Dating myself, the 50s

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Dating has never been my strength. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a good date. You can pretty much take me anywhere and I’ll find someone to talk with, an item on the menu to enjoy or a part of a performance or show to appreciate. That part is not an issue. It’s more of an awkwardness with how to successfully casually date, like the way Samantha Jones did on Sex and the City, for instance. Without all the random sex.

I’ve had relationships with all sorts of guys – those who had good verbal game and the ones who were action heavy, but lacking in words.  There have been men in my life who have lit my fire and some who lit my way. I’ve been promised white horses and received jackasses. It’s all a crapshoot and the older I get, the less tolerant I’ve become. I’m not interested in changing/taming/lugging about, anyone. No, thank you.

I appreciate that relationships can be wonderful and many of my most favorite memories contain people I’ve been involved, and sometimes in love, with. That stuff, those shared experiences, are now part of my DNA and are forever mine to be cherished.

I enjoy being part of a couple and the intimate familiarity created, how their habits and preferences become part of your unique personal language. It feels good to know someone and create something new together. No doubt.

However, I’m at a time in my life when I don’t require a partner. I’m stable, comfortable, secure, whatever… most of my needs are met and I’m pretty satisfied with the quality of my experiences. I’m as busy as I want to be. If I want something, I buy it. When I want to visit somewhere, I go. I truly feel like I’m in the sweet spot of life, pandemic aside. I have disposable income and my health. Combined that provides a lot of opportunity for adventure and exploration and I’m up for it, passport in hand just waiting for the world to get better.

My life is truly cake. The one thing I can imagine having, or even wanting, in my life is icing. It would have to be really, really delicious icing, though. Not something that stains my fingers red like the Elmo cupcakes from Leo’s many years ago, or so sweet that it tickles the roof of mouth. I’m talking luscious and balanced between sweet and the slightest tartness from the cream cheese used by Debbie Klauber or Alan Danforth when they bake you a carrot cake. Anything less just doesn’t seem worth the calories. Or my time.

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