Starting over

Searching for Love After a Thirty-Year Hiatus

/ Lisa Gastaldo / 4 Comments

My reluctant plunge into online dating in my 50s

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I met my husband at 16. We were married when I was 25.  I was widowed three days before my 44th birthday.

Our two sons were in their early teens when we lost their father. He had been ill for quite some time, but the way he eventually passed away was sudden and traumatic. PTSD complicated our grief. I threw myself into tending to my boys, work and volunteering. Once they graduated, I created a this blog to finally process the sadness I had suppressed for years. My mind was too preoccupied and my spirit too full of heartache to allow time for dating.

And so, I waited nearly a decade to reenter the dating world.  If you do the math, this seemed to be a pattern with me.  What can I say? I needed to be REALLY sure before I truly committed.

Single and out of date

My husband was my first kiss, my first love, my first everything.  My friend used to tease me that I had the dating skills of an adolescent: awkward, unsure and pretty much clueless. I had no playbook – no references to what I liked or disliked in a relationship. Flirtation was a skill that had dissipated long ago. Now in my fifties, I was about to enter foreign territory without comprehending the language or rules of the domain.

Back in high school, my biggest concerns were whether my side ponytail was attractively askew and the horror of my butt cheeks protruding beneath my Dolfin shorts.  I could never have fathomed that a bodacious bootie would be considered alluring in the 21st century. I only wish a muffin top wasn’t an unwelcome collaborator in my middle-aged physique.

Looking for a Match made in OKCupid & other digital heavens

I had been pondering dating for a couple years before I resolved to be proactive.  It was my hope that someone in my circle of friends would introduce me to a “nice guy” they knew. He would be properly vetted as engaging, financially secure and safe. There was one enormous snag in this scenario: Most of my friends were married. I was the only unattached mare in the posse. No stallions for miles.

And so, I reluctantly thrust myself into the realm of online dating. I honed my relationship seeking resume (aka profile) to the best of my novice ability. Dating Objectives, Activities & Interests and Bio were all crafted with a touch of wit and hidden desperation. Previous Experience was glaringly absent. I appraised pictures of myself until I found the few that I hoped portrayed subtle sexiness while concealing my double chin.  Filled with apprehension, I shuddered as I posted it.

The responses began flooding in almost immediately. This is not to say I’m any more eye-catching than the previous gal to swipe across their screen – far from it. But if you’re female, new on the dating auction block and assumedly breathing, you’re a hot commodity.

Never in my wildest imagination could I have ever envisioned the types of characters soon parading through my account. There was an inordinate amount of men donning bizarre hairstyles including mullets and a Flock of Seagulls triple mohawk. I’d somewhat expected the gentlemen who obviously were lying about their age, but many were clearly decrepit. One even used a photo of himself in a hospital bed as his profile pic. Another chap sported a neck brace and still another proudly presented only his elbow scab. WTF? Did was he seeking someone to kiss his boo boo?

Call me sheltered, but I had never been propositioned to join a threesome, let alone on a daily basis. The erotic mischief requested included a “submissive guy seeking his dominant queen” who pledged to be castrated for his future mistress. There was the married fella searching for an addition to his polyamorous relationship. Only semi-good-looking gals need to respond as his wife “was quite homely” and abundantly jealous.

Then there were the usernames: AwesummaCumLaude, Eatyourkitty and Chocolate Reggie whose self-summary proclaimed, “Just a funny man with a big dick and full wallet,” were a few highlights of this brigade.

I came to the realization that I needed to apply some filters to sift through the invitations infiltrating my inbox and “likes” tallies. There were the simple sorts regarding age, height and marital status. Long distance romancers and professed CIA operatives were weeded out. Then there was the Not a Chance in Hells:

  • Dudes who posted more pictures of possessions – boats, motorcycles, guns, etc. than themselves. Boys bragging about their toys repelled my interest.
  • Grand displays of hunting and gathering prowess. Apparently, a lot of women are enticed by all sorts of aquatic life dangling from hooks. I had better fish to fry.
  • Costumes of any kind. Save your pirate garb for Halloween.
  • The inability to compose a simple sentence. I was a sucker for well-written note demonstrating they had actually read my profile. Terse missives such as “Hey Baby,” “Yummy,” and “Mmmm,” did not set this essayist’s heart aflutter.
  • A sprawling list of dislikes. Profiles spewing negativity and demands of “no drama” signaled someone who was seeking compliance, not a relationship.

