I got up early, stretched my arms and was happy to be alone with the whole day ahead of me and no plans. I decided on a whim to drive 18 miles across town to the Santa Monica Farmers Market. The 10 Freeway was magically devoid of traffic on this gray Saturday morning, and if my car had a soul, it would be like that of a racehorse.
It took them 20 minutes to reach the Lincoln Boulevard exit. The deep breaths of fresh sea air maintained that dizzy feeling.
After finishing shopping for seasonal produce, having been hit in the face by feathery carrot tops sticking out of a French straw basket, and hit in the shin by a stroller occupied by a small dog, I headed to Bay Cities Italian Deli & Bakery.
I lived in New York for 41 years before moving to Los Angeles seven years ago. I missed authentic Italian markets, the kind where they cut a piece of Parmesan from a freshly cut wheel and offer you a piece to try.
You may no longer be fertile, but the late morning hours in the prepared foods section of gourmet supermarkets are fertile ground for reliving the experience of what it was like to be stared at longingly by male eyes (in this case, the eyes of older men who, for some reason, now live alone).
How do I know they live alone? I am observant and see only one size portions of what they order.
The man behind me smiled as he watched me take items out of my basket. “You're buying the whole store,” he said.
Thud. That joke backfired.
Since he expected an answer, I was forced to be unusually polite. I mumbled, “This place reminds me of New York,” hoping that would end the dialogue.
“I'm from New York! But we moved here when I was 5. Now I'm 86.”
Twenty years older than me and still in good shape. Good for him. It must be the cheese and pasta diet.
I didn't ask him, but he offered me a lot of information about himself: he still works, lives alone, loves music, enjoys good food.
“I've always supported the arts,” he said after asking me if I was an artist. Did I give off that vibe?
My jeans, sneakers, and hoodie were all simple and gender neutral. You'd think looking that way would attract women, but maybe women take better care of themselves and don't go around broadcasting their need for company.
I hurried to my car, not taking a second to check the messages once they were placed in the driver's seat. I walked out the back of the parking lot and crossed the alley.
A few days later, at Gelson's, I caught an older man watching me read the ingredients on a mustard label. He smiled after I arrested him for staring, causing me to recoil in horror and quickly run to hide in the pet food aisle. He showed up a minute later, looked at the contents of my shopping cart, and used the cat food in it to break the ice and ask about my cat.
I said I had five cats, which was true if you included the semi-feral ones that show up every day for their third or fourth meal. In my neighborhood there are many kind-hearted animal lovers. I hoped my cat lady image, normally an instant man repellent, would make the man go away.
At the checkout, another older man asked about the wine he was carefully placing on its side on the rapidly moving conveyor belt. Wine, cat food and mustard. This man wanted to know what I was going to make for dinner later and what would go with the wine.
You didn't just ask me that, I thought. Maybe you imagined a shared meal, clinking glasses, and maybe a nostalgic movie on the couch before sinking comfortably into sleep and farting loudly. He would be safe in the company of another human being who could cover him with a blanket and kiss him on the forehead, a gesture I generally reserve for my cats.
Loneliness among single older people is real and the conflicting reports about which gender is more susceptible tells me nothing. I will draw my own non-scientific conclusions. All I can say is that they haven't shown me this much interest in decades. My friend Marlene, who has also experienced this supermarket phenomenon (and it's easy to understand why, because she's pretty and blonde), says that men are looking for a nurse or a handbag.
The next day, after a late-morning dentist appointment, I was at Bristol Farms on Wilshire Boulevard when an older man who was shorter than me (I'm 5-foot-4) offered to help me get a package of muesli (a staple for seniors) from the top shelf.
He commented that the spicy tuna sushi in my cart was a good choice. Why do you think I'm getting it? I thought. Plus, having just gotten back from the dentist, I was looking forward to a soft, cold lunch, and Bristol Farms is pretty decent. I'm half Japanese and critical of supermarket sushi. Plus, I was hungry, the kind of hunger that accompanies the stress that dissipates after leaving the dentist.
I couldn't wait to smash the container the moment I got into the car despite knowing I would make a huge mess trying to eat my lunch as chunks of fish and rice fell from my numb mouth. Grrrrr… hot! I thought a hot mess was best.
Maybe I should have been receptive to the man's kind offer to reach for the top shelf, even if it meant having to pick it up and risk an accidental sensation that would clearly send the wrong message. I scanned the parking lot and wondered which of these luxury vehicles was his. I looked at my teeth in the visor mirror and was immediately horrified by the thick, sagging jowls, eye bags, and liver spots.
What if this guy was a lonely plastic surgeon, I thought. Maybe I should look for a bag.
In California, everyone seems to have a friend who likes tarot and astrology. I'm skeptical, but I called my clairvoyant friend to see if there was any reason for this sudden male attention and if I should consider giving birth now. What a disappointment when he told me he didn't see anything out of the ordinary.
Maybe the next time an older man flirts with me, I'll try a social experiment and take the bait to see how far this geriatric mating dance could go. I'll have to tell you how it turns out.
The author is former global head of photography at Reuters. Since moving to Los Angeles, she has become a writer. she is on Substack and Instagram @nancyglowinski.
Los Angeles Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your true story. We paid $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find shipping guidelines. here. You can find previous columns. here.
