Old People Dating Part 3

Old people dating is weird, and made weirder by technology. What did we do before texting? How is that now the normal way to do things? Are men just better at that? I’m so glad I have my notifications set to silent. Otherwise I’d be strung out on text-induced dopamine all day and all night long.

First, you’re texting within the app in which you have “met.” And that is surreal. You’re connecting these tentative Old People Dating moves with text messages. My best friend warned me about the addictive nature of these text-driven apps. Dopamine hits are real, people. I had to turn off all app notifications, too, or I’d have never gotten through an evening without being glued to my phone.

So how does it actually work?

Damned if I know. Being OPD, I had no idea if the system was woman makes first move, man can communicate back whenever he wants, or if it was woman makes first move, man responds and can’t again until the woman does. I’m not telling my kids I am on the app they use, so I can’t ask them. Everyone else I know is also OPD, so they are probably as clueless as I am. So, I muddle through.

Ultimately, you want to agree to meet. That’s the goal of this little text dance.

You achieve a first date. Then what?

I can be of no help to you here. Here’s where the 16-year-old girl in me is freaking the fuck out. Holy shit, I have a date. Can I lose five pounds between now and Friday? What the hell am I going to wear? What’s my exit strategy if he’s creepy? What happens if he meets me and doesn’t like me? Then what? Oh that teenaged girl needs to crawl back to the 80s where she came from. I can still hear her though.

Then, reality sets in.

You have to be on time, but not early. It’s not fitting to be too eager, or to show your nerves. I actually was hella early and sat in the supermarket parking lot for a full five minutes before arriving at the destination. I literally had the jitters. Why anyone would do multiple first dates in short periods of time is just beyond me. Unless they were into THAT crazy energy. I’m not made for that. I think my brain would short-circuit. It is nerve-wracking.

I chose to enter this arena with an arsenal of questions. Are you divorced? How long have you been divorced? Do you have kids? How old is/are your child/children? What do you do for work? What are your hobbies? The list goes on and on. I feel as though I am going into battle. I probably looked like I was about to cross-examine a hostile witness. The first two questions are critical and had to be asked. So I did. The inquisition, thankfully, mercifully, was over almost before it began. Basic information was dispensed. Drinks were ordered. Stories were told. Food was ordered. Laughing commenced. Photos were shared. Cell phone numbers exchanged and saved. Another round. This looks promising. Then neighbors walk in who know you from when you were married and maybe aren’t clued in. That was interesting. And awkward. We left while their backs were turned.

Then what happens?

I don’t know how to behave. I don’t know what to do. The evening has to end, right? But pragmatic me returned just in time. Here’s what I knew to do, even though I learned something new.

Tip #1: Offer to split the check. If he’s any kind of gentleman, he will not hear of it. Unless, as he explained, the evening tanked and there wouldn’t be another. His exact words were, “If this was terrible, I would have let you pay, told you I’d get the next one and disappear.” So, that’s a big tell.

Tip #2: Ask for next steps. Agree on a day and general location for the next time. Because now you know, based on Tip #1, that there will be a next time.

Tip #3: Let him walk you to your car, which should be parked under a lamppost and conveniently close to the door of the meeting spot. Where people can see you. A hug at this stage is appropriate.

Tip #4: Send a thank you text. Short and to the point. Especially if you had a great time, and you want the next time to happen. Now, conventional thought says this is unnecessary. Maybe if you’re not over 50. But when you’re my age, sending (and receiving) confirmation of what just happened is a good thing.

And then, you do what all 16 year-old girls trapped in 50-something women’s bodies do. You count the days, hours and minutes until the next time. And pray like hell you can slow your roll and cool your jets. Because while rapier-style wit, beauty and intelligence are sexy as hell, teenaged zeal can be a bit much.

Until next installment.