Getting with the dating program

The laws of attraction are a bit cockeyed in the virtual world. You are introduced as the result of a succinct CV processed through an arbitrary algorithm. Physical mannerisms, nonverbal cues or pheromones are not in play just yet. Charm and other nuances are compressed like dough through a pasta machine, then transmitted via an LED display. This two-dimensional showmanship was superficial at its best. Counterfeit at its worst. It took me a while to acclimate and learn how to decipher these exhibitions.  I’m not sure if I ever actually did.

With the simple click of a button, your interest in someone is proclaimed to the technological universe. Hopefully, they “wink” or like you back and the initial courtship begins. Last time I was in the dating arena, you danced with one partner at a time. When utilizing an app, one engages multiple prospective mates simultaneously. No more waiting to get home to check the answering machine. Messages appeared at all hours of the day and night. On some days, the frequent alerts buzzed my phone like a bumble bee stuck in a window shade. The cacophony of it all left me woozy. I soon became addicted to the rush of electronic seduction. On other days – many many days – the notifications fell silent. I checked and rechecked my phone, desperately seeking my fix.

“All that is gold does not glitter” – Tolkien

During this period, I relied heavily upon a close single friend for guidance. She was my Obi Wan – gifted in the ways of dating and an excellent counselor. Her eager apprentice, I regularly divulged the ups and downs of this unfamiliar terrain. We regaled each other with tales of fleeting passion, being ghosted and assorted profile oddities.

She recognized my dating immaturity, gradually teaching me to trust my own instincts and realize my self-worth. Each time I would come to her sorrowful from a rejection or breakup, she would always bestow the same advice, “I’m so sorry you’re in pain, but every relationship provides a valuable lesson. Whether it identified a trait in a man you can’t abide or gained an awareness of what brings you happiness, you have gleaned an insight into what you want out of a relationship.” Her mentorship proved invaluable.

This is not meant to be a manifesto railing about the perils of online dating. I know quite a few people who have successfully found their soulmates and/or future spouse. Personally, I frequently connected with men I found attractive, had a decently active dating life and various brief relationships. Did I find the next love of my life? That story is yet to be told…

 

 

 

I Wasn’t Going to Cry on Valentine’s Day – But the Google Doodle Shot That all to Hell.

/ Lisa Gastaldo / Leave a comment

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Valentine’s Day, 2014 began like any other day. After all, five VDs had come and gone and I was sure this was going to be the one on which I didn’t cry. No more feeling sorry for myself. This was the year.

Then I saw the Google Doodle.

It started out innocently enough. A lovely illustration of conversation hearts headlined the page this holiday. “How adorable!” I thought. “How charming! I love conversation hearts.” (Yellow is my favorite.) My eyes glided, enchanted, across the sweet sayings of “Crush” and “First Kiss” and settled on the soon-to-be insidious PLAY button on the lower right-hand corner. “Bonus!” I thought. “It’s animated.” Naively, I navigated my mouse over the triangle and clicked, fully expecting the hearts to begin their pretty pirouettes, choreographed to a delightful ditty and magically morphing into a cupid-filled depiction of their illustrious logo. My need for alliteration satisfied, all would be right in Googleville.

That’s not what happened.

Instead a voice, a male voice, starts emanating from my speakers. What’s this? Where’s my syrupy sing-song or powerful piece of classical music? I’m confused. He explains that all the stories I’m about to hear are true. ??? Did I drop into an episode of Dragnet?

