I am now five months into The Dating Project. Or 25 years, depending on your count. I’m blue and listening to my own excuses for not finding the right guy.
Today: The Sith lord of 40 is in my window, wagging a bony finger in my direction, hexing my search results on dating websites. Thirty-nine is nearly 40. Thirty-nine is very attractive to 59-year-old men in Schenectady.
Five years ago: Everyone else was shacking up and living ever so awesomely ever after, while I swam through the mud of family illness and catastrophe. I got to the other side. Then I was old.
Ten years ago: There were so many men while I pursued an inconvenient career. I was mostly broke. Or on the road. And I had no track record to prove that my dream was not made of pipes. It was a lot to ask of a partner, to sign on to me before I knew who I was.
There is always an excuse.
Two old friends announced their divorces last week, and I urged both of them to just stick it out, not for the sake of the kids, not for just a little bit longer to see if they were sure, but forever, till death would they part, for the sake of not having to date. So you made a bad choice, live with it. Live with someone, OK? It’s not better out there. Out there it’s lonely, sad, and clichéd. Out there people get cats for cuddles.
I give great advice.
Dating is suspended this week. I’m not looking today. Mr. Right will just have to call on me while I polish my glass animal collection.
Your rom-com heroine