with a Wrong Man. I don’t have a lot of experience being the dumper, but I can see that it might be a good idea to have a patter for why there won’t be a second date. At least the too-soon shtick, a more substantial version of it’s not you, it’s me absolves everyone except the original heartbreaker.
But really? Being ready to drop my jeans before coffee makes the original heartbreaker look better than ever. She at least had the self-respect to get rid of the guy.
• • •
One problem with dating in one’s fifties is that one or both suspects are likely to harbor the grief or disbelief of a broken, long relationship, usually a marriage, usually with children.
Advancing middle age should be the first time since childhood that we can really indulge ourselves without feeling selfish. This means no unfair competition in our love lives.
Tip: Beware the ex but carry garlic if he has a daughter.
The man with a daughter over the age of about eleven is probably dating her, not you. Sons are low maintenance for dads, possibly because they can take each other’s interests for granted. But the moment Daddy’s Little Pumpkin develops bumps on her chest, she becomes the treasure he must protect like a Kumari princess.
“She’s in sixth grade and friends with everybody,” one date expounded. “She’s doing soccer and plays piano and flute.” He stops and smiles at his hands folded on the table between us. “For years, the only way we could get her to sleep was playing ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.’ All seventeen minutes. Go figure.”
That paternal bafflement? A shameless lie. In college she is the delight of holidays and summers, more dateable than any other woman.
“What’s she like?” I had asked Orange Rose Guy of his daughter during the stiff dinner we shared after the blow job and before the not-ready email.
“She’s beautiful and talented. She interned with the Wooster Group last summer and she’s interested in either going back or joining a company like Bond Street after she graduates from Sarah Lawrence.”
“And your son?” He was tucking into the local diner’s meat loaf as though he needed, urgently, to kill it.
“He went to art school to become a cartoonist. Still living with his mother, still . . . drawing, I guess. I need to take him out to dinner this week, see what’s going on.”
At some point, the daughter falls in love with someone besides Daddy. Enter the ex, who is of practical value in fashioning the princess their princess has always wanted to be, but it’s Daddy who pays and whose approval adds that extra royal cachet.
“My daughter wants to show me a place in Kent Island for the wedding,” Martin, another mid-fifties divorcé, said as we snuggled into our respective beds before talking dirty.
“Is that someplace amazing?” I asked. I wasn’t sure what exactly Martin did for a living, but he had some kind of security background because he told me he’d matched a recording of my voice on the phone against one of my TV interviews posted on YouTube to make sure I was who I said I was. For some reason he wanted his imaginary sex to come from a verifiable woman.
“I’m sure it is. At least it checks out okay. I’ll know more after I see it.”
I wondered if he meant that no known Taliban members were waiters or if the cliff it sits on isn’t likely to break off in the next rain. “So. What is she wearing?”
He grunted. “This is no laughing matter and it’s going to cost me an arm and a leg. She’s a good kid, though. She’s in law school. She’s earned her reception on the Bay.”
Suddenly I wasn’t so much in the mood.
And trust me (because I’m one, too), Princess enjoys being Daddy’s Number One. How do you think I learned the lyrics to “Thank Heaven for Little Girls”? I was my daddy’s princess for a few sweet years of sitting on his shoulders and styling his hair. All that coziness ended when I began to gain weight and no longer sat on laps or
But really? Being ready to drop my jeans before coffee makes the original heartbreaker look better than ever. She at least had the self-respect to get rid of the guy.
• • •
One problem with dating in one’s fifties is that one or both suspects are likely to harbor the grief or disbelief of a broken, long relationship, usually a marriage, usually with children.
Advancing middle age should be the first time since childhood that we can really indulge ourselves without feeling selfish. This means no unfair competition in our love lives.
Tip: Beware the ex but carry garlic if he has a daughter.
The man with a daughter over the age of about eleven is probably dating her, not you. Sons are low maintenance for dads, possibly because they can take each other’s interests for granted. But the moment Daddy’s Little Pumpkin develops bumps on her chest, she becomes the treasure he must protect like a Kumari princess.
“She’s in sixth grade and friends with everybody,” one date expounded. “She’s doing soccer and plays piano and flute.” He stops and smiles at his hands folded on the table between us. “For years, the only way we could get her to sleep was playing ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.’ All seventeen minutes. Go figure.”
That paternal bafflement? A shameless lie. In college she is the delight of holidays and summers, more dateable than any other woman.
“What’s she like?” I had asked Orange Rose Guy of his daughter during the stiff dinner we shared after the blow job and before the not-ready email.
“She’s beautiful and talented. She interned with the Wooster Group last summer and she’s interested in either going back or joining a company like Bond Street after she graduates from Sarah Lawrence.”
“And your son?” He was tucking into the local diner’s meat loaf as though he needed, urgently, to kill it.
“He went to art school to become a cartoonist. Still living with his mother, still . . . drawing, I guess. I need to take him out to dinner this week, see what’s going on.”
At some point, the daughter falls in love with someone besides Daddy. Enter the ex, who is of practical value in fashioning the princess their princess has always wanted to be, but it’s Daddy who pays and whose approval adds that extra royal cachet.
“My daughter wants to show me a place in Kent Island for the wedding,” Martin, another mid-fifties divorcé, said as we snuggled into our respective beds before talking dirty.
“Is that someplace amazing?” I asked. I wasn’t sure what exactly Martin did for a living, but he had some kind of security background because he told me he’d matched a recording of my voice on the phone against one of my TV interviews posted on YouTube to make sure I was who I said I was. For some reason he wanted his imaginary sex to come from a verifiable woman.
“I’m sure it is. At least it checks out okay. I’ll know more after I see it.”
I wondered if he meant that no known Taliban members were waiters or if the cliff it sits on isn’t likely to break off in the next rain. “So. What is she wearing?”
He grunted. “This is no laughing matter and it’s going to cost me an arm and a leg. She’s a good kid, though. She’s in law school. She’s earned her reception on the Bay.”
Suddenly I wasn’t so much in the mood.
And trust me (because I’m one, too), Princess enjoys being Daddy’s Number One. How do you think I learned the lyrics to “Thank Heaven for Little Girls”? I was my daddy’s princess for a few sweet years of sitting on his shoulders and styling his hair. All that coziness ended when I began to gain weight and no longer sat on laps or
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