DIAL "A" FOR ALBERTO

UPDATE, SEVEN YEARS LATER: Below is a piece I wrote after my early experiences with online dating, way back in the fall of 2017. I now believe it is a terrible medium for all involved, which I will explain in a future post.

Although most 40- and 50-somethings are married or coupled, a few of us are alone. I regret to inform you that dating after divorce is even less fun than dating in your 20s; rather, it is a part-time job with scant compensation. For your investment of time and (perhaps) money, you ultimately feel like a professional dumpster diver, sifting through mounds of smelly garbage that other consumers have discarded, in the enduring hope of finding an overlooked pearl.

At least, this is the idea.

When I separated from my husband, I eagerly joined a dating app. Fifteen years ago, after all, I met my ex on a now defunct dating site. It’s a decent medium, but for the garbage. And even if you avoid getting your hands dirty, for every 40 men you meet, you will be lucky to find one who captivates you and who finds you equally divine.

I thoroughly enjoyed the initial flurry of complimentary attention I received, but it had its limits. Texting does not a meaningful social encounter make. In some instances, I felt I was being interrogated (“How do you feel about Trump?” “Do you like to spoon? I like to spoon.” “Have you ever been blindfolded?”). Indeed, I was prompted to answer endless personal questions to assess political inclinations and private sexual preferences that are probably best reserved for a third date, should you get that far. Disgusted, I started skipping many of the queries, which seemed not only irrelevant but intrusive.

I got a rebuking automated notification from the app that I needed to start answering more questions to increase the number of potential matches.  Reluctantly, I dug deeper and discovered that no, raw honey has no place in my bedroom, and yes, I do like it when a man places his hand on the small of my back. After a few weeks of swiping left, texting, and general angst, I had my first actual date, a 52-year-old man named Alberto (pseudonym alert).

After a few meet-ups, it became evident Alberto was not really my type, and I didn’t meet his expectations, either. But I continued to see him, as I sought affirmation of my desirability. He was not openly disrespectful about my Christian faith, but gruffly admitted, “I like to party.” Alberto applied his horticultural talents to cultivating marijuana plants (it was okay, though, by his reasoning, because it was for personal use only and, presumably, to fuel the aforementioned partying).

Gradually, Alberto and I got to know each other more, which cemented our mutual disaffection. Once he declared, “I always say, ‘You can call me Al; or you can call me Alberto; just don’t call me asshole!’” O, Alberto! If only all suitors could offer such bons mots as you! In my mind’s eye, I see you now, exchanging witty banter with Dorothy Parker over endless cocktails at the Algonquin Round Table. This allusion, sadly, would not resonate with Alberto, because his experience with the canon was limited to Fifty Shades of Grey, about which he opined, “I hear the book is better than the movie.” I recommended an insightful biography of photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, whose oeuvre oddly ranged between flowers and homoerotic sadomasochism. The artist’s name, however, elicited not even a flicker of recognition from Alberto, who explained he “wasn’t into popular culture.”

Alberto intentionally provided me with plenty of reasons to stop seeing him; he was not into me. I didn’t take the hint, though. Toward the end of our six-week association, his once amusing tales wore thin. Most of his ex-girlfriends smoked a lot of pot, were chronically jobless or underemployed, and one enterprising young lady had even tried to entrap him with a false pregnancy. 

Alberto listed several reasons why we shouldn’t see each other anymore, including the fact I lived far away, my two young children, and my religion. In retrospect, these are standard bullshit superficial reasons; he simply realized we were not compatible on any level. And I didn’t care for him either, although my urge for validation after a cold marriage prevented me from acknowledging this reality. 

For two weeks, the rejection stung acutely, and then I felt gratitude. I was alone, yet remarkably okay. Not being in a relationship with someone wholly unsuitable is actually a good thing. Alberto was not going to settle for a woman who did not meet his criteria, and nor should he. For my part, I longed for a companion who would embrace the peculiarities that render me unique, sometimes annoying, and–dare I say it?--delightfully captivating.

Despite your relationship status, however, you are always alone after divorce. Your family as you knew it has been deconstructed and reassembled, often resulting in a postmodern blur of its former self. You feel relief, regret, overwhelming guilt, profound sadness, and resignation when you realize there is no way to evade living with loss with worldly distractions.

During our only pre-separation argument, my ex-husband blurted out, “You will never be happy.” At that moment, I vaguely felt cursed by the evil queen, the bitter hag who didn’t get the party invite to celebrate the birth of the infant princess. Didn't I deserve to be loved? Why else was I doing this? I’m still not sure. I upended the natural order of my children's lives, and for what? Before divorce, I was dreaming of a comfortable retirement in southern Florida, when I could finally indulge my dream of maintaining a small aviary on an enclosed sun porch. My ex could fish, golf, and smoke cigars while I hand-fed baby finches I could train to become my minions.  

“Mama should NOT have a boyfriend!” My 9-year-old son declared at a family therapy session. He’s right, of course, mama should be with daddy, but we are all living in an upside-down world with more shades of gray than Alberto’s favorite book.