FIFTY? FIFTY!

As a vegetarian, it’s a rare occasion when I think of Meat Loaf, but he’s provided the perfect entry (if not entrée) here: Two out of Three Ain’t Bad.

I confess that I had concerns about turning fifty. Could that be the turning point? Would all dating dry up? I’m well aware of online dating search engines. The searcher can input an age range—some lower number (possibly ridiculously lower) and an upper limit of, say, 49. The 50s? Ancient times. Aren’t they the guys that sit at home in vintage “Cosby Show” sweater, waiting for the latest issue of AARP and repeatedly listening to cover songs by Bette Midler. (Okay, I confess to pining for the Divine one. Click on the link and tell me you’re not hooked.)

Maybe my fretting over fifty comes from my own search habits. I cannot recall specifically—a sign of aging?!—but I believe there may have been a time not long ago when I didn’t look beyond fortysomething. A half century just sounds so plaque-worthy. And nobody wants to see you pull a plaque from your backpack on a first date.

Well, the good news is that, almost a full month into fiftysomething, I am still dating. Three dates. Yes, each man is in his fifties as well. (I don’t fantasize about helping some young thing cram for a Psychology 101 midterm.) These men have been 51, 54 and—gasp!—58. By golly, each man remains dating-relevant. Each one is fit, attractive and interesting. Two are avid paddleboarders, two ski regularly, one runs and swims and all of them continue to go to the gym. Each one is well settled in a career. Each has varied experiences and each proved he can participate in that ever elusive two-way conversation.

Refreshing!

Coffee with the 54 year-old from South America was pleasant, but the connection wasn’t there. That happens. Glad to have met him.

Coffees with the other two may actually lead to second dates. (One never really knows until that actually happens.) I head to Seattle in two weeks to see Evan again. He’s taking care of friends’ kids next weekend. Uncle Evan. That’s way sexier than a boy toy flitting around in Lycra undies with a glow stick necklace and a plastic water bottle. Evan is genuine and responds promptly to messages. No game playing, no early signs of flakiness. Lovely.

I am perfectly content to see how far things may go with Evan. But, there was unfinished business with Wyatt. He’d messaged me back in September and we just couldn’t seem to find the right time to meet in Vancouver. I sensed he was eager to meet and disappointed that our schedules couldn’t mesh. I headed over today to do some errands and thought I’d message him one last time just to tie up loose ends. If we didn’t meet today, I felt it would never happen. And that would be fine. (In my book, one out of three ain’t bad either!)

Wyatt messaged back. He was busy with plans to go hiking in the woods near Whistler. Ooh, so outdoorsy. On a rainy day, no less. (I’m a fair-weather hiker. I’m not fond of mud. Not even for facials.) But Wyatt planned to head back mid-afternoon. Coffee was on.

Turns out he’s a government lobbyist who advocates for policy and programming that specifically promotes men’s health and physical fitness. Clearly, he lives his life consistent with his beliefs. We chatted freely about the idiosyncrasies of local politics, the differences between Canadian and American federal governments, healthy and unhealthy components of long-term relationships and the continuing importance of libraries in supporting the social and intellectual wellness of a community. The conversation was engaging and still relaxed. As we parted, he was the one to say he wanted to meet with me again. Definitely interested. And, yes, I shared the sentiment. But that next date will have to wait until his return from a holiday in Israel and Lebanon.

Yes, these men are more than pretty packages. They have depth. By golly, it’s early, but as first impressions go, I thinking I’m liking my fifties!

THE TRAVELING SHOW--Part 2

My date with the Victoria doctor seemed up in the air. Or, more precisely, it was not in the air, with fog grounding his flight. Still, I refused to let distance and weather take away the opportunity to meet a fine man.

I willed the fog away.

And so we met, two and a half hours later than initially planned. As the plane approached the dock, I tried to act casual in meeting my doc. I fought to suppress a sudden image from “Fantasy Island”. Why did I immediately connect to the role of Tattoo, instead of Mr. Roarke? “Ða plane, da plane!” On that old TV show, lonely souls retreated to a quiet resort to ultimately find love forty-eight minutes later. Oh, what a fantasy. Here we were fleeing our quiet paradises attempting to find love (or something like it) in the urban jungle.

As so often happens, reality hit within seconds of sighting my date. It was easy to spot one another. He was the only black man disembarking and I was the only guy with a schnauzer at his feet. Roland walked through the Arrivals gate and the date was DOA.

No attraction.

Damn.

I skipped both hug and handshake, opting for a simple “Hi” instead. Roland smiled, I smiled. Everything was perfectly civil.

Initially Roland had arranged his flights to allow a six-hour visit. I’d tried to be tactful in reply, saying that seemed too long for a first meeting. He dutifully booked an earlier return flight, still leaving almost four hours. I figured we could walk around Stanley Park. Two, three times. Let the dog stop and mark every tree in sight.

The flight delays proved to be a blessing, cutting our time to allow a quick lunch and nothing more. As I drove toward a vegan place I’d discovered in Kitsilano—why not make the most out of this?—he disclosed that he was 54, not 45. “You can take me right back to the terminal if that offends you.” Perplexing, but not offensive. “Guys my age are out of shape,” he continued. “And no one will look at me online if I provide my real age.”

In that moment, my date went from being a no-go to a downer. My fifties are just around the corner. Would even the bad dates dry up? Would I recognize Mr. Last Chance before it’s too late?! Fifty is still thirteen months away. This is my biological clock ticking.

I paid for lunch. It was the least I could do since he’d gone through the expense of flying to meet me and I’d picked a restaurant that he probably didn’t like one bit. He was still in the pleasing mode, telling me the food was “really great” and he’d love to come back again. That’s when it dawned on me that the disinterest wasn’t mutual.

Double damn.

I was perfectly cordial throughout, but the conversation didn’t flow. I close off when I know things aren’t going anywhere. Why invest? Why provide any sort of mixed signals?

In a sense, I was relieved as Roland mentioned a number of things that are clear turn-offs to me. It’s not important to go into details. The point is that this was no longer about a lack of physical attraction. Personality-wise, he wasn’t my type either. Would I have overlooked things if he were Dr. McSteamy? Campaigned for a second date? I’d like to think not, but that’s admittedly an easy thought when McSteamy is a mere hypothetical.

I played the role of timekeeper, intent on getting him on the 5:00 flight and catching my 5:50 ferry. As I drove, he said, “I’d really like to do this again. Would you be up for it?”

Just when I needed an urgent traffic situation to pretend to require all my focus, Vancouver traffic never flowed so smoothly along Burrard Street. I pride myself in always being honest, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t glance at the man in the passenger seat and say, “I don’t feel a connection. Sorry.”

I went with a gutless, watered down assent, something like, “I suppose that could be a possibility. It is a lot of travel though.”

From his grin, he took that as a clear yes. I pulled into the drop off zone, gave him an awkward hug while still strapped in the driver’s seat and wished him a nice flight home. As he exited, he said something complimentary about my online photos not lying. He grinned again and was gone.

Driving away, I failed to wave or look back. That final grin lingered. I knew it. I’d felt it before and even flashed it a time or two, the gleeful expression on someone anticipating good things to come. I was wracked with guilt. For the flight home at least, he’d be thinking about our second date. I should have been completely honest. Better yet, I should have done something blatantly buffoonish so he’d not think a second about a second. I was raised too well.

And triple damn.