Single or dating?
If those are my choices, I’ll stay single, thanks.
Not long after my husband, Jack, died, people consoled me: “You’ll meet someone else,” they said.
Suppressing tears, I smiled politely, and replied, “I’m a long way from thinking about that,” while my inside voice railed, “why would I want to? why would I need to?” and, “Did you go shopping for a new mother when yours died?”
A couple of years passed and people stopped making those comments as regularly. Maybe seeing me take no steps towards a replacement resigned them to me remaining single. Over the last few months, though, I’ve told people about my wonderful, tailor-made plan of building a 550 sq ft laneway suite customized for my needs, moving into it, and renting out my house. It’s resulted in a new round of: “Won’t it be too small if you meet someone?”
I know they mean well. Those in long-term relationships can’t envisage a life well-lived without someone with whom to share life’s minutiae (and the big stuff too), to squabble with about meaningless things, to laugh with (and at) over absurd things, to hold hands with watching TV, and to debrief with after parties. I get it. It was very nice to have all that with Jack and I wouldn’t change it for a thing.
But I was single until I was 43, and I was happy then too. Life is pretty great as a single person. You can make decisions - as I am right now - to change the way you live without consultation. Your Netflix algorithm doesn’t get messed up with action films. There’s no sharing the bag of chips, or worse, discovering it was eaten without you. No-one leaves lights on in unused rooms. The smell of tobacco smoke never drifts through the vents.
And you don’t have to worry about someone getting sick, needing you in ways you never imagined and were unqualified for, and then dying.
***
But even if I wanted to be part of a couple again, the biggest hurdle between being single and being part of a couple is dating.
When I returned to Toronto from law school 17 years ago, I decided it was time to be in a relationship. If you know me, you know that when I decide something, I take steps to make it happen. For me, that meant signing up with a matchmaker. I’d heard the ad for “It’s Just Lunch”on the radio - somebody coming home, and talking about their day; over time, the listener realizes the person is talking to their cat. Very relatable since my feline companion, Poppy, was then my confidante for day-to-day news. IJL is expensive - at the time, 12 dates with fellow professionals for $1500. I had a lengthy in-person interview to which I wore my hair in long greying braids, just to hammer the point home - I wasn’t a blue-suit-white-shirt kind of professional. Their database very slowly spat out potential candidates.
“Celia, we have the perfect match!” The chirpy caller was always a young woman with an Aussie accent. She’d recount some basic biographical detail about my potential partner. Example: “Bob is an art gallery manager, he lives in the West End, he’s 45, never married but has a 12 year old daughter, and he’s 5’11. He’d be great for you! When would you like to meet him?” I’d agree and they’d arrange a lunch or after-work drink at some fashionable downtown joint near my office. The restaurant hostess always knew the reason for the meeting and there were no last names used: both gave a sense of security if the guy seemed like an axe murderer.
I couldn’t know it then, but my first match provided unfortunate foreshadowing for my own life. He was a very nice man whose wife died after a lengthy cancer illness just months before. Unlike Jack and me, he’d married right after high school and they’d been together 20 years. I liked him well enough but there was no spark. Out of politeness and sympathy - and, I’m embarrassed to say, because he kept burning CDs for me of music we had in common - I went out with him on and off for a few months. I finally set him free on his hunt for a replacement wife and I hope he found her. (When Jack died, this guy found me on social media but didn’t muster the courage to contact me and after a while I blocked him - him lurking out there in the shadows made me vaguely uncomfortable.)
The other 11 matches resulted in no 2nd dates. Here are a few memorable ones:
the one who within 10 minutes of his arrival let me know he worked at the car wash (recall, these are all vetted for being professionals) and, much more troubling, that he had a deep fascination with European war history. I left after 20 minutes, “remembering” I’d double-booked the evening.
another with whom I had a single drink and when it came time to pay, made a big production of brandishing a $100 bill to pay for us both. He’d already put me off by implying that while his mother and his sister were taking care of his meal preparation needs, he really just needed someone to take care of his middle-of-the night sexual needs. Thanks, I’m good.
I would have dated a few of them again (not these two) but mostly I think they judged me fat, quirky, opinionated, and smart. Acceptable for themselves or their friends but unacceptable in a partner.
On one occasion, the cheerful Aussie IJL rep revealed a bunch of facts including that he was a financial advisor, I blurted out “Yes, and he’s MY financial advisor and his name is Kevin Crane.”
She paused and then replied hurriedly, “I can’t tell you that.”
I’d already had regular dinners with Kevin where we had shared a lot of personal information but neither of us had an interest in dating each other. Our match at IJL led to many more engaging discussions of our respective dating experiences. So interesting to get the other perspective!
Still single and after I exhausted all 12 dates, I put up a profile on match.com. When you set criteria, you mostly describe a carbon copy of yourself. At least I did: single, childless, well-educated, well-traveled, of a similar age, non-smoking, social-drinking, atheist, left-winged, urban, and tall. While perfectly acceptable in a woman, sadly this combination produces some fairly questionable men, an alarming number of whom had never left home. Alarm bells and serious snooze-fest.
One had made a ton of money on some venture and was, in his mid-50s, retired and living on his horse farm north of Toronto. We went to dinner and he offered to pay for my Cobb salad and beer so, because he’d told me he was rich, I let him. As he left to go to the washroom, I casually glanced at the VISA slip only to see he’d badly undertipped the waiter. Definite turn-off. That was the day after Jack fixed my fridge and we began our insta-relationship and so therefore my last date.
***
So please, dear readers, don’t worry about me. I’m happy with memories of a relationship very different from most I’ve seen. Too short? Yes. Perfect? Absolutely not. But perfect for me for the nine years we had it.
Sure, I would love to have someone to discuss the day-to-day with over a drink or dinner. I’m open to it. But I won’t be seeking it out. I’ll be right here if someone emerges from the woodwork - or fixes another appliance!
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