Since
December I’ve been awaiting a six-week in-patient treatment program
for my eating disorder. As I’ve had traumatic experiences in
hospital before, I pushed for a three-month group home option
instead. Unfortunately, the medical team feels my symptoms are
serious enough to require hospitalization first.
(That’s right, my six weeks in hospital may be followed up with
three months in the group home.)
Seems my forty years of eating disordered behaviors really did a
number on me.
Knowing
I’ll be
stepping out of real life for a significant chunk of time, I’ve
told myself that dating is not an option. After all, it’s far from
ideal beginning a relationship with hospital visits as part of the
courtship. So no dating.
Still,
there’s
a little dreamer inside me—persistent sucker—that says this is
when it happens. Off the market, I’m suddenly of interest.
But,
no. There
hasn’t been some hunky dude trying to strike up a conversation with
me on an elevator. I haven’t had some dreamboat wanting to share my
bench at the gym. An adorkable man hasn’t asked me about the
ripeness
of
melons at the grocery store. I’m as invisible as I’ve ever been.
Same
goes for online. I may tell myself that I broke up with the dating
apps (or we’re taking an extended break), but it feels like the
apps dumped
me
first.
My inbox is empty. Always. I’ve
even wondered if OkCupid is working anymore. Maybe the site shut down
so no new messages are possible. For anyone. Ah, delusion. I wear it
well.
I
should correct
something. I’m not as invisible as ever. I’m more
invisible,
if that’s even possible. I guess I knew it was coming. It’s part
of being fifty-something. The younger set doesn’t notice you. Not
even the forty-nine year olds. In gay culture, you’re supposed to
step on an iceberg and float away. I
do like the cold but I’m a little afraid of polar bears. Cute but
beastly. So no thank you to the iceberg. No thank you even to Palm
Springs. I am the walking dead in Vancouver. Without
the
zombie
allure.
Technically,
I should have company. There should be some other fifty-somethings,
newly or perennially single. But I can’t identify them. Some have
wisely decided to live as shut-ins, taking advantage of home delivery
groceries and restaurants that hire cyclists to bring a jumbo burger
and double order of fries to their
door. Older
gay
men online have
taken to lying about their age. A “fifty-five year old” is really
mid to late sixties if not seventy-three.
The
fifties
set
pretends
to be
forty-two,
maybe
forty-five,...something
far enough
away from that dreaded
half-century
milestone.
It’s
blatant lying mixed with wishful thinking and the cop-out line,
Everybody
does it. In
some ways, I get it. I too wonder how the hell I ever became
fifty-four. I still feel thirty-four. I still want to believe I look
that age. Or forty-four. It’s true, I’ve had people tell me I
don’t look my age (although that’s become
a
much rarer occurrence). Basically,
fifty-somethings are
in
hiding. So how are
we
supposed
to find each
other?
But,
again, I’m not supposed to be
thinking
about such things. I’m supposed to have
chosen
this dateless
predicament.
I
should really
be
focused
on eating
more
and
exercising
less.
Still, it doesn’t
feel
good, knowing that six weeks
from my hospital admission—or six weeks
and three
months
from then—I’ll
be
facing
datelessness
for real.
Maybe ice floes aren’t
so bad. Maybe
polar
bears
won’t sniff me
either!