Hesitantly, I click on the pink “Mr. Right.” Another voice, this time an older woman, begins to tell the tale of the day after she got married. Worried that she has made a horrible mistake, she sets out on a walk that lasts well into the evening. She arrives home to her frantic husband and soon realizes this is where she is supposed to be. Forty-two years later, she has never had another moment of doubt. As the story is being told, line drawings come and go on the selected heart, animating the dialog. And so it continues on down the line from “First Kiss” to “Puppy Love” to “Blind Date.” Each story heart touching and poignant.

Commence the tears. You know the routine. Small pools form in your eyelids. A quick sniff or snort to try and make them retreat. Deep breaths — and then all is lost. Floodgates are open.

DAMMIT!

My expectations for the day completely derailed in the first thirty minutes, I began to ruminate over what just transpired. I was doing so well! My grief had evolved into an attribute — no longer my definition. I pondered this self-disappointment all morning — getting dressed, driving to work. Preoccupied, I had forgotten to pack a lunch. Then, in the drive-thru, the revelation struck me — I wasn’t weeping out of melancholy, I was weeping out of empathy. I had been responding to the tender moments of someone’s history. For so long I was pushing and compressing my emotions deep into the bedrock of my being, fully expecting them to fossilize. Meanwhile, my subconscious was constructing a derrick and had begun the gradual and cautious drill into my sentimental reservoir. The Google Doodle was just the final twist of the bit spewing the tears up and over.

I should have seen it coming.

There were hints. The previous summer, I attended a wedding. The bride was the daughter of an old and cherished friend. I traveled to Spokane with another lifelong cohort; the three of us inseparable since childhood. Our bond had survived through countless trials. We were bridesmaids for one another. This was the first wedding for one of our children and it was special.

The big day came and I was composed. No tears expected from me. Heck, I had been to funerals and not spilled a drop. You think a wedding could unsettle me?! Cue the music…

Release the Kracken!!!

It didn’t help the procession music was the love song from Princess Bride, one of my husband’s and my all-time favorites. But what the heck was this?! Hold on second — it’s not just crying — it’s blubbering!!! I wasn’t prepared for this assault. There was no feminine handkerchief in my pocketbook. I struggled for something to sop up the onslaught streaming down my face. Frantically, I grabbed an offering envelope from the pew and cradled it under each eye. Not their intended use, but it was better than nothing.

Completely taken aback, I struggled to make sense of this phenomenon and gain my composure. I had never, ever cried at a wedding. Why now was I bleary-eyed and snot-nosed? But the bride was the spitting image of her mom on her wedding day. In both appearance and mannerisms, she was a reflection of a date more than twenty-five years earlier when all was right with the world. Plus, I had held this wife-to-be when she was only a few days old, a little peanut of an infant. She was our collective first child. There wasn’t going to be enough envelopes to last the weekend.

My dear friend and closest confidante asserts I never stood a chance. “It’s the beginning of menopause,” she explains. “Those hormones will get you every time.” I suppose some of that is true. There could be a biological component bringing on the waterworks. But is that all there is to it? I hope not. That would mean that there will be an end to this epiphany. The change will eventually complete and I will return to being unresponsive and dispassionate. I am finally at a place where I feel it’s safe to express my vulnerability and I don’t want to retreat. I want to feel the sting of raw emotion and be confident that it won’t scorch my soul and turn me to ash. I want to shed a tear and be happy about it.

I want to cry at the Google Doodle.

Originally published in @HumanParts @Medium.com

In Search of Big Girl Panties

/ Lisa Gastaldo / 2 Comments

I have very little tolerance for martyrdom. It’s the helplessness and the “feel sorry for me” mindset. I am the first one to say, “Put on your big-girl panties and deal with it, woman!” If I see someone continuously curled up in a ball, my initial instinct is to kick him or her down a staircase. Not my most empathetic attribute.

A little over five years ago, my husband, Matt, died.

There. I said the “D” word. I’m a regular user of all the euphemisms — “passed away,” “the day we lost him,” “left.” There is nothing wrong with any of them and most likely I will continue to use them. It’s just that I have specifically avoided the word DIED. It seems so irrevocable — so harsh —

so … dead.

