Dating in Midlife

I had another date

In my last column, I wrote about Ed Polino, my first date in many years. Ed is my friend Marcy's plumber. Ed did not turn out to be the man of my dreams, though it's hard to resist any guy who can simultaneously snake a toilet and whistle "Lady of Spain." The best part of the first date was that it made me want to try again.

And I did.

Seeking romance as well as companionship is a difficult task, particularly if you're out of practice. The most romantic Saturday night I've spent in the past 17 years was an evening when I found myself fortified with a glass of sherry and dancing to "Wives and Lovers" with my dear miniature schnauzer, Rockford.

Before you start thinking old Betty is down a few quarts in the sanity department, let me assure you that my dipstick isn't reading daffy. I can't imagine life without my sweet Rockford, but he's never been one for small talk -- or any talk.

My search for my next date led me to a most unlikely place: Internet personal ads.

I didn't know much about Internet dating. I thought it was a modern convenience if you wanted to hook up with a nice Satan worshipper. I later learned that my thrice-divorced cousin Noreen has gotten great results with Internet dating. She's met 13 of her last 23 boyfriends online. She was kind enough to help me create a profile on renta-yenta.com.

Filling out the personal profile took a long time. I hadn't entered that much information on a form since my last checkup -- and my doctor wasn't the least bit interested in tattoos and piercings.

Once I unleashed my profile, I received an e-mail the next week from a gentleman named Delmar Roydkin. His profile indicated he was a widower, my age, six feet tall, and the owner of a Jew's harp import company. We talked on the phone. He was charming and sounded like an older Howard Keel. We agreed to meet for dinner. As I hung up, I felt terrified and excited -- terrified about having dinner with a total stranger and excited about gazing into the eyes of Howard Keel.

The following Tuesday evening, I stood nervously next to the hostess stand at Gruber Kransky's, a restaurant that recently took over the space of Rocco Fong's, a fine but overpriced Chinese Italian bistro.

A passing stream of hungry and fed patrons kept the door bouncing open as I stared at the entrance, waiting to catch my first glimpse of Delmar Roydkin. Finally, the door slowly opened to reveal a short, stocky, asymmetric figure. My body froze as he straightened his toupee, checked his dentures, and scanned the room. My Howard Keel looked as though he was ready to keel over.

I like successful older men, but not the winner of the "oldest man" contest. He limped over to me and we exchanged greetings.

As Delmar and I shook hands, something felt strange. His fingers were soft, cool -- and plastic. I instantly understood why his shoulders were slightly askew. I made a mental note to write renta-yenta.com and recommend a new personal profile category for artificial limbs.

The hostess seated us at our table, and we ordered our meals. The first hour was uncomfortable. I was nervous, and Delmar had a strange smile, as if he wanted to engage in something that would surely land him to the hospital.

The second hour was better. We both realized we were not a suitable match, and that relieved the pressure for both of us. I finally asked Delmar what happened to his arm. He said it was in the shop being repaired. He wiggled his plastic fingers and said, "This one is a loaner." Too many strange details for this gal. "What happened to your original arm?" I asked again. He said the limb had been crushed 15 years ago by a pallet of Jew's harps.

Delmar was a decent soul. I couldn't fault him for adding a few inches to his height, removing a few years in age, and failing to mention that some of his body parts were stamped "Dupont." His wife had died a few years ago, and he was caught in that uncomfortable space between missing her and wanting to move on with his life.

Our date ended in Gruber Kransky's parking lot. We politely agreed that the evening was enjoyable and maybe we'd get together some other time. We said goodbye and Delmar gave me a polite good night kiss. I walked to my car relieved I wouldn't have to write in this column about being groped by an artificial hand.

The surprising thing about my date with Delmar was that I actually had a good time. He wasn't my Prince Charming, but I had dinner with an interesting man. I also learned about Jew's harp export tariffs and got a sweet, non-slobbery goodnight kiss.

Before I sign Rockford and me up for ballroom dancing classes, I'd like to try another date.

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