No Match

I did it. I joined match.com. So far, the news is not good.

In my age range, widowed men are somewhat common and I thought this might be better than the typical had-a-mid-life-crisis-and-left-my-wife crowd.

Last Wednesday I met a college professor for a glass of wine. From his dead-fish handshake to his way of assuming my agreement with everything he said rather than asking, this man was not for me. A widower for 10 years, he expressed great anger over his wife's fate and his own. Raising two kids alone, pre-teen at the time of their mother's death, was not his idea of how life would go. No one imagines such a thing, but 10 years ought to be enough to start to get a grip on it, epecially if you're in the mental health field.

Warning: I'm about to be terribly petty. Stop reading now if you don't want to harsh your mellow.

I couldn't stop staring at this guy's head. He looks like AARP's version of Charlie Brown: a completely round head. Spherical. A beach ball with ears. Mostly bald, he keeps what little ginger-colored hair he has very closely cropped and dozens of liver-colored old age spots cover his scalp. If he carried a football, people would offer to hold it for him to kick.

Saturday I met an architect for lunch. I knew it would not go well but had already committed to it by the time I recognized just what a train wreck it would be. When we talked on the phone before meeting, he described his various cars in great detail but said he'd be driving his Mercedes (the big one, the biggest one they make) to lunch. At every juncture, he took pains to leave clues that he's very, very rich.

He also left clues that he's very, very angry. His wife died a year and a half ago, and he didn't have a kind word to say about her family or anyone else who tried to help during her protracted illness.

It only got worse in person. He spent most of the lunch talking smack about his wife's family and even his wife herself. Evidently, she was not a model patient. Just wouldn't do as she was told. Oh, dear.

It didn't matter because his personality was not the least bit appealing, but he had gained the equivalent of a 5th grader since his profile photos were taken and had passed the my-hair-desperately-needs-cut stage about many weeks ago. Even so, washing it might have helped.

Maybe it looks better in the mirror of his Mercedes.

Appearance is not everything, not even the main thing. It's my experience that when people are dear to me, they look dear. But it's got to start with some spark, some kind of mental or spiritual connection, and there were no sparks. None. Nada. Sparkless.

Critically dry forests were completely safe in our midsts. You could have pumped pure oxygen into the room without a moment's concern for our safety or your own. Children could have worn pajamas without flame-retardant chemicals and not even the Consumer Products Safety Commission would have objected.

The inimitable Jennifer Calliandro once told me that at my age, I had to expect guys to have baggage. She suggested I look for someone whose baggage is more carry-on than steamer trunk.

Lord knows (and so do I) that I've got my own issues but Geesh, this was ridiculous. It would take six Sherpas each to carry this kind of baggage.

(big sigh)

Okay, I'm back to my better nature now. Feel free to shake your head and cluck your tongue over what a judgmental witch I can be.