Sex and the Single Mom

Well, I’ve done it. Thrown my towel into the online dating world. Even as I admit this, a sick worm of humiliation wriggles through my stomach. This goes against every grain of my being, of my new self-awareness and confidence. After all, I am an independent woman. I have my own lovely home. I am a good mother and a side-splittingly funny friend. When my husband and I separated almost four years ago, I left with the idea that I had to be alright living on my own. I didn’t want to leave thinking - well alright, don’t cry, George Clooney is just around the corner wanting to make it all better for you. I left with the knowledge that I could very well be choosing a life lived alone rather than a life with David. I had to be sure that was what I wanted. And it most definitely was.
But the thing of it is, when you have chosen a life on your own, doing what you please and raising your children how you see fit, there isn’t a whole lot of sex involved. And I rather like sex. If I am remembering it correctly, that is. As we women know once you hit a certain age and a certain way of life it is nearly impossible to meet a nice man. Especially since everyone tells you that the only way to meet a man is to not look for him. What kind of horse-manure is that anyways? My mother constantly tells me that you meet men when you least expect it. But every woman I know is ALWAYS expecting it. Otherwise, why do they go to the grocery store in a tight black turtleneck and low slung jeans? If they weren’t looking for a man they would be wearing sweats and a ponytail. Like me. And if you only met men when you weren’t ready I would have been up to my neck in men for the last four years. Because I really wasn’t ready. Not to make time for dating. Not to attempt to put on lipstick and pointy shoes in the hopes that either one of these things might catch the eye of a fella.
No, what I’ve had time for over the last four years are my kids and my friends. But lately things have been shifting into a new, frightening direction. My kids are growing up, making friends and leading lives a little separately from mine. They still need me, of course, but not with the same I-need-you-to-be-in-the-room-or-I’ll-start-screaming way. Now it’s more of a good-you’re-here-make-us-some-food sentiment. My friends are married and make time for girl’s nights only when their husbands are either busy or cranky. And that leaves me - where? Lying in bed on a Saturday afternoon watching reruns of the Gilmore Girls and eating Barbeque chips. Listening to the furnace shut itself on and off as the weather fluctuates, puncturing the yawning, humming silence of my home. Don’t get me wrong. There is absolute value in remaining single. It’s just that I’ve remained single for four years - not a typo FOUR YEARS!! Which is 3 years longer than even the most pathetic character in movies and /or books has ever remained single. Believe me, I’ve researched this. So here I go.
Once I’ve set up a quasi-flattering picture of myself (but not too flattering - I don’t want there to be unrealistic expectations) and writing a witty, charming and somewhat sterile 120-word autobiography, I’m ready for my close-up. Things get going pretty quickly. My first e-mail (or smile or flirt, whatever!) is from a man in his late fifties who eagerly claims again and again to ‘look much younger than his years’. Why does he need to keep telling me this? I can see his picture - he’s wrong, by the by - so why does he need to justify himself right off the bat? Then I scroll down to his ‘list of requirements’. I am, at 33, at the high end of his age limit. He’s looking for someone in her early twenties preferably, with blond hair and an athletic build. Get in line, honey. Bachelor number one gets deleted.
I wake up the next morning to 12 new messages. Twelve! I don’t think I’ve had twelve men even look my way in the last year. Did they not see my only semi-flattering picture? One man even referred to me as ’sexy lady’, good Lord, is he serious? This is a little too much. I need to call in reinforcements. Luring the girls over with coffee, sweets and entertainment I get a wide variety of second opinions. All of them bad. The thing I’m discovering about girlfriends is they want the best for you, which is great. But they don’t want to let you settle just a little, which can be bad. The shrieking laughter and dialogue around my computer sounds something like this;
“Oh my God! Get a load of this guy. He’s using a picture with him and his dog.”
“Are you kidding me? Let me see…”
“O.K. let’s make some ground rules. No props.”
“Props?”
“Dogs, babies, houses, cars - no props!”
“That’s fair - wait a minute - this guy’s cute.”
“Hold on, enlarge his picture. Is that a girl’s arm he’s cut out? No way, too tacky.”
And that was before the cocktails made an appearance. Eventually every man online was discounted for being too short, too tall, too good-looking (o.k. that one was me. But seriously there is just something a little off about really beautiful men.) or too wrong for me. After they had reassured me that I was much too good for online dating they all breezed out the door back to their perfectly imperfect husbands and lovers. Leaving me alone and deflated, with nowhere to go.
The thing I’m finding the most difficult about online dating is giving up the romantic ideal of being pursued. Not in the ‘this much older man saw my picture and has now e-mailed me five times’ pursued. Being sought after because of who you are, how you light up a room, for being charming or having the unsaid qualities that a mate will see in you and find irresistible. I think that’s what makes so many people balk at the idea of meeting someone online. The naked honesty of saying, ‘Here I am, read over my stats and decide whether or not you want me. That’s my only reason for being here.’ It negates all of the little games we like to play, all of the sly catch-and-release looks across a crowded room.
After much mulling and soul-searching, I finally decide to answer two e-mails which have caught my eye. One is from a pleasant looking single father who lives close to me, has a good job and plays lots of golf. A good-on-paper guy. The other is from a very intense, slightly angry younger man who spends all of his money travelling the globe and seems fairly bitter about his ex. The first guy, we’ll call him Jake, makes piles of spelling mistakes (rather a deal breaker with me) and openly discusses his recent dates with other women. But he asks lots of questions about my life, comments on my great smile and is fairly understanding about my nervousness and tendency to write long paragraphs about nothing. Bachelor number two, who we’ll call Eric, gets me. That’s all I need from him. And for some reason, just the decision to decide sets me into a neurotic tailspin.
Who do I date? Which one should I choose? Am I being too accepting of the western philosophy that tells us we need to be validated by a man? Already I can feel myself being swept away by change. I don’t want my life to become about tanning lotions, teeth whiteners and toenail polish. These are things I take interest in for myself, of course, but suddenly it feels like a job to me. Like these are the things I need to do in order for a man to like me. Because I suddenly realize I like my life, I love the freedom the kids and I enjoy. I love that my days are swept away by soccer practice and walking the dog and setting the table. Why do I need to change things? Will dating change things, or will I be able to keep it separate from my real life?
It turns out, I didn’t really need the answer to all of these questions. I went out for coffee with Jake, had a great time (even though my trademark quirkiness intimidated him somewhat), and decided - despite his flattering persistence - to take my time. Eric and I got together for a hike, hung out and had plain old fun. The girls all relished every detail, of course, and I’m beginning to think that my need for dating has more to do with feeling accepted than the actual men, but that’s okay. That’s it, just take time. Enjoy the courting process as it presents itself in this, the twenty-first century. Because finally, at the end of the day, after my fear and insecurity and nerves loosened their grip on me just slightly, I needed only one truth for myself. I deserve life to go at the pace I’ve chosen, as opposed to a pace someone has set for me. And it’s the best gift I’ve given myself in many years.