This was written by a good friend of mine after a spate of Internet dating nightmares:
I’m a fifty-two-year-old female (yes, that’s my real age) seeking a man age forty-eight to fifty-four, who actually is what he says he is. My friends would describe me as intelligent, fit, attractive, and a good person with a great sense of humor. Since I really am fifty-two, I have laugh lines, crow’s feet, and I color my hair. My boobs are not as perky as they were at twenty-three, but they’re real, and hey, they’ve fed a child. Can you make that claim? My stomach is still flat without the aid of liposuction, and I’m still capable of turning a head or two. I won’t tell you I have no baggage, or even tell you that what I have is carry-on or will fit into most overhead storage. I mean, let’s be real. If you get to be this age and you have no baggage, you have not lived and you’re probably not a very interesting person. The question is, do you run it or does it run you?
Now, for my perfect match:
I’m seeking a truthful man who can read (for starters, my entire profile), write, is capable of having a realistic assessment of his physical self and is capable of restraint. Let me be more specific. If you have ultra-conservative political views and mine are listed as liberal, ask yourself if we’re a good match. It might make for entertaining conversation for a week or two, but then my friends would probably be reading about me on the front page of the Chronicle for bludgeoning you with a bicycle chain. Ditto if you’re a fundamentalist in any religion, including Buddhism. Trust me when I say this—the concept of impermanence will take on new meaning and rather quickly at that.
If your profile contains grammatical errors like using “an” when you mean “and,” or “your” when you mean “you’re,” or “their” when you mean “there,” you might want to explore what proofreading is or better yet, take a remedial English class. And if you do not punctuate or only use lowercase letters, let me remind you that there is only one ee cummings, and he died in 1962.
If you have twenty pounds of last year’s Christmas food fest hanging over your belt, let me ask you, in what hamlet, burg, village, town, city, parish, county, state, country, or on what planet you’ve visited in the recent past, would this body be described as “athletic and toned”? And if your idea of “enjoying a good sweat” is running the half block it might require to flag down a taxi, we are surely not going to make history. And why lie about your height? Be forewarned that I make it a habit to wear three-inch heels on any first date, which tops me out at 5’10”, so trust me when I tell you this—I will know. Also, please tell me in detail, where it is written that sex is expected by the third date. Whatever happened to courtship? And again, trust me when I tell you that at your age, asking to put your hands down the back of my pants or actually doing it without asking on the second date not only makes you look ridiculous, but it’s a sure bet that I’ll be blocking your email and your phone number. Ditto if you ram your tongue down my throat while I’m in midsentence during our first meeting over a glass of wine. Alcohol is not an excuse, so don’t even try that one. Oh, and one last thing—please be aware that it’s really bad form to tell a menopausal woman about the crisis you’re having over your fear of not being able to attract premenopausal women anymore.
So gents, that’s about it. I’m actually a very open-minded, easy-going gal so if you’re not scared shitless by the above, or busily rewriting your profile right now, give me a wink. It’s sure to be great fun!
