I Will Not Lie About My Age

Though I am tempted to do so.

I have been on zero dates since April. It’s not suprising, we do have a pandemic on. My best friend tells me the “president” is the reason we’re not getting laid right now, and that’s why we have to vote Biden/Harris. He’s not wrong, we could have New Zealanded our way through, but no. No.

I knocked my age down ten years on OK Cupid, but my description leads with my real age and this statement: I might be the older woman you didn’t know you are looking to meet. I have now repeatedly been told I do not look my age. I correct this by saying that I probably do in person, or first thing in the morning.

In the name of progressive feminism, I am tempted to ask what my age is supposed to look like and why looking that age would be a bad thing.

I don’t, but I think about it a lot.

File under “Why I’m single.” My brain should, in this context, take the compliment in the spirit indended and shut up. It is amusing to have some guy ten, 15 years younger tell me he would not have pegged me for 56.

“Anyway, I’ve always been attracted to older women,” they tell me.

I am not cougar material. I do not own a shiny leopard print blouse, I never wear makeup, you will not find me in Jimmy Choo or Christian LeBoutin heels and I’m not sure I even got that reference right. I’m not sugar mama material, I’m a freelance writer, for crying out loud. I can’t afford a lawn boy.

I might go have coffee (outside, of course) with that punkass Latino graphic designer. Might. TBD. Our interactions have been very normal, and that’s refreshing. He likes birdwatching and art. I asked him where he’d go if he could go anywhere tomorrow.

“Chile, it doesn’t get enough love.”

“I have a really good friend there, let’s go.”

“That would be an amazing story,” he said. I liked that.

Also, good god, he’s 16 years younger than me.

[Here’s a story from the NYT archives on age and dating.]