I’m not going to
lie to you; the prospect of dating again in my 40s is more than a bit
terrifying. It occurs to me that I haven’t actually been on a date in this
century.
The last time I was
‘out there’ Jarvis Cocker was imploring me to meet up in the year 2000 and I
didn’t have to rely on undergarments that resemble scaffolding. The rules must
have changed somewhat and I am no Carrie Bradshaw. For a start my wardrobe
doesn’t contain a Roberto Cavalli evening dress and I don’t remember a single
episode of Sex and the City where Mr Big had to share Carrie’s bed with Clive
and Germaine Billabong and other orphaned members of the Sylvanian Families.
Though I am
slightly cheered by Caitlin Moran’s observation; once you’ve made it to the
bedroom and events are gathering apace, a man wouldn’t be put off if you leapt
between the sheets wearing a snorkel and flippers. I’m sophisticated enough to
know that I might need to put a little extra effort into my seduction routine
but how much? 21st century grooming seems to entail a world of pain and having
suffered two excruciating and quite frankly barbaric labours, undergoing a
Brazilian is a deal breaker. Fact: enduring immense pain does not harden you to
it. Your tolerance is significantly lowered and my threshold is now tested by
eyebrow plucking. And pain isn’t just physical. Has the demise of my marriage
left me with enough emotional resilience to withstand the inevitable exposure
to the thundering ass clowns I’m likely to meet when I embark on my search for
love and companionship? Clearly I’m going to have to approach the process with
a slightly open mind and even be prepared to kiss a few frogs and/or ass
clowns.
For another
perspective, I download ‘a guide to dating over 40’ onto my Kindle. It seems
sensible enough, written by two UK psychotherapists who’ve found love later in
life. The first phrase that jars is that I’m apparently now in “mid-life”. This
of course is just a kinder way of saying ‘middle aged’ and whilst I’m no longer
on the guest lists of London’s hippest club nights, I’m not shuffling round
Sainsbury’s eyeing up elasticated waists and slankets. But the book does reassure
me that internet dating is a totally feasible way for a 41 year old woman to
browse the market.
Before I sign up
for this though, I have one other avenue to pursue. In the distant past I
really did make a pact with an ex-lover that if we found ourselves single in
our 40s, we should seek each other out. When I last met Adam he was off to live
in Indonesia with his new bride. A search through Facebook reveals that he’s
single once more and resides, for at least part of the year, in Essex. It’s
encouragingly easy to get back in touch with him, and before too long we are exchanging
daily emails and catching up on the last 17 years.
Rekindling a lost
relationship proves hard going and despite a series of pleasant dinners, there
don’t seem to be any obvious signs of romance. It feels a bit damp somehow and
not in a remotely exciting way. Quite unintentionally I agree to go on a
mini-break and before I can back pedal, I’m trundling my trolley suitcase
through Stansted bound for a boutique hotel in the heart of Andalucia.
Flickers of doubt
at the wisdom of this trip start to re-surface at the car rental desk. Adam
pompously quizzes the attendant on the torque and fuel capacity of our
pre-booked car and the keys to our Fiat Punto are handed over. Within moments
of leaving Malaga airport, we are lost. We stay lost for hours, filling the
missing years of our relationship with almost two decades worth of arguments,
dead ends, frustration, road blocks, potholes and recrimination. It’s like a
speeded up film of a marriage with the precious moments of joy and togetherness
edited out. I don’t think we like each other very much. Four hours of being
imprisoned in an airless tin has also revealed my date has problems of a
bilious nature. It begins with a cheery “pardon me, better out than in” but
as we travel blindly through the Andalucian countryside, my senses are
assaulted by a volley of burps and guffs, ranging from mildly disgusting to the
full on Barney Gumble belch. It appears I am stuck in Spain with a dyspeptic
oaf.
The hotel however,
is beautiful. I resolve to forget the preceding unpleasantness and try and
enjoy the break. The next day we visit the Alhambra, a journey undertaken in
furious silence, punctuated by deep sighs from Adam. The reason for this
appears to be that I had the audacity to phone my children. “This trip was a
mistake” he barks. I can’t deny it. I attempt chit chat but the sighs become
snorts and I find it easier to just ignore him.
I lose Adam at the
Nasrid Palaces and enjoy it my own, soaking up the serenity. I imagine the air
thick with the scent of myrtle and the women of the Harem languishing by the
ornamental pools. What I actually breathe in is a waft of farmyard and I
realise Adam is beside me, crouching over an elaborate door knocker. He attempts
a weak joke based on his find but the atmosphere is now poisoned, any glimmer
of romance suffocated. I don’t even want to be his friend. I consider that had
our namesakes been miserably lost in the Garden of Eden with the original Adam
guffing up the orchard, the human race might have turned out rather
differently.
Next blog:
internet dating – a dazzling array of unsuitable suitors.
This blog first appeared in 7 local magazines from MPC Publications, where "Starting Over - a saga of 21st century dating" is featured as a monthly column. http://www.mpcpublications.blogspot.co.uk/2013_04_01_archive.html
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