If You are Single and You Know it

Oh, I’ve been asked many times to write about dating at this age.  It will be such a funny article they say.  Oh indeed… It would be funny without much effort because there is so much material out there to draw from.  I roll my eyes and think, what is there really to say?

 Dating in your 50s is basically like circling the Walmart parking lot on a Saturday afternoon. The good spots—the ones close to the door, under a little shade, not blocked by rogue shopping carts—are long gone. The rest are either handicapped, too tight to squeeze into, or directly beneath a tree with a bird colony plotting its next attack. In other words: slim pickings, ladies.

Dating apps should all be renamed “The Leftovers.” Swipe left, swipe right—it doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, you’re still staring at pictures of men holding fish ( nothing screams “I’m a catch” like standing next to a fish), sitting in recliners, or taking bathroom mirror selfies in some public (or private) bathroom. Or  my personal favorite,  sunglasses and baseball cap. I consider that the “guess what I look like when you meet me” picture. Guys, please—at least hold a power drill in some nice Carhartt overalls. That’s sexy. 

I’m not looking for a man who is part of the witness protection program.   I’m looking for someone who can hold a conversation while they are using tools.  They could be my sous chef and I could be their Daisy Duke (in my menopause shorts) and hand them whatever tool they need.  I mean, isn’t that the perfect balance right there? 

I can’t tell you how many times my girl pals and I have scrolled through  profiles– and rolled on the floor in gales of sweet laughter.  That has been a few good  nights of entertainment for my squad. I mean some of the pictures are absolutely hysterical. I don’t know why you are single, I want to say to the poor guy.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m no bitter Betty. I happen to think I’m a fantastic catch. Sure, I may have a couple of faults, but for the life of me, I can’t think of any right now. I can whip up a mean charcuterie board,  ride a bike, paddle a kayak, take care of a business- and stay up to at least 9:00 pm. And I’ve still got all my teeth, and I don’t know how to use filters. Apparently that is a big no no because many men's profiles demand “ no filters ladies.” That, in my opinion, puts me several rungs above half the “eligible” filtered bachelorettes.

Am I open to love? Sure. If Titus Pollo shows up at my door tomorrow, I’ll happily book him in for a few nights for free. But am I chasing it like it’s on clearance at Costco?  No. My friends are all on watch for that task. So far they have  come up a little short for the owner of the B&B on Randle Ln. But they are no quitters.

All of my gal pals who are married have many times complained about one thing or another about their mate.  Terms of endearment such as “he was on my last nerve today,” or I would sell him for a dollar if I could,” or “marriage is a one and done. I wouldn’t do it again.”  

Wow. Really selling the institution of love here. 

Being single is not a tragedy. It’s a luxury. Especially if you’re one of the rare unicorns who doesn’t own a cat. Don’t get me wrong—cats are fine, but you reach a certain age where society assumes you’ll inevitably end up crocheting potholders in a rocking chair with a tabby named Mr. Whiskers. Sorry to disappoint, but I’d rather sip my five dollar wine on my back porch in peace with my sweet dog Gibson, and dream about far off lands I have yet to see.

You know what’s really luxurious about being single? Freedom. I don’t have to argue about what to watch on Netflix and where the AC should be set.  My closet is mine, my bathroom counter is mine, and my thermostat stays exactly where I like it. That’s living. The toilet seat is always, always down. There is no one nagging me about what is for supper, or what is in my Amazon cart.

I have had a couple of friends over the years tell me if their marriages don’t work out they are coming to live with me.  Why?  Please for all that is holy, stay married.  Keep the man. Please don’t come here and ruin the good thing I have going on for myself.

Here’s the thing most people don’t tell you: being single in your late 50s doesn’t mean you’re unloved. It just means you’re selective. I’ve loved, I’ve lived, I’ve probably tolerated more than I should have, and now? I’ve reached the age of unapologetic standards. If you don’t bring peace, humor, and a half ton truck that can run to Home Depot at the drop of a hat to the table, then sir, keep circling Walmart. Someone else will take that bird-poop spot.

Does that mean I’ve given up on love? Absolutely not. Love is great—and I look forward to it. If Prince Charming happens to show up, I’ll happily welcome him into my life.  Sure I have dreamed about finding Mr Right sitting next to me on a flight, or touching my hand as we both reach for the perfect campari tomatoes.  Or maybe it’s the Amazon guy. So far, he has still remained hidden from view. 

 I attended a wedding last weekend for some sweet friends of mine, and I figure if someone could  marry Joe, well then there is still hope for me.

Because at the end of the day, being single isn’t about what I am  missing. It’s about what I have  gained: a dog that thinks I have hung the moon, a great night’s sleep, and a cheap glass of Red.

Colleen McCullough is the owner of The Virginia May Bed and Breakfast @ Eagle Mountain Lake

You can follow the BnB  on Instagram and Facebook  @thevirginiamay