ACTING MY AGE?

I still get hyper on days when I am meeting someone new for a coffee date. Sometimes it doesn’t happen and that’s not a good sign—I’m merely going through the motions, agreeing to get together with a guy who hasn’t really piqued my interest online. Sad to say, the photos make all the difference. Physical attraction still matters. Sadder to say, not once in the past five years has that feeling been mutual.

So I’m legitimately hyper today. The online dating site I use produces hot and dry spells. I hadn’t heard from anyone in a couple of weeks so I figured the well had run dry in Ottawa. I hadn’t expected much in the first place since I indicated I was seeking Friendship (not Dating, not Longterm Relationship, not Intimate Encounter) and noted that I was only in the area for a couple of months.

I received three messages yesterday, two of which included attractive photos. (Yes, I know photos can be fakes, but I’ve yet to experience that.) I’m going for coffee today with a French Canadian named Luc today. I see no point in following some rule of playing coy and waiting a week. The online messaging doesn’t compare to face-to-face conversation and, if I seem desperate in wanting to meet right away, so be it. Everyone’s a judge.

To work through my extra energy, I’ve got a CD playing. It’s one of those compilations, a collection of songs from 1977, my favorite year in music. That’s the year I started to tune in to pop music. Most of the songs I already have in various formats, but I bought the CD because of two songs I never hear anymore: “Strawberry Letter 23” by The Brothers Johnson and “(Every Time I Turn Around) Back in Love Again” by L.T.D. I realize these details are tangential, but here’s the point: my favorite year of music occurred before Luc was even born.

Let me restate that he initiated contact with me. I don’t go below age 38 when I search the dating site. Luc is, gasp, 27. I have a couple of friends whom I’ve teased over the years for being cradle robbers. They’d say there was no one their own age that was fit and had his shit together. All the same-age peers were discards for a reason. My friends and I were the exceptions to the over the hill misfits. A little bad luck, a few poor choices, a cheating bastard partner.

I’ll be forty-five in two weeks. You can compute the age difference. I’m trying to block it. Am I the latest cradle robber? Why would a very good looking 27 year old contact me? Does something about me scream Sugar Daddy? Is Ottawa that dry? Oh, Luc, c’est dommage.

I’m trying to stay calm. I have no idea how the conversation will go. I’m not up on “Gossip Girl” or any “Real World” season since Pedro. I shall take heart in the fact that the entire Beatles collection has just been re-released and the premise of Courteney Cox’s new show, “Cougar Town”, is about fortysomethings browsing the New Releases rack.

Coffee is still hours away. Good thing I’ve brought along my favorite CDs for the road trip from B.C. Andy Gibb, Fleetwood Mac and sweet sweet Olivia can keep me company in the meantime.