Sleepless in San Jose

On-line dating as a 60-something widow is not for the insecure. It is incredibly hard on the ego to be judged by how you look at a time in your life when earlier generations were allowed to be “done with all that,” as my mother used to say. The new normal is not looking your age.

“Don’t’ be surprised if it drives me to a face lift, or at least an eyelid job,” I tell my daughter. She’s heard this before and waves me off.

It unnerves me as well that I don’t remember how to kiss. My well-intentioned friends get all misty-eyed and say, “It’s like riding a bike; it’ll come back to you.” Not so far—I lurch forward and knock noses, pull back too soon as if to signal “time’s up,” startle when I feel a strange tongue in my mouth and think,  I used to like this, right?

And I’ve been out of the game for so long, I clutch at the thought of me naked in bed with some poor unsuspecting guy. What’ll I do then, other than cry? Which I can almost guarantee.

My instincts are shot, and I can keep myself up at night agonizing over what I said or he did. It’s kind of cute, I suppose—a 63-year old, unsure of herself, waiting with a knot in her stomach for a “boyfriend” to call. Note to self: File these feelings for future reference. They might make me  hip and helpful in a few years when my granddaughters start to date. I can liven up the sleepovers by comparing notes with them as we pop corn, bake cookies, and bitch about boys.

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