Recently, I joined a dating site for graduates, hoping it would be full of literate, intelligent men who would be open to the idea of a 50-year-old woman who is no longer girlishly slender. It isn’t going that well, so far. I have already had a conversation with a member about what he referred to as “the packaging”, meaning my midlife, post-wife, fleshy, bread-loving, wine-drinking self, and its deficiencies. Others have flatly ignored my greetings. I’m disappointed. If anyone were going to vault the packaging question, surely it would be this roster of academics, professionals and early retired left-leaners.
I launched the campaign by sending 20 short approach messages, a dozen to locals and eight to non-locals who were too interesting to ignore, pointing out things we have in common, and being funny about things that we don’t. I was likable, goddammit, but four days later there have been only three responses, all of them gracious in thanking me for my approval, and wishing me luck. In dating-site code, wishing someone luck is akin to pointing a large crucifix and a string of garlic at them. I asked one (who lives nearby, and who wrote a profile I could more or less have written myself), why he didn’t want to meet. “Not wishing to be ungallant,” he said, “but there are a lot of young and pretty girls here.” That’s me told.
Hot on its heels, a message arrived via that same site, from Morocco. “I see you here tonight and I think you are very beautiful and clever,” the message began. The sender was sturdy, bald, and had a lovely smile. “I have a bold idea I would like to put you. I think we are ideal for match and I propose that I send you a ticket to coming to Tangier for a weekend to stay in my house and to have food with me.”
Another message arrived before I could reply. “I hope you do not think I am not genuine. I am very genuine.” He sent references, pictures of his diplomas, photographs of him with his children – they did all look very happy – and of his houses (a city one, and a country one with a pool). Half an hour later, another message came, telling me more about his life, how I shouldn’t be put off by his being Muslim, how modern he was in his outlook and how international. He said he was aware that his English wasn’t the best, but that I should consider his many educational attainments. He was actually a great catch.
I sent a copy of his second email to my friend Jack. “What’s the delay?” was Jack’s only comment.
“Casual dates not possible when they involve journeys to Tangier,” I told him, stating the obvious.
“It’s not because he’s 5ft 6in and a bit plain, then?”
“Height, I admit, is a factor.”
Height was a factor, but I wasn’t fixated on handsomeness. I like the idea of plainness: in fact, plainness is comforting when it’s a plain face that you love. And sometimes, people can become handsome in front of your eyes. Fall in love with someone’s mind and find it beautiful and their face might follow. It happens. I have a photograph of a snaggle-toothed ex-boyfriend on the laptop to remind me of this. What you don’t see in the picture is the power of his eyes, his magnetism, or how interesting he was. He was irresistible, but none of that is remotely evident in the photograph.
Another message arrived from Morocco. I could stay with his sister, my suitor said. She wanted to send me a note assuring me of her brother’s decency. Something decisive had to be done and it came down to this. Despite all enticements, was I really going to travel to Tangier for this date? No. I wasn’t. I replied saying so, with regret, and he hasn’t written again.
This annoyed Jack. “You could at least have got a free holiday out of it,” he said. “You reject people way too soon. You might have fallen for him. It would all have been a great adventure. You said you wanted an adventure. You could have had a nice life in Tangier.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I told him. “You wouldn’t have done it.”
“Yes, I would,” Jack said. “Like a bloody shot. But nobody ever asks.”
• Stella Grey is a pseudonym
