I look at pictures of men my age and wonder if women look as much alike as men do in their seventh decade. I doubt it, because most of us come with colourful accessories. We’re realistic by this stage of life. We’re looking for a best friend, an accomplice, as well as an inamorato. We expect he will come with thinning hair, loose skin and stiff joints, same as us. The photos men put up are often blurry. The most popular pose is the selfie in a bathroom mirror. When I spot a half-decent photo of a man, I’ll go on to read his profile. Often I’ll read as many as 50 before finding one engaging enough to respond to.
My initial message will respond to something he mentioned in his profile. I keep it short, because well over half never acknowledge my introduction. Here’s an example of a note I fired off to a literary gentleman in Paris: “Hello, Lost in Translation. We’re in agreement. Guy de Maupassant was a brilliant writer. I admire his short story Boule de Suif. What’s your favourite?”
I could see he read my note right away, yet he took several hours to reply with: “Wish you the best of luck in your search.” Clearly we will not be discussing the work of Guy de Maupassant over a fine bordeaux, even though he is seven years older and two inches shorter than me.
Like most men on dating sites, Lost in Translation’s preferred age range begins at 30 years his junior. Interestingly, I am contacted by gentlemen 30 years my junior. But while a good many appear intelligent and attractive, I would trade the lot of them for a terrific man my own age, as comfortable in his skin as I am in mine.
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