10 months.
Not only is it hard to find the time to find my prince, but I’m not entirely sure I should. Life is pretty good without him.
And the truth is that, so far, I’ve had a lot more fun snickering with my sister over some of the more ludicrous online dating profiles, photos, and come-ons I have encountered than I have dating any of the dudes I did take seriously enough to meet. All of whom were very nice guys who will make some woman very happy.
Just not me.
I know. You can’t catch a fish if you don’t go fishing.
Of course, my more cynical friends have told me not to bother. “The guys you find online are all liars and cheats and creeps,” they insist. “If you want companionship, get a dog.”
But what if the man of my dreams is really out there?
I can picture him now. Clever. Creative. Bookish. My soulmate! He’s posted an online profile and is waiting for me, his perfect companion, to read it so that we can meet, fall madly in love, and live happily ever after.
He’s rejecting other women right and left because it’s me that he really wants — a 63-year-old librarian who used to blog for the New York Times, swims an hour each day, can make him think and make him laugh, and who’ll love him truly and well, but would actually rather live together than get married. (And who just happens to be a really good kisser.)
All I have to do is find him. But? I never quite manage to get around to it.
I could be combing through Match.com profiles to connect with potential suitors. Instead, I’m playing with my grandson. I could be going to meet-up events for local singles. Instead, I’m working on a new essay. I could be spending an hour fine-tuning my online profile. Instead I spend that hour drinking coffee and schmoozing with my good pal Amy.
And so? Happily Ever After never happens. My true love and I are not growing old together. We are growing old apart.
Ah, well. What I don’t know won’t hurt me.
On the other hand, if you’re the kind of guy who longs for a woman who is too busy enjoying her life to search for you … get in touch.