The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I got plenty of friends who are looking for a love interest after pretty much giving up finding a compatible life partner down at the Stanwoodopolis Hotel or the Boxcar Tavern, don’t ask me why but apparently the pickings have been picked over.  They’ve tried joining a few groups, everything from pilate to art guilds, but the dating pool is small and most aren’t single anyway.  An affair isn’t really what they’re looking for.  Or at least that’s what they tell me.

So with options shrinking faster than glaciers in Africa they’ve turned to the 21^st equivalent of matchmaking, joining an online dating site, posting their photos and interests, editing their lives down to a paragraph that hopefully will make them attractive to potential buyers.  Meaning, they probably lie about their age, their weight, photoshop their pictures, exaggerate their interests, mention that they love walks on the beach and cuddling on the couch, adore cute puppies, never smoke or drink or do drugs … or at least only in moderation.

Now most of my loveless pals are no longer youngsters, oddly enough.  In fact, we’re, if we’re honest with ourselves (something unsuitable for Tinder or other dating sites), actually Geezers.  An age bracket that you might think would be notable for its honest acceptance of who we are in this latter stage of life.  Dater, know thyself!  But of course this is the internet … where truth goes to die.  And in this new Darwinian universe of mate selection, advertisement is everything.  Consequently, those first dates make fine grist for late night commiserations over a few adult beverages when they regale me with love gone wrong stories.

One of my pals puts on his resume that he would rather drink horse piss than date a MAGA maiden … or something to that effect, maybe more subtle, but his message is clear.  You voted for the Trumpster, don’t answer this ad.  Better to sleep alone, apparently.  And yet.  And yet!!  Invariably he gets to that first luncheon date with a potential Miss Right only to discover fairly soon that Miss Right is really Miss Rightwing, she just didn’t think it would be all that important when it came to lifelong spousal choices.

And so it goes, love on the digital highway.  After a few bad connections, dates that were easier back in high school and long lulls in conversation, I can see why a lot of my cronies eventually give up, realizing that a few decades of living alone have ossified into an inability to compromise much at, oh, 65 or older.  Explains, I guess partly, why they’ve finally decided they’re happily unmarried.  If nothing else, us geezers have accrued no little wisdom in our advanced years.  It just takes a few times in the dating rodeo to figure that out.

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