After a few years of navigating the widowhood, the women in my grieving group encouraged me to return “outside.” I decided to try match.com. In my mind, I imagined a financial and emotionally safe professional of 60 and so many with interests in the arts, the physical state and travel.
My profile summed up “an intelligent, in the form of a kind and committed life partner.”
I thought I had a good opportunity to find love again. It is a big city, and although I was just over 60 years old, I looked and felt 10 years younger than me.
In a short time, he was receiving emails from a variety of men. However, several disappointing meetings later realized that the men who hoped most were looking for someone from 20 to 30 years younger than me. So I decided to relax some of my parameters, especially with respect to age.
In his profile, Howard was an active 74 -year -old player with many hobbies, including cycling and skiing. However, the day we met in Santa Monica, I watched a man, with a decisive geriatric confusion, trying to cross an ocean boulevard very busy to the west side of the street where he was standing.
He had been waiting for Howard there, who was already 40 minutes late. The light got red and the drivers began to go to bed on their horns trying to warn other drivers of the man trapped in the middle of the road. With the head down, I could not see his face or cataract nuclear eyes until he reached my side of the street. To my surprise, he turned to me and said: “Hello, I'm Howard!”
It had to be the mid -90s! I decided that the date I had to end up quickly to save what was left of my Sunday, but I did not have the heart to finish it right there, in a corner of the street, after having driven an hour and challenge me crossing a busy path to meet with me. After all, he was probably someone's grandfather. I served my friendliest for an hour and a half, but I pumped the brakes of my sympathy when he asked me to pay the ice cream that he ordered in the corner.
Not all my online dates lied about their age. There was Randy, who, instead of taking my extended hand, grabbed my hand and put me in a dance sauce that folded my back. Thank God, this was in a Starbucks, where they observed several people, because I was surprised by their aggressive impulse.
Fred Astaire was not, and when he realized that I did not fall in love with his charm, he began to cry. (No, literally!) He said he realized that he flew with me, so now he would tell me his true story. I was definitely not interested and began to leave when he shouted me, strong enough for everyone to listen, that his bipolar disorder was caused by his ex -girlfriend, who used to whip him.
The drop that filled the glass was Jerome. We met for 10 full minutes when he said he was going to fall in love with him at the end of the night. All he had to do was have sex with him.
Fortunately, I never hed out of Howard, Randy or Jerome. Similarly, I never heard dozens of other men whose profiles attracted me online, but or proved to be the Grim reaper or fantant me when we met. On December 31, while I sat alone on my sofa watching the ball fall into Times Square, I promised that I would never go through that kind of humiliation of exits.
Several days later, I noticed Match that I was canceling my membership, but according to the contract, I had to pay for about 30 days before my cancellation went into force. During those 30 days, I eliminated email prospects without even seeing them. A week before the cancellation was final, I read a (last) email out of curiosity. He was from a man named Carlo.
Carlo's profile was different. He came from humble beginnings. He made his way through the university and arrived in the United States with a student visa to continue postgraduate studies. It is not the least that he absorbed himself, he shared some of the evidence of his own widowhood, which touched me a chord.
He said he was quite discouraged with his online search for a serious relationship and that he planned to return to Italy to be closer to the family. He intrigued his openness, so I replied his email. And in a short time, we had our first conversation, then our first date.
Coincidentally, we met on the last day of the subscription of my game, on January 31.
I suggested that we met for a coffee in the middle of the afternoon, but just when I was about to suggest Starbucks, he said: “In any place less Starbucks!” Dang! That had always been my safe port for the first meetings. But instead of searching in Google in search of coffees near me, I threw all dice, expanded the bets and suggested that we meet in the elegant hall of the Culver hotel in Culver City.
Carlo and I spent hours sharing our personal stories, until we noticed that it was dark outside. Before leaving, I excused myself for the bathroom. When I left, Carlo was waiting for me in the hall. The hotel's high loyalty sound system was paying tribute to Glenn Miller's big band music.
Spontaneously, Carlo grabbed me by the hand and turned me around in a perfectly executed dance movement that ended up with me cradled in his arms. The difference between Carlo's dance movement and Randy's was like night and day. It was also the time when everything click.
We are still in Los Angeles, but we regularly visit Carlo's family in Italy. In fact, we exchanged wedding votes nine years ago in a beautiful Italian village overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. We often reflect on the fact that we were both set aside our passionate search for love at the same time, which led us to our transcendental meeting. We were simply squeezing the dream too strong.
The author is a retired insurance corridor. She lives in South Bay. She is on Instagram: @Charm12374
Los Angeles Affairs Chronices The search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to listen to their real history. We pay $ 400 for a published essay. Email Laaffairs@latimes.com. You can find presentation guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