Maybe that’s why it has taken me so long to write this. Why it has taken over half a decade to begin the process of putting on my personal panties and dealing. I always had something else more important, someone else who needed my attention. In retrospect, there is no doubt I erected those “somethings” and “someones” as barricades to protect (obstruct?) my own recovery. These barricades even had their own set of panties: the mother, high-waisted and lacking all femininity; the candy striper, supportive and sticky sweet; and the trooper, camouflaged to disguise any hint of vulnerability. I need to get a new pair. My own fresh and unique undies.

Now — for the first time in my life — I am living alone. An empty-nester. A widow. Single. Honestly, I dislike all labels. I would rather be known by my personality and accomplishments than my “situation.” The situation is whispered about at parties or school functions. Occasionally, I’ll catch an attempt at the discreet finger point. No one introduces me as the Widow Gastaldo, but the title is there. It’s my aura.

Then there are the times that I want to scream it from the rooftops. I want to stand on a stage yelling into a microphone,

“Do you know who I am?!

Do you know what I have gone through?!

SYMPATHIZE WITH MY SITUATION!!!!”

I then consume an entire cherry pie, sit down to watch an episode of Parenthood and sob.

I guess it’s time to dissect and digest these classifications. Empty-nester. When my husband died (there, I said it again) our boys were thirteen and fifteen, in eighth and ninth grade. Resolute to make up for what they had lost, I threw myself into volunteering for their football team, their track team, whatever. If they were on the field, I was on the field. Matt had coached every sport they were in from the age of four and I was determined to continue that legacy. This was the era of the mother and the candy striper. Then the boys went off to college and suddenly high-waisted and sweet didn’t fit quite right. Don’t mistake me; I have never been one to pine for days gone by with my boys. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed each stage of their life as it occurred. Ecstatic for what they have accomplished and what their future brings, #proudmama is my most frequent hashtag. But the nest is unoccupied now. It is too silent. I can go an entire day without uttering a single word. I need a new focus.

Widow. Wearer of the trooper. Most days I don’t feel old enough to have the title. Yes, I am aware of how cliché that sounds, but it is authentic. In my mind, I am that 16-year-old naïve teenager that my husband fell in love with. (High-school sweethearts, another cliché.) I still have years left to achieve and witness much. Other times, I feel extraordinarily ancient. A lifetime lived-and-done-with, begun-and-completed-earlier than most. Then there’s the look the word generates. I hate the look!!! It passes across their face when your situation is explained and people contemplate you like a caged dog in a shelter that needs rescue.

I swear I can hear Sarah McLachlan singing.

Now the worst of all — Single. Ownership of that designation is still difficult, maybe because I did not chose to be single. It was thrust upon me like a lance that I could not avert. Single sounds whole and complete. But I don’t feel whole. I feel hacked, a fraction of what I once was. For better or worse, clichés and all, Matt was my better-half and I was his. We shaped each other into adulthood. He was my seatmate in life’s roller coaster and now I’m the single rider — the extra. Sometimes, I wish people could see the giant scab that runs the length of me and has yet to completely scar and heal. They unknowingly pick at it and would be mortified to find out they do. Yet each time a husband lightly strokes his wife’s back during casual conversation or a wife gives her husband a look that can mean anything, but only he understands, the scab bleeds just a bit. I quickly wipe it away so no one will notice, but the sting lingers. It is the actual physical sensation that NO ONE warns you about and thus you are unprepared. Unprepared for the craving of non-sexual intimacy and chemistry you used to know. A forced detox if you will, constantly longing for the fix of a hug or caress or casual conversation. There are no undergarments for this, only bandages.

So that’s it. That’s the situation. I know I won’t be able to shed these classifications easily or entirely, but a girl has to start. It’s time to remove the roadblocks, resist the urge to roll up like a pill bug and shop for my new big-girl panties. Perhaps I will head to Victoria’s Secret and settle on an eye-of-the-tiger-wonder-woman hipster. Or (gasp!) a thong. If you see me veering towards the clearance rack located in the Aisle of Martyrdom, please take me to the top of the nearest staircase and kick.

Originally published in @HumanParts @Medium.com