Dating in Midlife

I had a date

I was going to write this week's column about people who don't list their actual cholesterol levels in personal ads, but something else came up.

I had a date.

No, it wasn't a date with destiny. It was bigger than that. It was a date with Ed Polino (not his real name), my best friend Marcy's plumber. As news of this event spread, the reaction of friends and family was typical: "Betty, what are you thinking about? And at your age!" Well, honey, even at my age (which is old enough to know better, but young enough to be better at it than those who are not old enough to know better), I can only paraphrase Jack Jones Jr.: this old gal has got such a lot of living to do.

My late husband, Errol, has been gone for seventeen years (three due to death, fourteen due to running off with his secretary). Although I may be no June Allison, I can still turn a few heads. I don't mind saying that whenever I go to the bank, Floyd, the eighty-three year old security guard never fails to mention that this broad's wig has still got some wag. I'm not sure if even Floyd knows what that means, but it's still good to hear. So when Marcy called me and said there was a hunk of burning love in her house snaking her toilet, I must admit I was intrigued.

In addition to being my best friend, Marcy is a born matchmaker. Put her in a room full of strangers and in five minutes she'll have them paired off exchanging business cards and acid reflux remedies. The second she spotted Ed the plumber, she knew she had a live one. Aside from his cleavage that peered out from the back of his pants as he bent over her commode, there was something else about him that jumped out: He wasn't wearing a wedding ring. That's the difference between matchmakers and the rest of us. The rest of us would probably spend as little time as possible studying a hand that, for the last hour, had been searching for an obstruction in a bathroom pipe. But to Marcy, it's all in a day's work.

On the following Friday evening, yours truly was running around her condo like a teenager preparing for prom night. I must admit I had second thoughts. I'm sure he was a nice guy, but I couldn't stop thinking about one thing: I'm a respected journalist and he's just a plumber. Doesn't that put him below me? On the other hand, what chance could the poor guy have. A plumber is usually crouched underneath sink or a toilet; he's below everybody.

As I checked myself in the mirror for the fiftieth time (for pimples on my liver spots -- life is just not fair), my anxiety grew and I could feel my temperature rise (panic attack or a hot flash -- what difference did it make). I suddenly had an image of mascara running down my face forming a map of the Mississippi River along with its major tributaries. If only I were dating a topographer. My mind was galloping out of control. I couldn't let Ed see me like this.

The doorbell rang.

Out of sheer panic, I grabbed myself by the neck and slapped my face three times. Two would have been sufficient, but under the circumstances I could live with the pain. It was tough love, but it works every time. My irrational thoughts came to a screeching halt.

The hysterical teenager inside me fled, and the mature adult calmly returned. Composed, I walked to the door and opened it. Ed Polino, the plumber, stood before me. There was only one important thing at this moment: Make sure his hand was clean before I shook it.

The rest of our date was anticlimactic. Ed was a kind and decent fellow. We went to an Italian restaurant. He couldn't vouch for the food, but assured me that the water pressure in the ladies room was second to none. We had a pleasant dinner. We talked for a while, and he took me home. This may not be what most people would call a dream date, but when you think about it, it sure beats waking up in a cheap hotel in Tijuana with a bad headache and a tattoo that will forever prevent you from wearing strapless gowns.

Ed and I have no plans to see each other socially again, but I have no regrets. I feel re-energized at the possibility of exploring new relationships, and Ed has agreed to stop by and fix my garbage disposal.

What have I (and possibly you) learned from my date? First, no matter what age, you never lose your capacity to grow emotionally. Second, being overly critical of the people you date is very shortsighted. Everybody has something to offer. I'm proud to say I have another date next week with a carpenter. He might not be the man of my dreams, but if I play my cards right, I might get a new back porch.

Betty St. James is a former Olympic shot putter and will appear in Playboy magazine's February 2006 issue, "Women of AARP."